Frankenweenie (2012)

I wrote last week that there are some films that I just can't wait to see on their release and the above stop-motion animation from quirky director Tim Burton was one of them. However, somehow I didn't get around to seeing it in the cinema, although I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a movie that I would love. I finally caught up with it a few days ago and found it a joyful viewing experience, but I can understand why it was not the runaway success that it deserved to be.

By way of background, Burton started off his career as an animator at Disney, and during this period he turned out two short films. The first was a brief and macabre stop-motion animation called "Vincent", narrated by Burton's hero and mentor Vincent Price and the second in 1984 was a 25-minute oddity called "Frankenweenie". Unlike the above movie, it was actually a live-action feature, starring Shelley Duval, Daniel Stern, Joseph Maher, and even a 14-year old Sofia Coppola (in a blonde wig). The story is of young Victor Frankenstein, played by Barret Oliver, whose best pal Sparky is killed while chasing a ball. The boy brings his beloved dog back to life by experimenting with lightning a la his namesake's 1932 film, much to the horror of his neighbours. They pursue the animal to a windmill on a miniature golf course which is set on fire, trapping the boy and the re-animated dog, but good old Sparky drags the lad to safety at the expense of his second life -- to their chagrin. Understandably Burton and Disney soon parted company, as his stories and outlook were a little too 'dark' for their candy-coated world of the time.

So it is a satisfying twist of fate that Disney has backed Burton's remake of a story that obviously he has treasured over the years. Choosing to film in black and white as an homage to the horror classics of the 1930s and not using the bright colours and 3-D effects that have taken over recent animations, it is easy to understand why this film lacks an immediate appeal for today's children and why it was not a sure-fire hit. It is however a real treat for the adults who might have accompanied them and indeed for any of Burton's fans. To my mind, it is not only a labour of love (stop-motion being one of the most time-consuming modes of picture-making), but also a work of real genius. Burton has opened the story out, although much is a recreation of the original short -- especially the reanimation scenes in young Victor's attic lab and the ending where the formerly vindictive neighbours circle the dead doggie with their cars and try to revive him with their battery power.

To stretch the story from 25 to a 80-odd minutes, Burton has young Victor's school class competing against each other in a science fair, inspired by their spooky teacher Mr. Rzykruski, a puppet created as the spitting image of the late Vincent Price. When a classmate, one Edgar E. Gore, spies the resurrected Sparky, he blackmails Victor into showing him how to bring a dead goldfish back to life, although the experiment doesn't quite work. He in turn spills the beans to the class' precocious oriental know-it-all and his mates. Before you know it, they are all trying to work Victor's magic and we soon have a were-rat, a colossal hamster, packaged sea-monkeys that morph into gremlin-like humanoids, a fat-cat Mr. Whiskers that fuses with a dead bat that he has dragged in (a cat-bat?), and the class genius' dead turtle Shelley turning into a giant Gamera-like monster. Victor must not only help to save the day, but must also protect his dear Sparky from the wrath of his neighbour, the town's mayor Mr. Burgomeister!!! 

Burton cheerfully incorporates so many familiar images from the old movies, even including Sparky's love interest, the next door giant black poodle, developing an Elsa Lanchester white streak in her carefully coifed coat. He has also selected an excellent voice cast with Catherine O'Hara and Martin Short taking on multiple roles, his Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau) voicing the teacher, and reuniting with Winona Ryder from "Edward Scissorhands" as the voice of the mayor's niece, Elsa Van Helsing. For a change, however, no Johnny Depp nor Helena Bonham Carter join the fun. I had a whale of a time with the film and I think Burton also enjoyed the opportunity of introducing his early brain-child to a wider audience.

The only thing I've never understood is the title -- I get the 'franken', but why the 'weenie' for the patchwork Sparky? Never mind, it's a wonderful movie in my book.      

The Conjuring (2013)

When I think about it, there sometimes seems little rhyme or reason about which current movies we choose to see at the cinema, rather than waiting for their release to DVD or for satellite transmission. Sometimes we are fortunate enough to be given preview tickets (which in turn means we sometimes watch films that we are actually in no hurry to view). Most often we go to see movies which we really, really want to see as soon as possible -- either because they are part of a continuing franchise, e.g. the Harry Potter films, or because we didn't get to see them at one or other of our regular film festivals, or because the reviews make them sound a good match to our sometime weird tastes.

In this instance we went to see the above 'scare' movie, not because of the positive vibes the reviewers have given it, but because we promised ourselves we would do so. When we queued at some length late June to get our weekend pass for FrightFest later this month, we could have seen a preview of this movie, a regular 'treat' from the fest's organizers for those faithful souls who attend each year. They call it 'the lazy Q' since some regulars will camp out all night -- needless to say we do not go to that extreme -- and a free show is the regular award. In truth, we have never availed ourselves of these showings for one reason or another, but seriously considered it this year. To ease our conscience, we decided to see the movie on its release instead and our resolve was underlined by the aforementioned positive hype.

I can agree that it is a very well-made and well-cast film, a sign that the director of the "Saw" franchise, James Wan, has matured, since the copious gore of his 'torture porn' movies has been replaced here with carefully orchestrated big 'boos'. Yet I can not agree with those who have written that it is the best horror film of this century or alternatively the best thing since sliced bread. It is competently put together and purportedly -- like so many modern movies -- based on 'true' events. I do not doubt that the ghost-hunting team of Lorraine and Ed Warren (played here by Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson) really existed nor that they actually did investigate the strange happenings at the home of Lily Taylor, her husband (a nothing special Ron Livingston), and their five daughters back in 1971. However I suspect that the events have been somewhat enhanced to create the 'jump' movie Wan has given us and like the 'Amityville' series, a healthy scepticism needs be retained.

Anyhow, this working class family are delighted to move into the big, old house (one of those houses that seem twice as big on the inside than on the outside) that they have purchased at auction, but strange events soon begin to dent their happiness. Wan throws everything but the kitchen sink into the mix and given time we would probably have discovered that the sink was haunted as well: slamming doors, stopping clocks, spooky toys, secret passages, a cobwebbed cellar full of old furniture, a history of sordid past events, a beloved pet that won't cross the threshold, birds flying to their deaths against the walls, sleep-walking, levitations, and subliminally brief spooky apparitions. Just about every cliché of the horror genre is present and correct, although to give Wan his due, they are presented with an air of freshness;  creeping dread gradually morphs into terror. The film is something of a slow-burner, supposedly on the grounds that the first half of the movie allows us to get to know the various players, but in fact we have little insight into their psyches. A rather bland Wilson is super-protective of his sensitive and perceptive wife who has been scarred by previous supernatural encounters, and Farmiga gives a fine performance as the fighter who refuses not to do whatever is necessary to 'save' the tormented family. Similarly Taylor out-acts herself as the mother who adores her children but who is possessed by a being that wants to harm them. According to Farmiga, objects are not innately evil (and they have a museum of artefacts at home from previous cases), but act as a conduit for hostile entities who want to inhabit a human vessel; once these spirits have established a foothold in someone, leaving the premises does not cure the problem, only exorcism will do the job. Eventually, Taylor's possession has become so extreme (she has just about turned into Linda Blair!) that the unordained Wilson performs the ritual himself since they can't afford to wait for the necessary Vatican sanction. Clever chappy! Happy ending!

Given all the positive vibes the film has generated, I must confess to being a little disappointed with it. It is far from a classic in my book, but probably because I have seen a hell of a lot more scary movies than most. However in its favour, despite all the equipment that the Warrens and their assistants set up, it was not -- thank goodness -- any kind of 'found-footage' movie, and for that I sincerely thank Mr. Wan.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (1947)

Now that Ben Stiller is about to bless cinemagoers later this year with his take on the classic Danny Kaye film, I thought it would be a good time to have another look at the original. I confess to having been a fan of sorts (of Kaye, not Stiller) over the years, even if some of his output has aged badly. One remembers that Kaye, popular as he was in the 40s and 50s, ended his career horribly, warbling "Thumbelina" in second-tier nightclubs.

I'm pleased to report that the above movie still packs an entertainment punch and is quite possibly Kaye's best performance, although I shall remain faithful to "The Court Jester" as a real contender. Based on a James Thurber short story first published in the New Yorker in 1939, Mitty is the ultimate fantasist, a milquetoast of a man, literally fed soggy milk toast at a dinner party by his domineering mother (Fay Bainter). His life is further plagued by his nagging fiancée (Ann Rutherford) with her spoiled mutt Queenie, her pushy mother (Florence Bates), a boss who appropriates all of Mitty's best ideas at the pulp magazine publishing company where he works (Thurston Hall), and a so-called best friend who enjoys nothing more than humiliating him with practical jokes. As an escape from his humdrum reality, he tunes out these oppressors with fantasies of being an ace wartime pilot, a sharpshooting cowboy, an immensely skilled surgeon and the like. In all of his daydreams, he is worshipped by his dream woman (his frequent co-star Virginia Mayo) and the ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa soundtrack of various machines. Kaye is at his comic best in all of these idealised roles; for example, he operates on a hopeless patient using the miscellany of the items demanded by his mother on her daily shopping list for him, telling Mayo at the end of the procedure, "Your brother will play the violin again; I have just grafted new fingers".

