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Vertigo (1958)
Vertigo
Not surprised that responses were mixed upon release, as Vertigo is an odd, often ungainly beast: must be Hitchcock's most overtly "artsy" film, with uncharacteristically minimal "fun" to be found on the surface. It begins lethargically, laden with exposition and weighty dialogue, before morphing from a thriller into a twisted love story that leans so far into the metatextual that it borders on total self-absorption. It's all uncomfortably chauvinistic, not helped by a huge age gap between the two leads. The letter as a storytelling device remains noticeably clunky - written only to be torn up, obviously existing solely for the audience's benefit, despite the twist practically being spelled out later - especially when immediately following an already-dodgy flashback. Taken at face value, the entire plot is overly contrived and unbelievable; an old school friend, out of contact for years, is chosen to take the fall for an elaborate plan barely worthy of an Agatha Christie novel, revolving around supernatural explanations conveniently supported by even those not involved in any trickery, and only foiled by love, specifically through a careless choice of jewellery.
Nor am I surprised, however, to observe that its present critical revaluation is as close to unanimous as can be achieved, voted as the number one greatest film ever in the 2012 Sight & Sound poll. This is almost designed to be as limitless in interpretation as is feasible for a crowd-pleaser, loaded with symbolism and psychological concepts while still rarely diverting from the literal. A deeply biographical work, with Hitch's tendency to model women under his directorial hand into some idealised blonde, a beautiful but taciturn and distant figure (i.e. Grace Kelly), being faithfully rendered on screen through his typical protagonist: a man out of his element, wrongly accused of a crime that perpetually haunts him. It's meta to the point of sometimes being obnoxious, yet the deftness with which the ostensible paranormal-mystery narrative is entirely consumed by this story of unattainable expectations is spellbinding. Here was where Hitchcock perfected his psychosexual thriller - vertigo as impotence, ghostly possession as lustful obsession, suggestive imagery in everything from waves crashing to flowers blooming to constant tunnelling-shots - the cinematography masterfully echoes the themes throughout. A swirling kiss under a dreamlike, hazy neon-light, the background itself shifting to reflect the subjectivity of the characters' perspectives; dolly zooms utilised in some of the most famous staircase-shots in cinema; the lighting momentarily brightening as Madeleine first appears in profile, then later rapidly darkening in the bookstore as day turns to night without twilight; a stunning dream sequence, tinting the whole screen various vibrant hues, collapsing into an exclaiming face and animated deforming petals that was unlike anything else being released in the '50s. (See also: the hauntingly unsettling title sequence, supposedly the first use of computer graphics in a film.) An all-time great score by Bernard Herrmann carries the first third, which is largely wordless, purposefully paced as to lull the viewer until a midway-ending that is even more shocking than its equivalent in Psycho. Calling the film impressionistic is perhaps outlandish, but consider the scenes of Scottie repeatedly viewing women in the same spots he once saw Madeleine, then finally being transported back upon supposedly finding her; it regularly emphasises emotive responses over cognitive ones, seeking to depict our desire for purely-hypothetical perfection through this man's love for an effectively dead woman. The idea is drawn out to such a ruthless extent that I question whether Stewart was intended to be quite so unsympathetic - that is, not at all - as my pity lies mostly with Judy and, above all, with Midge. Wonderfully acted in a small role from Barbara Bel Geddes, her playful-yet-genuine longing is palpable in every line, Stewart playing it coolly unaware in response. Her unceremonious exit from the film once Scottie's infatuation becomes pathological struck me as particularly heartbreaking and cruel on this watch. The final ending is perhaps a little too cute in its irony, with Scottie finally overcoming his fears, but it being too late, having turned into the monster he is describing. That's only in hindsight, though, as the harsh cut into credits, substituting a potential epilogue for the overpowering brass in Herrmann's score, left me blown away as ever. Safe to say that this is still a great movie, just not The Greatest. My allegiances lie with Notorious, if I had to nominate one Hitchcock, which plays with similar themes but under the guise of an entertaining spy-thriller, and is generally sleeker and less portentous in its execution (especially regarding dialogue and exposition). Still, it's one masterpiece or another, so take your pick.