Ironically Thurber hated the entire project and apparently Kaye as well, and offered producer Samuel Goldwyn $10,000 to abandon the film. His main objection was that it was unfaithful to the spirit of the original, with the scriptwriters opening out the action to create a plot where Mitty helps a real character (also played by Mayo) retrieve a little black book outlining the wartime hiding place of the Dutch crown jewels and other art treasures. He is told that his life is in danger: "The Boot wants the book" -- and his natural coward is forced to deal with a bevy of villains including Konstantin Shayne as Mayo's duplicitous uncle and Boris Karloff in full Frankenstein mode without the make-up. Space was also created for two of Kaye's trademark patter songs, which do indeed slow down the preposterous plot, but without which it would be less of a Kaye extravaganza. The public did not agree with Thurber and it was another big hit for Kaye and Goldwyn -- and it is still fine entertainment.

The two show-stopping numbers, "Symphony for an Unstrung Tongue" and "Anatole of Paris" (inspired by an overly camp hat designer whose show Mitty attends) were penned for him by his wife Sylvia Fine. Ironically the second song ends with the words "I hate women" -- rather ironic in the light of rumours that have subsequently spread about Kaye's predilections.

Sam Goldwyn himself was another Hollywood legend -- a poor immigrant made good. Losing control of his own company shortly before it was incorporated as Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in 1924, he created his own mini-studio which he successfully ran for some 35 years and churned out a variety of great movies. Stars under contract to him at various times included Ronald Colman, Eddie Cantor, Gary Cooper, David Niven, and of course Mr. Kaye. He also created his so-called Goldwyn Girls, a home over the years for dozens of aspiring actresses -- some of whom like Lucille Ball, Paula Goddard, and Jane Wyman went on to forge successful careers, but most of whom existed only to decorate Goldwyn's films, dating from "Roman Scandals" in 1933 right through "Guys and Dolls" in 1955. The producer is also famous for his many so-called "Goldwynisms": 'Include me Out', 'In two words im-possible', and others generated by his fractured understanding of English.

His son, Samuel Goldwyn Jr. is also a successful producer, and perhaps the greatest irony of all is that he is producing the Ben Stiller re-make soon to 'grace' our screens. RIP, Sam Sr!!!

Pattes blanches/White Spats (1949)

Every so often I am tempted by seasons featured in the British Film Institute's monthly programme to check out directors with whom I am not overly familiar. This month they have been featuring a series of films directed by Jean Gremillon, a well-respected auteur in France, but not terribly well-known outside. I have one or two of his films on my famous old list, but think I have only seen his "Remorques" (1941) starring the incomparable Jean Gabin. So I researched some of the other films in the season and chose one that sounded among the more interesting, as a taster if you will...and indeed it was a tasty morsel.

One of the criteria by which I measure my enjoyment in the cinema is not looking at my watch. This cross between a noir thriller and a gothic fairy-tale really held my attention and time flew by. The title refers to the mocking name given to the down-at-the-heels local laird by the children of the small fishing village whenever he ventures into town. It refers to the knee-high white leggings he affects and translates literally as 'white paws'. He is a figure of fun and barely tolerated by any of the villagers, a legacy of his late father's overly-free use of the local women in better days long gone. He is played by Paul Bernard who also played a squire in the director's earlier "Lumiere d'ete" (apparently one of his best films), but although I have probably seen him in several other movies, he is not an actor I know. Here he makes a good fist of combining an air of superiority with the lonely hand-to-mouth existence he leads.

The other main characters are Fernand Ledoux playing the local innkeeper who has brought sexpot Odette from the Big City passing her off as his 'niece'. She is played Suzy Delair, who is ready to milk her lover for whatever she can, and who comes across with the air of slightly over-ripe fruit (she was 33 when the film was made).  Delair has had a varied career playing Jenny Lamour in the classic "Quai des Orfevres", as well as appearing in the Italian "Rocco and his Brothers" and the late Laurel & Hardy flop "Utopia" (aka" Robinson Crusoeland"). Here she flaunts her fading yet lush charms to seduce not only the stand-offish White Spats but also his illegitimate and jealous half-brother, played by Michel Bouquet -- now a doyen of French cinema but appearing here in one of his earliest roles. The fifth protagonist in the drama is young Mimi, played by the 22-year old Arlette Thomas -- again, not well-known to me but the heart and soul of the film. She is the hunchbacked servant at the inn, charged to wait upon Delair's every whim.

However she alone protects White Spats from the jeering children and secretly nurtures an unrealizable crush on the haughty aristo. When she seeks his friendship, he casually gives her an ancient ball-gown from his castle's mouldering closets, and she is totally smitten, dancing with the wonderful garment in her bare attic room. However she is unable to protect him from the mechanics of desire, as Odette uses her sexual prowess to bring down the brooding Bernard and to assist the intense Bouquet (a far better lover it seems) to reap revenge on his disdainful sibling. Events come to a head on Odette's wedding day to the slobbering Ledoux, and as the assembled guests dance the evening away, the other four play out their tragedy on the cliffs.  Poor Mimi is left to sort out the ruins of four lives; however, the feeling that the fairy tale may yet have its happy ending prevails.

The film is adapted from a play by Jean Anouilh who had intended to direct as well before realizing that he was not up to the task. Gremillon was his late choice, picking one of the best-considered directors from France's so-called Golden Age. Lovingly filmed on the Normandy coast by Philippe Agostini, the stark landscapes provide a wonderful contrast to the burning passions that consume the players. Perhaps on another day this movie would have seemed something of a potboiler, but I was seriously absorbed by its brooding romance and the inevitability of disaster that the characters unwittingly bring upon themselves.  

The Half Naked Truth (1932)

Over eighty years old and fresh as a daisy! This film which has been on my list 'forever' was not a YouTube discovery, although they have a clip of one of its scenes ballyhooed as the 'greatest musical number ever'. Rather the movie received its first television showing according to my records in the early morning hours courtesy of BBC2, who seem to have unearthed some RKO pre-code rarities as I exalted a few weeks ago. I just hope there are more to come.

This film is a 1930's product with a vengeance, not just because of its risqué moments (more of that later), but because its director and male and female leads all did their best work in that decade. The director, Gregory La Cava, came into his own during these years and went on to helm "My Man Godfrey" (1936) and "Stage Door" (1937), both Oscar-nominated. However a fondness for the bottle and some notorious drinking companions resulted in a series of so-called 'recurrent illnesses' and he only made three films after 1940. Lupe Velez the petite and fiery Mexican actress is now best remembered for her series of Mexican Spitfire comedies. She was married to the screen's best Tarzan, Johnny Weismuller, but was a suicide by age 36 after her marriage ended and her popularity waned. Lee Tracy, unlike the other two, went on working for many years and he even received a best-supporting actor nom as the President in 1964's "The Best Man". His early career success never recovered after he was fired by MGM over a drunken incident in Mexico during the filming of "Viva Villa". He was the epitome of the fast-talking, wise-cracking hero so prevalent in the early 30s -- he even spoke more rapidly than Cagney. However, his shtick definitely feels a little dated now, and even then audiences began looking for rather more sophistication and charm in their favourite stars.

Tracy's character is purportedly based on stories, both true and apocryphal, about the master publicist Harry Reichenbach, who always found a gimmick for promoting his latest attraction.
Here his current love interest is cooch-dancer Velez, billed in their two-bit carny as La Belle Sultana. Business is bad so he spreads a rumour that at the end of tonight's performance she will reveal who, among the local  hayseeds, was responsible for impregnating her mother some years ago. A dozen guilty secrets are reflected on their erstwhile respectable faces, and Tracy's sidekick Eugene Pallette playing supposed strongman Achilles goes through the crowd collecting hush money. However like Jeanne Eagels, Velez has her heart set on appearing on the New York stage, and off the three of them go to the Big Apple. Tracy promotes Velez as a genuine princess, Princess Exotica, and cons his way into a free stay at a swanky hotel. Cue here for Franklin Pangborn to do one of his wonderfully swarmy hotel clerks turns. He tells the thronging reporters that a artsy Ziegfield-type showman (beautifully played by Frank Morgan) will be featuring her in his next big show and he hires a rather seedy lion and 30 pounds of fresh meat to be delivered for her 'pet' to their hotel suite to ensure more publicity. Incidentally he explains away Pallette's role in their entourage as the former eunuch of the harem from which the Princess has escaped. The word is never used but furtive glances at Pallette's nether regions make this clear.

Morgan tries to frame a tasteful number for the exotic 'princess' but the audience is bored until she sheds several layers of clothing and reverts to her standard bump and grind routine to the strains of her favourite song "Hi, Mr. Carpenter". Just imagine a set of lyrics full of innuendos reminiscent of the cliched porn film theme of a visiting plumber inspecting the lady of the house's pipes and you'll get the picture. Velez is eventually dropped by the amorous but married Morgan after some hilarious blackmail attempts by Tracy, involving pictures of the impresario feeding her an olive mouth-to-mouth. By now, however, Tracy has found his next would-be sensation, chambermaid Shirley Chambers (possibly the original 'dumb' blonde); he claims to have discovered her amongst a cult of nudists living in Central Park, led once again by good old Achilles with a paunch and a fake beard.

The film is a scant 74 minutes, but that's 74 minutes of brilliant performances, fast-paced and bright repartee, and loads of good, not so clean, fun.  Very highly recommended.

Night Tide (1961)

And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -- my darling -- my life and my bride
In her sepulchre there by the sea
In her tomb by the sounding sea

The above lines from Edgar Allen Poe's "Annabel Lee" are supposed to have provided the title and inspiration for this peculiar, low-key feature film debut from writer-director Curtis Harrington, previously associated with experimental film-makers like Kenneth Anger. In his first starring role Dennis Hopper plays Johnny Drake, a skinny, callow and naïve young sailor on shore leave in Santa Monica, trying to make time with any of the local ladies in a swinging jazz club. 24 or 25 when this was filmed, Hopper is reserved and awkward, a gawky pretty-boy in his skin-tight sailor suit -- a far cry from the 'mad man' roles he would later inhabit. He is immediately smitten with the exotic-looking Mora (Linda Lawson) who lives in an apartment over the ornate carousel on Venice Pier. She works as a 'mermaid' (the 'Lovely Siren of the Deep') at a local attraction, decked out in a fake fish tail and reclining in a water tank. However there is definitely something 'fishy' about her, if I may be allowed this cheap pun. She breakfasts on fresh fish and has a strong affinity with the sea.

Her erstwhile guardian, the attraction barker Gavin Muir, a collector of oddities including a severed hand in a glass jar, found her in Mykonos as a child and has looked after her ever since. He attempts to scare off Hopper by saying that she is dangerous to know -- a rumour reinforced by Luana Anders, grand-daughter of the carousel proprietor. It seems that two previous boyfriends have washed up on the shore with water in their drowned lungs. Hopper begins to believe that perhaps she really is a mermaid and has visions of her legs turning into a tail and dreams of being strangled by her octopus-tentacles. These visual fantasies are well-done but inconclusive. Less explainable is the mysterious woman who watches her from the shadows and who speaks to her in a strange tongue. Perhaps she really is one of the lost tribe of Sea People who are doomed to kill their mate at the full-moon, a siren luring each unsuspecting lover to his death.

Much against his better judgment the besotted Hopper agrees to go deep-sea diving with her, and yes she does try to tamper with his air tank. The gasping, bare-chested Hopper (an unlikely piece of cheesecake) manages to reach their dinghy, but there is no sign of mermaid Mora. When he returns to the sideshow some days later, her drowned corpse inhabits the tank. Muir reveals all to the police, confessing that he fed her fairy tales to keep her close to him and that he killed her previous boyfriends. However the viewer is left with too many unanswered questions and tantalizing possibilities. Never mind, young leading man Hopper will be OK -- he's about to taken on by the eager Anders.

Harrington went on to make a number of successful low-budget horror features like "Whoever Slew Auntie Roo" and "How Awful about Allen", but "Night Tide" deserves a wider audience for its poetic insolence. It is nearly on a par with Jacques Tourneur's classic "Cat People" in its suggestion of the everyday horrors lurking around us, but perhaps would have benefited from a few more jolts to the system.

I'm pretty sure I've viewed the above movie before, although I can not recall when, unlike "The Juggler" (1953) which also has been a long-standing inhabitant of my famous list. I finally managed to view that film yesterday, but was disappointed by Kirk Douglas's hammy overacting; if the truth be known I have always found him a little hard to take despite the fact that he has appeared in some very good films, a number of which I actually own. Here he plays a refugee of the camps who arrives in Israel in 1949, but who can not reconcile his treatment under the Nazis with the 'let's build a new tomorrow' approach of the Israelis. He attacks a policeman and is on the run, landing up in a kibbutz and the arms of Milly Vitale. I was tempted to extract a scene where he entertains the children in clown make-up, but I thought better of this, since even there he appeared to be emoting "look at me and see how manly and wonderful I am!" Where would I be without my deep-rooted film likes and dislikes?

    

Jeanne Eagels (1957)

Besides being an obsessive collector of films (despite the figure in the sidebar to the right, I was up to 5273 at the last count), I also have an impressive collection of film-themed books. Some of these have been read cover to cover, others I regularly consult for reference, a few have been comprehensively skimmed, while others sit glaring at me from their shelves daring me to digest them. I guess I am something of a hoarder. Perhaps if I live to be 150 and retain all my senses (fat chance!) I will actually read them all, to say nothing of finally seeing all the elusive movies on my famous list and re-watching the pick of my collection. I must be a hopeless romantic...

One book that I certainly have read and enjoyed is titled "Lost Films of the Fifties" by Douglas Brode, published in 1988. The purpose of his selection is to showcase movies that were popular in their day, but which have become little known subsequently, overshadowed by those films of the decade which have come to be considered 'classics' -- even if they were not then the more successful films of their time. The above title is one of many that he includes and there are a surprising number of others that even I, the so-called film buff, have not seen; most of them are no longer shown on television nor have they been considered sufficiently worthy for release and reconsideration on disc.

"Jeanne Eagels" is the highly-fictionalised biopic of a real-life star of the early 20th Century, who has been forgotten as well. It features two of the most popular actors of the 1950s, Jeff Chandler and Kim Novak, in a tawdry version of Eagel's life. Although she was born into poverty, she was something of a child prodigy and appeared in Shakespearian productions from age eleven, touring with a travelling theatre company. She made a run of shorts and early features between 1913 and 1919, before conquering the Broadway stage in the 1920s. She originated the role of Sadie Thompson in "Rain" in 1924 and played the part for an amazing 648 performances. However a combination of drink and drugs eventually undermined her career, and after a last silent movie in 1927 with John Gilbert and two early talkies, she died young. Her performance in "The Letter (1929) earned the first posthumous Oscar nomination.

Instead of this largely illustrious life-story, this film opts for a seamy scenario and features Novak as a hoochie-coochie dancer in Chandler's travelling carnival, yearning to be a 'Becky Sharp' on the New York stage. When he joins his brother at his Coney Island enterprises, she bullies a famous acting coach, played by the wonderful Agnes Moorehead, into getting her an understudy role; of course she emerges as a budding talent to be reckoned with. She next grabs the opportunity to  appear in "Rain", the rights stolen from an on-the-skids actress (Virginia Grey) who has sought her help and who subsequently commits suicide. Despite being madly in love with her, Chandler can not easily forgive such self-serving behaviour and he is pushed further aside when she ups and marries a famous Princeton football star to better herself. As that relationship descends into a flurry of drunken orgies, Eagels increasingly needs 'something to calm my nerves' before taking the stage. Her flighty behaviour and her new nickname of 'Gin Eagles' cause Equity (which she had always refused to join) to ban her appearing on Broadway and it's back to Chandler and Coney Island. Naturally, as the movie would have it, she manages to fight her demons and stages a comeback -- although there is a swarmy Murray Hamilton waiting in the wings with his handy flask. The last shot is of a tearful and still adoring Chandler watching her charm a cinema audience with her latest hit musical -- a film she never made. The author of the book describes the movie as "irresistible trash" and I can not disagree with this very accurate description.

Kim Novak was never much of an actress but rather a beautiful object to be adoringly photographed. Even in her best-known movies, both comedies and dramas, she never seems quite real or shows much nuance. In this film she demonstrates her sexual, screen appeal, but it is only in the over-acting silent film sequences that she shows any real attempt to emote, albeit well over the top. Chandler died young and his Westerns and action movies are now largely forgotten too; he is probably best remembered for his role as Cochise in 1950's "Broken Arrow". I never thought of him as anything more than a 'hunk' of the period, but in this film he manages to show a surprising sensitivity and likeability. Mind you, the movie is all sheer schmaltz.

Perhaps I should return to Mr. Brode's book and list out some more of his 'lost' films that I've not seen and to discover whether they too can be 'found' lurking in YouTube's vaults.  


   

  

My Default Mode

Having been away for a long weekend, I find myself in the most unusual position (unusual only for me, let me hasten to add) of not having watched any movies for four whole days. Can you believe it? The shame!!! So I must assume my default mode when there is nothing particularly special to blog about and examine the 'gems' that Sky Movies has bestowed upon its subscribers this week.

On one level it could have been a better week than the average since they actually premiered five films rather than the all-too-frequent four (on the specious grounds that one of them is so marvellous (!) that it deserves to occupy two of the five available scheduling slots). However, 'the BIG 8 p.m. film' this week, "Dark Shadows", I'd seen in the cinema and reviewed some months back, leaving four very minor films for my viewing pleasure -- and 'pleasure' is hardly the right word in retrospect. Let's look at the four culprits:

Lola Versus (2012): There's not a great deal that one can say about this American Indie movie starring the pet Indie heroine of the moment Greta Gerwig. I have frankly never understood her appeal, although she is an adequate enough actress and certainly managed to carry this extremely thin story. She plays a rising 30-year old New Yorker deeply dependent on her live-in boyfriend Joel Kinnaman and thrilled when he finally pops the question. Then in the middle of the wedding preparations, he gets cold feet and dumps her. Can she learn to stand on her own two feet and how can she replace him as a sexual partner (amongst other things). Frankly, who cares? She survives with the help of their mutual best friend, Hamish Linklater, and her BFF Zoe Lister Jones, who co-wrote the screenplay with director Daryl Wein. Her hippie, but long-wed, parents Bill Pullman and Debra Winger also put in their two-cents worth. Guess what, she eventually finds her inner strength. Scottie-wottie-doo-dah-day as we said in my youth.

The Wedding Video (2012): Wedding preparations also loom large in this movie, the first of two Brit flicks in the mix. It is hard enough getting the finance to make British movies to say nothing about the problems of distribution, but this farrago somehow made the cut -- although like so many others, I doubt that it made any money. At first the film seemed little more than irritatingly annoying, but it morphed into something slightly more tolerable with even the occasional amusing moment. Rufus Hound, a very minor British television 'personality' makes his cinema debut as Raif, the wayward brother of Robert Webb (also a British TV stalwart from the Mitchell and Webb "Peep Show"). He returns from his extended overseas travelling to find that brother Tim is about to marry nouveau riche Saskia (Lucy Punch) and he decides to gift them his home-made video showing all of the wedding preparations. At this point of the film he comes across as an even more annoying Ricky Gervais-ish type and I came close to switching off. However the movie managed to provide the occasional mild grin from Harriet Walter's status-mad mother-of-the-bride trying to upstage all of her Cheshire neighbours and Miriam Margolyes as Saskia's plain-spoken grandma. Most amusing of all was Michelle Gomez as the gawky-legged, OTT wedding planner whose behaviour becomes more and more frantic and unpredictable as the big day approaches. Even Punch whose film roles have been on the scatty side manages to display some underlying warmth and comic chops. That she ends up with the Hound, who remembers her from her wild schooldays, rather than with her tolerant fiancé comes as no big surprise, more of a predictable disappointment I'm afraid.

Private Peaceful (2012): This second British film based on the novel by Michael Morpurgo probably received its green light on the success of "The War Horse", but if it ever had a cinema release, I must have missed the reviews. It's a 'heritage' movie in the sense that it tries to recreate the atmosphere of two brothers growing up poor in the class-ridden Devon of the early 20th century before moving to the battlefields of Flanders and the first World War. After their gamekeeper father's untimely death, devoted brothers Charlie and Tommo, their mother, and their backward older brother Big Joe, risk losing their tied cottage to local bigwig Richard Griffith (or 'the old fart' as he is known to the family). They must leave school, work on his land, and when patriotism calls enlist -- even if Tommo need lie about his age. They must also leave behind loving Molly, whom they have both worshipped, now pregnant with Charlie's child. They survive gassing, shelling, and all of the horrors of war, but the more thoughtful Tommo can not escape the venom of their sadistic sergeant played by John Lynch nor the mindless military justice when he is branded a coward. It might all have been reasonably well-done but ultimately this was as depressing as most war movies. Certainly not my cup of lukewarm tea.

This Must be the Place (2011): I suppose this was meant to be the second A-list pick of the week since it stars two-time Oscar winner Sean Penn, but I found it nearly unwatchable. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I could barely stay awake, or perhaps my near comatose state was the result of watching this disjointed piece of codswallop. Mind you, it could have been a winner as the first English-language film from the Italian director Paolo Sorrentino whose "Consequences of Love" (2004) I really liked and whose "Il Divo" (2008) I admired. Apparently when Penn was on the Cannes jury that year, he confided in the director that he would like to make a film with him and this is the sorry result. I can recall reading somewhat positive reviews when it was released and it certainly seems to have its supporters on IMDb, but I am not amongst them. Penn plays retired pop icon Cheyenne now living in Dublin, made-up and bewigged like an ugly fifty-year old hag. He returns to the States after the death of his long-estranged father and vows to unearth his dad's concentration camp tormentor, now living the hidden life of a war criminal somewhere in America. He embarks on a tortuous road trip under the bemused eye of his wife Frances McDormand and encounters various helpful or unhelpful personages in this pursuit including Nazi hunter Judd Hirsch and the always laidback Harry Dean Stanton. When he eventually finds the perp, it is another anti-climax in his strange and wasted life. The cinematography was masterful, but the odd visual moment could not make up for the somnolent effect this film had on me. Sorry about that.       

My Afternoons with Margueritte (2010)

Absolutely bloody typical -- if you'll pardon my language! I've wanted to see this French film since I first saw it reviewed a few years ago. However if it had a cinema showing here, it must have been a brief one and it has never been issued on DVD in Britain. So when I was in New York a few weeks ago, I managed to source a copy -- which in itself wasn't straightforward. So what happens? BBC4 decides to screen it last weekend. Sometimes you can't win -- or patience is a virtue -- or something.

Anyhow, why was I so keen to see it? Well, historically any film starring Gerard Depardieu has proved to be something worth watching -- even if his personal behaviour grows ever more bizarre keeping pace with his waistline. In this movie he plays a nearly illiterate country bumpkin whose very limited world begins to expand after a chance meeting in the park with a very old lady. The concept sounded irresistible from the get-go and so it was. He is sufficiently popular amongst  his friends in the local tavern -- even if they continually affectionately mock his naivety and gaucheness or view him as the amusing village idiot. He ekes out a living with odd jobs and by selling the luscious vegetables that he grows in the yard of his mother's house (where he resides in a small trailer). He even has a comely young girlfriend (Sophie Guillermin) in local bus driver Annette. However through brief flashbacks we discover how he was derided at school by unkindly teachers and how he always seemed to come second in his mother's eyes as she dallied with a succession of abusive paramours.

Then he meets Margueritte  -- misspelled with two T's as she points out. She resides in a local upmarket senior home, but comes to the park each day to read and to watch the pigeons. There she gets into conversation with Depardieu's Germain who comes each day to make certain that all of the pigeons (which he has named) are present and accounted for. She is played by the extremely spritely Giselle Casadesus, a long-time stalwart of the Comedie Francaise, who was born in 1914. This would make her 95 or 96 when director Jean Becker shot this film and unbelievably she has featured in six films since. She is a retired scientist and bibliophile, caring and articulate, whose books line the walls of her small room; reading aloud now gives her the greatest pleasure. Germain protests that he is not much of a reader himself, but is captivated when he listens to her words each afternoon. What's more he retains what he hears. She compliments him on his excellent 'aural' memory, but he corrects her to say that he just remembers what is said. She gifts him a dictionary to help him explore the richness of words and the magic of literature, but he is frustrated with it; if he is unable to spell he can't find the words for which he is searching and it doesn't seem to have the right definitions. For example, a tomato is defined by its botanical name rather than by the various specific varieties that he grows. It is all very confusing to him, but he comes not only to love the way that Margueritte has begun to expand his horizons but to love her and her passion for life as well.

However everything comes to a turning point when Margueritte confides that she is beginning to lose her eyesight and will no longer be able to read. Germain is determined to perfect his own abilities so that he can fill this gap for her. However when he rushes to the nursing home to share the happy news that Annette is pregnant, he finds that her Belgian relatives who had been contributing to the costs have taken her and her precious books away. He traces them to their faraway home to discover that they have dumped the old lady in a grim, dark government facility. Spoiler here....he has no option but to physically whisk her away, back to the house that he has now inherited from his latterly loony-tunes mother. It turns out Ma cared for him more than she ever showed. And there the tale ends.

The French title for this film, "La Tete en Friche", is rather more apt than its English title. Loosely translated it means the head as an empty, unploughed field. With love and gentleness, Germain's head begins to fill up with the pleasures of literature and learning, much to the consternation of his mates who marvel at the 'big' words he has begun to spout -- not to show off so much as to demonstrate that he now understands them. This storyline could have produced an unsufferably twee film, sickening in its calculating, saccharine sweetness. However Becker with the help of his two wonderful and adept leads has given us a movie that is both sincere and affecting, warm and human. You really can't ask for much more other than to hope that there is never an American remake.

The Devil and the Deep (1932)

Having only recently discovered the treasure-house that is YouTube in terms of sourcing early films -- sometimes only clips but often the full movie -- I have been like a child let loose in the candy store. I am saving some of the more delicious treats for future viewing with much of the joy being in the anticipation, but I have also managed to cross off half a dozen 'would-like-to-sees' from my famous list.

These include: "Mr. Krueger's Christmas" (1980) a rather saccharine Christmas short which James Stewart made for television in cooperation with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir; a somewhat disappointing "Paris is Burning", a black drag documentary from 1990 (I somehow envisioned something even more flamboyant and subversive); "The Killer is Loose" (1956) which has mild-mannered bank clerk Wendell Corey engineering a raid on his own bank, seeing his wife killed in the crossfire when he is arrested, and then escaping prison to seek revenge on police officer Joseph Cotton by killing his wife, Rhonda Fleming; and a pre-code curiosity from 1932 "Thirteen Women" which had half-caste Myrna Loy (she had a lot of similar roles in her early movies for some reason) systematically wreaking havoc on the gaggle of women who had made her life a misery at school. The last of these was fascinating -- not good so much as weird. 

However, the above captioned film has been on my list for yonks; I knew it was available on an U.S. DVD, but had never got around to buying a copy. The reason for its inclusion was that it features a memorable performance from one of my all-time screen favourites, Charles Laughton. It was in fact his American film debut and he is introduced in the front credits as the 'eminent English character actor". "The Old Dark House" was in fact made first, but released subsequently so that commercial hay could be made of his teaming with Tallulah Bankhead, Gary Cooper, and Cary Grant (in one of his earliest films). Laughton plays a submarine commander at a port somewhere in the middle East who is obsessively jealous and possessive of his comely wife. There is obviously no love lost on her part, but whether her flirtations justify his worst suspicions is a moot point. Her first would-be love object is the dashing young officer Grant, so Laughton promptly dismisses him from his post, and he sadly disappears from the story.  Bankhead runs off into the night and meets up with Cooper for a caution-to-the-winds romantic evening; however she discovers on the morrow that he is in fact Grant's replacement on Laughton's vessel, and her husband immediately plots their comeuppance.

When Laughton discovers that she is on board in the attempt to explain matters to Cooper, he launches the sub earlier than scheduled and sabotages the vessel, plotting to put an end to any possible romance between Bankhead and the attractive officer. However, he cripples the vessel so badly that everyone's life is in danger as water pours through the hatches. When Bankhead appeals to the crew that her hubby is well and truly gaga, Cooper mutinies and takes over command. It is then a mad scramble to save the lives of all on board. In a final scene between Coop and Charlie, with the former brandishing a gun and the latter waving an axe, Laughton finally locks himself in a separate compartment, hacks at a photo of Bankhead with his trusty axe, and laughing hysterically all the while finally sinks under the rising water. His is an over-the-top but bravura piece of acting and I can think of no other actor who could have gotten away with such histrionics.

Although she appeared in occasional silent movies between 1918 and 1928, Bankhead was primarily a stage actress. She had a Hollywood fling in 1931 and 1932 when she made six or seven movies of which this was the penultimate, but did not appear in films again until Hitchcock's "Lifeboat" (1944). Never having seen her on stage, I don't know whether she shone more brightly there, but in this film she serves mainly as a spur to the action and a rather elegant clotheshorse. She wears slinky gowns throughout, flattering her slim but womanly figure, and even manages to rise through the water to escape from the sub in a long cocktail dress and high heels! Cooper's role is strangely wooden -- he was certainly capable of more emotive acting later on -- but he plays the requisite tall, handsome hunk adequately. Grant's screen time is so limited that one gets only a small indication of the charmer he would become. Technical credits are excellent and the underwater scenes are both exciting and surprisingly expertly handled by jobbing director Marion Gering.

A big thank you to whoever uploaded this film (albeit in six parts) to YouTube. I enjoyed every bit of the extravagant drama and unexpected casting.



    

The RKO Oddities

When I last wrote I mentioned that I was looking forward to three new-to-television oldies from RKO, so I do feel I obliged to comment on them. The first two were "Curtain Call" (1940) and "Footlight Fever" (1941), but for some reason only the first of these found its way onto my hard disc. Never mind! The second was a sequel of sorts to the first movie and purportedly not as successful. Both films star Alan Mowbray and Donald McBride as a theatrical producer-director team and their double act was only sporadically amusing, to the extent that a second pairing might have begun to become annoying. The story was a kind of precursor of "The Producers": in order to salvage their relationship with their prima donna star who is threatening to sign with another company, the pair commission the worst script they can find as her contractual swansong. They hope that it will do such harm to her reputation that she will be obliged to do their bidding.  Unfortunately she thinks it is the greatest play ever and the boys realise that they stand to lose a fortune, especially since the author, Little-Miss-No-Talent-from-the-sticks, refuses to alter a sacred word. 

Like I said, only mildly amusing before the predictable denouement and a second helping of the same characters would have been de trop. The third film being shown, however, proved to be an absolute gem or perhaps it just happened to tickle my funny-bone. "Sing and Like It" (1934) is a forgotten B-movie from the prolific jobbing director William Seiter, active from the early days, and subsequently the helmsman for such minor pleasures as "Sons of the Desert", "If You Could Only Cook", and assorted Shirley Temple films. In this flick Nat Pendleton and Pert Kelton, normally secondary character actors, are given the leads as an ambitious gang-leader and his moll. She yearns to be on the stage, bored with her pampered life, and he yearns for better quality heists. While he and his gang, dressed to the nines in evening wear, are busy robbing a bank, he overhears a staff amateur dramatic society rehearsal and in particular a rather talentless ZaSu Pitts crooning a soppy paean to 'Mother'. Pendleton is so moved by the sentimentalism (his own dear old mum is serving time) that he forces impresario Edward Everett Horton to star Pitts in his new show, much to Kelton's disgust. Shadows of "Bullets over Broadway" here!

Pitts faithful paramour is played by the always wonderful John Qualen, who only wants to settle down and raise tomatoes, but she yearns for her name in Broadway lights, despite her obvious shortcomings. Horton is terrific as the harassed producer, tearing his hair at the indignities heaped upon him, especially since Pendleton wants to jazz up the script with bad jokes from one of his thuggish sidekicks. However the stand-out performance is from Ned Sparks (a familiar on-screen face, again from the silent days) playing Toots, Pendleton's right-hand man. He acts as a sardonic one-man Greek chorus on the proceedings and his quips and double-takes are priceless. The scene where he pokes a gun in the ribs of the doyen of theatre critics on the show's opening night, to obtain the required cheers, tears, and laughs, is brilliant. As a spoof of the gangster pictures of the period and with enough pre-code double entendres to boot, the movie is tremendous fun, even if one does have to hear the silly 'mommy' song reprised ad nauseam. At a scant seventy minutes, this film never outstays its welcome.

Coincidentally there was also a showing of another RKO rarity "Melody Cruise" (1933) which has been on television previously but which I had forgotten and this proved to be another highlight of my weekend viewing. Directed by Mark Sandrich just before he went on to do five of the Astaire/Rogers confections, this film also relishes pre-code possibilities and combines these with innovative musical numbers and brilliant editing, using the popular 'wipe' technique of the 30s and great photo montages. Good old Charlie Ruggles, the only majorish name in the cast, plays a would-be satyr 'though theoretically faithful to his long-suffering wife, on a solo cruise from the East to the West Coast. After a boisterous bon voyage party in his stateroom, he awakes the next morning to find two scantily-clad showgirls passed out on his sofa, who conveniently 'forgot' to get off the ship; with the help of a mercenary steward (a prancing Chick Chandler) who has cleverly thrown their clothes overboard, he tries to pass them off as his 'nieces' until he can get rid of them. His best pal also on the voyage is played (in his first screen role) by Phil Harris, later better known as a band leader, the husband of Alice Faye, and the voice of Baloo in "The Jungle Book" (1957). He is on board in continued pursuit of European sophisticate Greta Nissen, but is soon entranced by small-town ingénue Helen Mack, despite having promised Ruggles that he will never marry. He posts a letter to his friend's wife, outlining the latter's many indiscretions, 'to be opened should I ever marry' and Ruggles is frantic to prevent that letter ever being taken from its envelope.

The film is an unusual musical insofar as much of the dialogue is in rhyme and most of the 'songs' are actually spoken by the large and anonymous cast, often one word or line at a time such as in the 'He's not the Marrying Kind' number. There is also clever use of various sound effects -- a man sweeping, a whistle blowing -- as part of the music. The only 'sung' song by Harris, is echoed in other languages by Spanish, Italian, and German passengers on other parts of the cruise ship. Even a sub-Busby Berkeley number by a group of ice skaters (after the players have disembarked let me quickly add) has its moments. I'm told that Betty Grable plays one of the stewardesses, but it was obviously a blink-and-you-miss-it role, since I certainly didn't pick her out.

My movie life is full of such little pleasures. Time allowing, I would now go on to rhapsodize about the DVD of the more mainstream "Café Metropole" (1937) from 20th Century Fox starring the beauteous young Tyrone Power, a svelte Loretta Young, a host of my favourite supporting actors, and even two deleted dance turns by Bill 'Bojangles' Robinson. However, I'm out of time for now.   

Potty Patty visits The Mad Miss Manton

Knowing my penchant for minor films from the 30s, Michael asked if I had a copy of the above 1938 film which was being screened at some ungodly hour over the weekend. The answer was that I had seen it, but was sufficiently unimpressed previously to want a copy. However, I thought, why not have another go, since as the first of three co-starrers with Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda, it was bound to be something of a charmer.

Well, not quite. It is less of a screwball comedy than a madcap murder mystery, possibly inspired by the success of the Thin Man series. The ever likeable and appealing Stanwyck stars as a wealthy debutante, surrounded by her gaggle of gal-pals. One night she stumbles into an empty mansion and discovers a very dead corpse, but by the time she summons the police, the body has disappeared. Poor go-getter reporter Fonda writes yet another article criticising the childish pranks of Miss Manton and her gang -- prompting a million dollar law suit for libel. Naturally he falls madly in love with her despite himself, while she is more interested in proving to Sam Levene and his comic cops that she is the better detective, finding more bodies in the process. The implausible plot verges on the draggy with a host of interchangeable hangers-on and possible villains popping up; only brief cameos from a host of 'I know that face' character actors like John Qualen, Grady Sutton, Penny Singleton, and Charles Halton alleviate the leisurely pace. However, special praise is reserved for Hattie McDaniel in the standard 1930's black maid role, one year before her historic Oscar win for "Gone with the Wind". As Miss Manton's sassy servant, she dominates the screen on each appearance and even gets to throw a vase of water over poor schmo Fonda. He was never that successful as a comic rather than dramatic actor, although this film serves as something of a dress rehearsal for the wildly entertaining "The Lady Eve" (1941) where the stars are re-teamed.

I still have the film on my hard disc and am contemplating whether or not to keep a copy; the real question being do I want to see it a third time. Despite some zingy dialogue, especially from Levene, much of the movie verges on the silly without being all that entertaining. However I am delighted that the BBC scheduled it, since most channels seem to think that anything pre-Star Wars is only of antediluvian interest. I therefore have very high hopes that the three RKO obscurities from 1934 and the early 40s which they are showing this weekend before most people get out of bed -- all of them new to television -- will continue this trend. One of these days I might actually get to see everything on my ever-growing 'must see' list, although I know how unlikely this is.

On that subject I have made a startling discover, although it will not come as news to those more net-savvy than PPP. I recently bought a new computer which seems to behave itself rather better than the chug-along machine I was using, making watching films on it a more attractive proposition than before. A surprising number of my listed films, including those never available on tape or DVD, have been posted in full on You-Tube and other sites. I was therefore able a few days ago to watch the l936 Russian film "Circus", which was recommended to me by a clever video store clerk in St. Petersburg several years ago; (I'm not really name-dropping here!). It was super fun, even if there were no helpful subtitles. I am now looking forward to viewing the ever-elusive "Dybbuk" (1937), even if I will need make do with one spoken language and a non-English set of subtitles. Fortunately there are some early English-language movies also saved and awaiting my delectation. As I said in the header above, I am potty about movies and I'll continue to seek out every rarity that crosses my wayward path, even if some of them turn out to be disappointments. The pursuit itself is the pleasure.   

In-flight Movies Redux

My affection for transatlantic in-flight movies is two-fold. They serve a useful purpose in alleviating the boredom of flying, especially westbound when sleep is unlikely -- although my ideal way to fly would be to nod off just as the flight becomes airborne and to wake a minute or two before landing. Secondly they give me the opportunity to catch up on unseen recent films, especially Oscar-winners and nominees, before they drift down to satellite showings. Mind you as I have written before, one doesn't really 'see' films on a plane -- both the miniature screen and the often inaudible sound mean that one really needs to 'see' the films a second time if they have anything at all to recommend them. Still, in-flight viewing serves as a taster and I soon know whether indeed they should receive a more traditional second view in due course.

Having said this, I will probably re-view all five (yes, five!) movies I sort of saw on the two legs of my trip -- although only one of them (despite received honours) really grabbed me as being something rather special. So here goes my report with only the sketchiest of reviews:

Argo: I can just about understand how this flick, directed by and starring Ben Affleck, grabbed the high ground at the last Academy Awards. No doubt the Academy voters were influenced by some sort of 'feel good' factor at Uncle Sam's being able to pull the wool over those evil Iranian eyes, with an ingenious plot to free the six Americans who had sought refuge at the Canadian Embassy during the 1980 hostage crisis. Constructed as a combination history lesson and suspenseful thriller, the film mainly holds one's attention. However, I think that it may eventually be relegated to the ranks of those movies that people wonder 'How in the world was that ever voted the best film of its year?' In twenty years time it may seem no better a movie than 1953's dreary winner "The Greatest Show on Earth". Nor really a great classic

Silver Linings Playbook: To me this felt like another severely over-hyped film, audience-pleasing and reasonably well-acted by its ensemble cast, however little more than a minor trifle. As the recently released patient from a mental hospital, Bradley Cooper gives a believably nuanced performance, and he possibly deserved an Oscar nod more than his flavour-of-the-month co-star Jennifer Lawrence, who actually won best actress. I found her whiny voice abrasive and her persona neither charming nor winning. However it was good to see a powerful yet restrained (for once) turn from Robert DeNiro as Cooper's Dad.

Untouchable: After the above two films I had just about given up on the plane's sound system and I watched this French charmer without earphones, relying on the subtitles for coherence. So I definitely need to watch it again, especially since I thought it was the best of the five by a long chalk. Francois Clozet gives a terrific performance as the wheelchair-bound aesthete who finds a whole new meaning to life in the hands of his African carer, Omar Sy. There is more to savour than art and music; there's also women and weed! Rumour has it that there may be an American re-make with Dustin Hoffman hamming it up -- and no doubt someone horrendous like Chris Tucker in the black role. Let's keep our fingers crossed that this will not happen. Force yourselves, folks, to embrace films in other languages...

The Sessions: I had heard good things of this movie about a sex therapist helping an iron-lung patient to lose his virginity. It was remarkably good, although not necessarily a film that demands multiple viewings Helen Hunt gives a brave, Oscar-nominated performance as the therapist, spending much of the film in full-frontal nudity. Nearly 50 when the film was shot, her body is in remarkable shape, while her face is strangely botox-frozen, giving a peculiar dichotomy to the role. John Hawkes is sensational as the paralyzed poet with a sense of humour and it is his performance that really deserved unreceived kudos. William H. Macy is also on top-form as Hawkes' sympathetic parish priest. All in all, a very moving and superior low-budget effort

Flight: I can't say that I really saw much of this movie as I drifted in and out of some needed and pointless-to-resist sleep, but it does seem another winner for Denzil Washington. The film marks a welcome return to live-action features for director Robert Zemeckis after his so-so stop-motion efforts of the last decade. Washington plays an addicted personality (booze and coke) who just happens to be an ace passenger pilot and who manages to prevent a major disaster, despite being high as a kite while high in the air. What becomes of him and the truth as the facts emerge is the dilemma that powers this film, although the ending is a wee bit too tidy. He is strongly supported by Don Cheadle, Bruce Greenwood, John Goodman, and if I'm not mistaken his first 'white' love interest in the shape of Kelly Reilly -- something I've heard he resisted in his earlier films. It's a blockbuster performance which continues to define his position amongst the top talents of his generation, although I must confess to admiring him more than actually liking him.    

La Vertige (1926)

Among the somewhat specialised film festivals that come and go over the year is one aimed at the fashion industry and called rather pointedly 'The Fashion in Film Festival'. Since one of their venues is the National Film Theatre, I do receive details of their offerings in the monthly film programme, and have over the last few years been able to view some of their more obscure selections -- particularly as they are very keen on modernist trends in silent movies from the 1920s. The organisers have occasionally more or less spoiled their film choices by interrupting the proceedings with strutting dancers or models. Fortunately this was not the case with the above movie from the prolific but generally overlooked French director Marcel l'Herbier.

In fact he is the star turn at this year's festival which features five of his films from the late 20s/early 30s and attempts to showcase his obsessions with stylised interiors and costuming. He called upon the talents of many of the foremost architects, artists, designers, and couturiers of his day, aiming to synthesise all of these arts and make cinema a showcase for his aesthetic sensibilities. Indeed this film is a feast for the eye. It is, however, also extremely long and tedious; despite being described in the programme as being 90 minutes long, it ran for a full 130!  Ouch! I have seen and reviewed some of L'Herbier's other silents, and looking back on my comments I note that I really liked his "Living Dead Man" (also 1926) but hated his "L'Inhumaine" (1924) which is also being featured in this festival.

The director himself, when asked to base this film on a popular melodramatic play by Charles Mere, protested that the plot was' boring'; he therefore decided to overcome this handicap by creating (in his words) a 'visual sauce' that would counteract the trite action. Unfortunately unless one is au fait with the now largely forgotten creative figures of that period, this is not enough. The rather skimpy plot starts in Russia in 1917 at the height of the revolution. The family of General Count Svirsky cower in their palatial rooms expecting to be eaten alive by the angry peasants. However he does seize this opportunity to murder the dashing young officer Dimitri who has become his younger wife's paramour. Regardless, she stands by her husband and they escape to a louche and luxurious life on the French Riviera. There she catches sight of Henri de Cassel who is the living image (le vertige) of her lost lover. Both roles are taken by the director's muse Jaque Catelain, whom the director treats as the focus and the real star of the movie. I don't know why, but in so many silents the stars look far too old for their roles and in fact Emmy Lynn who plays the Countess Svirska was in her late thirties here and rather stout with it.. It is also something of a problem when the leading man is far prettier than his would-be love. This was the case in spades in the earlier "L'Inhumaine in which Catelain also starred, and it is unavoidedly noticeable here too.

Lynn serves as an adequate clothes-horse for some of the more eye-popping costumes, but it is Catelain who really shines in his double-breasted suits and geometric dressing gown, a beautiful knight out to rescue the fair damsel. However a 'visual symphony' or 'visual poetry' as the film was described on its release are unfortunately insufficient reasons to sit through more than two hours of stilted acting and unrewarding action from some basically unsympathetic characters.

I'm off to the States tomorrow, but will return with some in-flight movie reviews (now that's something I've not done for a while) on my return. See you then...   

I'm So Excited! (2013)

A new film from Spanish maestro Pedro Almodovar is a cause for excitement and enough to get me heading to the nearest cinema showing the work at the first possible opportunity. The flamboyant director always has some new tricks up his sleeve and all of his films since the start of this decade have shown a new maturity, contemplative approach, and a noir sensibility missing from his thoroughly entertaining but often hollow-cored early romps. On the surface his latest movie (which has attracted some of the most lukewarm notices of his career) may seem a throwback to the iconoclastic and empty-headed early farces, but there is far more to the film than that. Even if there were not, it is a joyous ninety minutes full of its own charms.

The original title "Los Amantes Pasajeros" (loosely translated at the Loving Passengers) tells one as little about the movie as the chosen English title taken from the Pointer Sisters' 1984 pop hit -- a rendition of which performed by three more-than-camp air stewards becomes the film's highlight. The action, such as it is, takes place largely on a transatlantic flight of a mythical airline between Madrid and Mexico City. However, in a seemingly unrelated cameo at the start of the film between two of the director's muses (Antonio Banderos and Penelope Cruz), the flight is sent off with a major fault -- its landing gear is compromised. When this becomes apparent, the flight captain radios for help in finding a suitable strip where he can attempt an emergency landing. Nothing seems to be immediately available...

What to do? The passengers and their stewardesses in the cramped economy section are drugged to keep them quiet and to avoid any panic. The panic is largely confined to the three gay stewards who act as the spearheads of the action forming a viaduct between the virtually empty business-class section and the cockpit (and never has that word been subject to more innuendos than in this film). In business class we have seven passengers: a honeymoon couple exhausted after three days of shagging, a failed actress turned dominatrix (Cecelia Roth -- one of the few members of the director's stock company with a major role) who claims to have video evidence of indiscretions by Spain's most powerful men, a famous actor trying to escape from his most recent failed amour, a banker fleeing the aftermath of his financial misdeeds, a shady 'business advisor' who is actually a hitman, and a plain, middle-aged 'psychic' who is desperate to lose her virginity. One of the stewards is the not so secret lover of the married pilot, while the second is panting to pleasure the purportedly hetero first officer, and the chubby third (a memorable Carlos Areces) spends much of his time praying at his portable pop-up shrine.

As the plane flies in circles over Toledo, the seven privileged passengers rattle about in their pastel cabin, exchanging intimacies, at first verbal and then sexual, egged on by the potent brew distributed by the irrepressible stewards --  a mixture of juice, champagne, and mescaline (retrieved from an unmentionable hiding place by the randy groom). Without any inflight entertainment or private telephones, their various secrets are revealed on the one public telephone which provides no privacy, as their conversations are boomed out for all to hear.  In this imminently life-threatening scenario, each of them must evaluate what really matters in their lives and what they must do change things -- should they survive. Eventually they are able to land at the totally deserted 'La Mancha' Airport (shades of quixotic adventures) -- but actually a reference to one of two Spanish 'white elephant' airports built during an expansive boom period and now abandoned in the new age of austerity.

The film can easily be read to symbolise the state of the Spanish nation -- the unconscious and helpless majority in the cattle car blissfully unaware of long-range problems, while the privileged few find themselves in a holding pattern, without really knowing how to find the right answers. As a metaphor for Spain's financial woes, one might rate this movie a downer. However all troubles recede to the background in the irreverent hands of the stewards' wonderfully choreographed gay Greek chorus. Without them the film would be just a loosely-knit collection of mildly diverting vignettes, but their infectious joie de vivre in the face of catastrophe makes this movie a wonderfully entertaining trifle. Almodovar examines the state of his nation with a deft and irreverent hand, and while possibly a lightweight outing, this film is far, far from a failure.     

Iron Man 3

The critics have been lavish in their praise for this third instalment in the Tony Stark saga, but the fanboys have been having a bit of a moan. Never having been a teenaged comic buff myself, I approached this outing with a fairly open mind and can side with the critics: this film provides fine slam-bang action along with a cheeky and charismatic turn from the ever-likeable Robert Downey Jr.

I have always reckoned Downey and admired his acting chops, even when his personal life was a drug-fuelled mess. That he has cleaned up his act to become one of Hollywood's biggest money-spinners and the star of this Marvel franchise is pretty great in my book. While the first two Iron Man films were directed by Jon Favreau, who has only a quirky cameo in this film before spending the remainder of the movie in a coma, the first sequel was a real let-down.  The new director, Shane Black, has lent his fine comic hand to this third outing. Black starred Downey (at about the time he was turning his life around) in his debut feature "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" (2005), but before that he was one of Hollywood's best 'go-to' writers for comedy-action flicks, penning all of the Lethal Action movies and two of the Bruce Willis actioners. In other words he has a finely-honed sense of the ridiculous and Downey is more than adept at handling his throw-away one-liners, which is to my mind a large part of the film's appeal.

The nay-sayers seem to think that superhero films don't need lots of drama, only non-stop action. Black's outing has action in spades -- possibly a little too much and too exhausting to watch for my grown-up taste -- but he also has time to deal with meatier personal issues. The main gripe against this film is that writer-director Black has taken Iron Man's greatest nemesis from the comics, The Mandarin, and turned him into a big joke. That's sacrilege in their book! As this deadly enemy who Stark challenges and who all but destroys his home and his hubris, (Sir) Ben Kingsley provides a sparkling menacing and then cravenly hilarious embodiment of would-be evil. The real villain it emerges is Guy Pearce's Aldrich Killian who has used scientist Rebecca Hall's findings to create an army of self-regenerating ex-cripples (or something like that). His actual motives are far from clear as he gleefully embraces his nutty world-conqueror ambitions, although he obviously nurses a snub from Stark in his nerdy days thirteen years earlier.

Gwyneth Paltrow's Pepper Potts is back as Stark's very definite love interest and takes a big part in the strange storyline, obviously enjoying being able to showcase her rock-like 40ish abs. Also returning to the series is Don Cheadle as Iron Man's military pal. With William Sandler as the kidnapped President, Miguel Ferrer as an untrustworthy Vice-President, and Paul Betthany lending his superior, dulcet tones to Jarvis (the butler of the suits), the film is smartly cast. However most appealing of all is young actor Ty Simpkins as a techy sidekick who helps Stark when he is at his lowest.

There was perhaps too much jokiness about the supposedly indestructible metal suits falling apart willy-nilly (another no-no from the fans), but this was probably as much to do with creating 3-D effects in the film. Quite honestly, after a while I stopped noticing that the movie was in fact shot in three dimensions and it would lose very little in its 2-D version. This in fact speaks well for Black's opting to combine a bit of serious soul-searching with the all-out action. Otherwise 130 minutes would have been more than I for one could handle.

The film's ending (which I won't reveal) was a strange one, insofar as it does not really set up the action for further sequels, although no doubt Iron Man is contracted to appear in the next "Avengers Assemble". It will be interesting to discover whether Iron Man will remain a fairly satisfying trilogy or whether a new kink will be found to continue with Downey in the role. Of course this is well before some bright spark decides to 'reinvent' the character somewhere down the future pike.  

A Student in Prague vs. One in Chicago

It's not very often that one has the chance to view a film that is 100 years old, so I was thrilled to see "The Student of Prague" (1913) on German television. If you look the title up on IMDb, it is described as a 45-minute short, but in fact the movie has now been restored by a number of cooperating archives to its full 85 minutes. It is often described as the first horror movie and for that reason alone it is of great historical interest, even if it is no great shakes as film art. Co-directed by and starring Paul Wegener who went on to personify the Golem in the 1915 and 1920 films, it is a riff on the German Faust legend mixed with Poe's William Wilson about an impoverished student who sells his soul (in this case his mirror reflection) for worldly wealth, but who subsequently goes mad as he is haunted by his doppelganger. The Germans re-made the story thirteen years later in 1926 with a rather more charismatic Conrad Veidt in the lead and that version is superior in every way, replacing Wegener's static camera with the heyday of Expressionistic angles. I guess there's not much more to say about this century-old treat, other than to thank those responsible for its re-birth.

So today I shall concentrate instead on a more recent movie (only 33 years old!) with a rather younger student; why is it that in so many silent films the young protagonists appear to be middle-aged? "My Bodyguard" (1980) has aged rather better than many of the teen-focused films from the '80s, but is largely and rather unfairly now forgotten. Directed by ex-actor Tony Bill, it follows the fortunes of 15-year old Clifford Peache, played by the excellent but again now little-known Chris Makepeace. He lives with his hotel-manager dad (Martin Mull) and his kooky grandma (Ruth Gordon) in a swanky Chicago hotel and is a new student at an inner-city high school.  With his smart-ass attitude, he is immediately picked upon by the school bully Melvin Moody (impeccably played by a 16-year old Matt Dillon) and his gang of thugs, who have been menacing the weaker members of the student body and extorting their lunch money. Cliff decides not to play ball with this intimidation and tries to enlist the help of big, lumbering school outcast Ricky Linderman as his bodyguard.

Ricky is played by Adam Baldwin (not, let it be said one of the many Baldwin brothers) in his film debut, and while still pursuing a film career, the actor has never been better. He is feared by the other students, as rumours circulate that he has killed his brother or raped a teacher or poked out someone's eye. His shuffling giant may be everyone's idea of a teenaged psychopath, but underneath it all lies a sensitive soul. While he initially shuns Cliff's approaches, they eventually become friends, as they bond over rebuilding the motorcycle that Ricky has been working on for a year. This friendship keeps Moody and his yahoos at bay, until Dillon pays a young tough to be 'his' bodyguard and the gentle Baldwin initially refuses to fight. I won't divulge how the movie finishes, other than to say that it couldn't have been more satisfying.

The movie is also noteworthy for giving early roles to many familiar names: Joan Cusack with a mouthful of shiny metal braces (and the patriarch of her acting clan plays the school principal), director-to-be Dean Devlin, George Wendt, and a recognizable but uncredited Jennifer Beals. The scenes with the high-spirited Gordon are gems as she propositions visiting tourists in the hotel bar (she's old but acts like a kid says her grandson) and threatens her family's tenure at the snobby hotel. That's until her joie-de-vivre seduces visiting staid hotel inspector John Houseman into her web.

All and all this sleeper is a joy to watch and resonates realistically with those of us who well remember the anxieties of being a teenager. I'm so pleased to have seen it again and highly recommend it to all of you both for its nostalgia and its heart.

Leo the Last (1970)

I should be more careful what I wish for! Having been fond of the late Marcello Mastroianni in just about all of his roles, I really wanted to watch the above film again. I knew that I had seen a television screening in the very distant past, but could recall nothing much about it -- apart from a scene in a swimming pool (which I shall return to below). So when I noticed that an extremely rare showing was scheduled at the National Film Theatre, there we went -- only to be horribly disappointed.

Its director John Boorman has made some wonderful films like "Point Blank", "Deliverance", "Hell in the Pacific", and "Hope and Glory", but this must be amongst his worse, although he was also responsible for 1974's unfathomable "Zardoz". To my complete amazement, he actually won a best director award at Cannes for this mystifyingly bad movie. He apparently wooed dear Marcello to take the lead of the crown prince of a dethroned kingdom, who returns to his late father's cul-de-sac London mansion, and the actor agreed to come to Britain for one of his rare English-speaking roles. Professional as ever, he does throw himself into the part of the otherworldly princeling, but he looks more than his bemused character -- it's almost as if he is asking the world "what am I doing in this farrago?"

Accompanied by his gold-digging fiancée Billie Whitelaw and surrounded by a coterie of protective lackeys, he is only able to view the world through misty windows and his ever-present spyglass. In the basement, his weird major-domo Laszlo, played by shifty-eyed Vladek Sheybal, is marshalling a pack of counter-revolutionaries eager to restore the monarchy. When a soiree is arranged for him, he finds that he is surrounded by greedy guests, gorging and stuffing their faces like a herd of swine. He then discovers that the elaborate mansion is set smack in the middle of a lower-class, largely black slum, and he watches his neighbours' comings and goings much as his twitcher watches the flocks of pigeons that darken the sky. To his horror he learns that his inherited wealth largely derives from his father's having bought up the surrounding streets and that the desperately poor people he is spying upon are his tenants -- shades of the period's Rachmanism. He reluctantly wanders out into the 'real' world, eager to somehow relieve their suffering. His futile attempts to be a do-gooder only tend to make matters worse.

His minders and Miss Whitelaw are horrified that he might give away the wealth that they covet and do everything to prevent his joining the common herd. At one stage she convinces him to attend some sort of New Age meeting in a swimming pool, peopled by a crowd of naked wannabes grotesquely bobbing up and down to the exhortations of their guru. As each of them in turn shouts out that they feel marvellous or reborn, Marcello can only respond that he feels nothing but 'wet'; this was the only amusing piece of dialogue in the entire film! The movie is so very much of its time with nods to flower-power, boho liberalism, and pointless polemic, that it seems more than dated and verges on the unwatchable; none of this is helped by pompous voice-overs quoting T.S. Eliot or by one of the worst musical soundtracks ever.

Among the supporting cast are Calvin Lockhart as a resourceful rebel and 70s singer Ram John Holder as a not very charismatic black preacher; I did not however spot an uncredited Louis Gossett in an early role. Then there's the white rapist Kenneth J. Warren and the object of his lust, trainee-whore Glenna Forster Jones who Marcello tries to redeem. The stand-out performance in the crowd, however, is white busker Doris Clark, who belts out Cockney staples above the noisy melee. In the end the whole mansion comes tumbling down to the cheers of the mob and the mystification of Marcello. I'm sure it's all very symbolic, but goodness knows of what.     

Collateral (2004)

This entry is probably less about the above film than about its star, Tom Cruise -- "the biggest movie star in the world" (trademark!).  I was watching one of this week's Sky premieres, "Rock of Ages" (2012) and I really began to wonder about Cruise's appeal, popularity, and power. I didn't particularly care for the film since the pop-rock score all sounded much of a muchness to my tin ear. I far preferred the music in another of the premieres, "Joyful Noise", since Gospel is the more emotive sound, but the film itself was nothing very special, despite stellar turns from both Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah. Cruise acquitted himself reasonably as the troubled, heavy metal rock god in the former movie, but I really didn't give a toss for his character. Oddly enough the best thing in the film was probably the abrasive Russell Brand, who normally gets up my nose, especially in his unexpected love scenes with Alec Baldwin's laidback club owner.

However getting back to Mr. Cruise, I know for a fact that I have seen all of his films up to "Rock of Ages", since that's what I do! However despite my mania for collecting any film that appeals to me, I have only chosen to add two of his movies to my collection on the strength of his performance and in both of them "Magnolia" (1999) and "Tropic Thunder" (2008) he took basically OTT cameo roles as part of an ensemble cast. I admit to owning "Legend" (1985) and "Interview with the Vampire" (1994) as entertaining films, despite Cruise, and to also having "Rain Man" (1988) and "A Few Good Men" (1992) as freebie acquisitions. But if I had to explain why most of his films since his break-out performance in his spanking white undies in 1983's "Risky Business" have left me cold, I would have to say that there is something about the man that just puts me off. He is certainly an adequate actor who is not risk-avoidant and who welcomes roles that challenge his abilities, but he comes across as one who believes that he is infallible. How else to explain the recent entry of a mini-Tom playing the 6' 4" Jack Reacher? Apparently he is extremely diligent and approachable on set, but something about him just doesn't feel real, and it probably has a little to do with his scientologist beliefs. He seems to expect success as his due, rather than something that he has achieved through a genuine or unique talent and nearly all of his roles are overladen with cockiness.

To test my feelings about him, I decide to re-watch the above movie which happened to be playing this week. In it he plays a cold-blooded, silver fox hitman called Vincent, who effectively hijacks cab-driver Jamie Foxx's taxi, for a night of scheduled killings. Foxx's Max daydreams about someday running his own high-class limo service and is initially intimidated by the vicious gunsel in the back seat, but gradually learns the meaning of courage. The pair play well against each and the film holds one's attention, but it's really not a flick I would wish to own or re-watch a third time. Director Michael Mann does a top rate job of portraying the dark side of Los Angeles by night and uses the musical  underpinnings effectively. However I think he rather over-eggs the pudding, possibly encouraged to do so by his demanding leading man. The movie might have been sharper and leaner with fewer adoring shots of Cruise doing his thing. I also think it would have had a far more effective ending if Mann's camera had gradually drawn away from the now dead Vincent, rather than making us watch the newly heroic Max walking hand in hand into the sunlight with potential squeeze Jada Pinkett Smith.

The film's supporting cast is interesting and includes Mark Ruffalo and Javier Bardem amongst others, but there's no question about whom we are meant to be looking at; Foxx is good, but he is definitely the second lead here. Incidentally Jason Statham has a blink-and-you-might-miss-him role in the opening shot, but no doubt he relished this opportunity to believe that he was now a Hollywood player. Mind you, his is another career that mystifies me, but that's another story for another day.

Trance (2013)

The British director Danny Boyle certainly has his legion of fans and a pretty varied assortment of films starting with the gritty "Trainspotting",  running through the feel-good "Slumdog Millionaire" and the harrowing "127 Hours", but somehow he has never roped me into his fanbase. Of course he is now something of a national hero or even worse a national treasure after his stirring and well-received opening ceremony for the 2012 Olympics. He apparently shot the above film on his offdays from Olympic planning and has himself described it as a "dark evil cousin" to all of the sweetness and light on the Olympic field. It may well have been some sort of light relief for him to work on this neo-noir, but it is something of a quandary for the viewer -- a breathless roller-coaster of deliberately misleading action and reaction.

James McAvoy plays a fine-arts auctioneer with a penchant for gambling and is deeply in debt. He conspires with professional thief Franck (Vincent Cassel -- playing his usual suave and sadistic persona) to cover his debts by stealing a 20 million pound painting for him.  This action lasts some ten minutes before the front credits and is filmed at a breakneck pace by Boyle's regular cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle. The fly in the ointment is that after a blow on the head McAvoy's Simon can't quite recall where he stashed the painting. Enter hynotherapist Rosario Dawson whose job it is to unlock Simon's memory and retrieve the artwork for Franck (or more likely for herself as it emerges). The windy screenplay is full of twists and turns which deliberately muddle the boundaries between reality and wishful thinking and hypnotic suggestibility. In short the film is technically superb but narratively obtuse and in the end 100% unbelievable.

I still find it a little hard to view McAvoy as a plausible action hero -- there remains something of the nerd about his character -- and the transition here between poor shlub and ruthless man of action is too much of a stretch. He can be likeable enough which perhaps explains the career he has had to date, but one can think of any number of actors who might have handled this role as well or even better or for that matter more credibly.  We are deliberately kept in the dark regarding the past relationships among the three main characters and the revelations, when they come, seem too much of a stretch. Dawson acquits herself well in what in the end is an underwritten role. She manages to sexually manipulate both Franck and Simon to achieve her own ends. I should add that there is a certain amount of singularly gratuitous nudity on her part, which adds very little to the logic of the excercise, although there is no denying that she has a magnificent body on display when she removes her kit.

In mitigation of the above lukewarm critique, I must admit that I was feeling singularly under the weather while watching this film and probably indulged in a little fading in and out of the twisty action. I don't know if a second viewing would correct my inconsistent attention span, but somehow I doubt it. I can picture myself getting even more annoyed by the tricks that Boyle and his screenwriters have lying in wait for the unwary audience. Meanwhile, Danny, enjoy your 'national treasure' role -- such fame is fleeting.