The Room (2003)
The Room
First ever full, front-to-back watch, despite being overly familiar with every last baffling line delivery and nonsensical plot point. Glad I got to experience Wiseau's seminal masterpiece on the big screen, alongside a theatre-full of audience members that seemed to know each and every frame. Slightly tiring, however, to have people laughing uproariously at a constant tempo, causing me to decide early on that this is the "so bad it's good" movie choice for boring people. It's had its time; watching this in January 2022 felt as though someone were making Chuck Norris jokes or fashioning shareable "troll-face" images - a little embarrassing. Nevertheless, I still found much of it quite funny, and it's hard not to with such a tremendous helping of incompetency on display: the stilted performances, obviously including Wiseau's own poorly-dubbed, awkwardly delivered (but in a different way every time) tour-de-force; the blatant green-screen; plot threads seemingly setup that then go nowhere (Lisa's mother had breast cancer, right?); random, unrelated establishing shots of locations that characters never visit (really gets a lot of mileage out of one clip of the Golden Gate Bridge); new people constantly appearing without introduction, then leaving just as soon (WHO IS MIKE?); the same three sets being used throughout; even the props are bizarre: stock photos of spoons framed around Johnny's home, and are they drinking Scotch topped with vodka? Needless to say, it's a bit of a mess, and certainly a monumental failure on every narrative level, if one can be so generous as to grant this film a narrative. Wiseau is the X-factor, the mysterious auteur at the centre of it all, a man whose accent is as unplaceable as his intentions, and as inexplicable as his budgetary sources. The self-aggrandisement is overwhelming, with every character insistent that "Johnny" is their best friend and the greatest guy you'll ever meet, always talking about him when he's not there, yet continuing to ruin his life regardless. The lengthy sex scenes set to borderline-parodic slow tunes are uncomfortable to sit through and indicative of the palpable male gaze behind every aspect of the production. Listening to the conversations Wiseau writes for his female stars is as enlightening as it is hilarious; in an attempt to portray some perceived, inherent unfaithfulness in women, he unwittingly reveals precisely why his relationships have likely failed in the past: he understands no one but himself (and a hyperbolically perfect version at that). Imagining what Wiseau thought he was making boggles the mind - some modern-day Greek tragedy, complete with irony and high drama, culminating in a Citizen-Kane-esque room-smashing scene; above all, a depiction of how Great Men like himself can be torn apart by all those conniving women. Therein, of course, lies the humour: the timing is so naturally comedic and the absurdity increases so surely that one cannot help but laugh at the disaster playing out on screen. It captures an odd kind of cognitive dissonance, the sense that one is watching something very closely resembling a film while so clearly not being one. That said, movies get worse than this - not much, but they do - the main theme in the score is decidedly pleasant and the camerawork, all things considered, is not the worst. (Apparently this was shot on 35mm and HD video. Simultaneously. Might as well have started a money bonfire while you're at it.) I suppose this is partially responsible for its cult status, as it's a lot more accessible than cinematic diarrhoea on the scale of, say, After Last Season. Why is it even called The Room? Perhaps a misspelling of The Roof, as they seem to spend a lot more time there than in any specific room. That's it, I'm done: rating 1/10 and moving on.
Ready Player One (2018)
Ready Player One
Somehow managed to avoid this till now, but the day has finally arrived where I felt ready to tackle Ready Player One. Yeah, it's a dumpster fire. Quite in awe at how terrible most of it was, yet what stuck out most of all was its apparent effect on the trendiness of nostalgia-overload. In retrospect, this is Day Zero for where we are today - just beating out Ralph Breaks the Internet - a climate where constant references can be considered entertainment, one which has led to the likes of Space Jam: A New Legacy. At least this has a diegetic reason for the overwhelming number of pop culture nods; that doesn't make it any less unbearable, however, particularly when the entire conceit of the film and its characters is that all personality draws solely from external inspirations. Even the soundtrack reflects this, being particularly overstuffed with recognisable tunes towards the beginning - John Williams' absence is felt. The only word for it all is "cringe": the dialogue ("A fanboy knows a hater"), the representation of """gaming culture""", the laughable emotional beats... cringe. Gets progressively better as it goes along, starting off with awful, exposition-laden narration and halfhearted world-building, but it barely reaches a tolerable level at any one point. Despite Spielberg's masterful blocking and camera movements being on full display, the visual style is never not repulsive to behold. Making an entire film look like a video game is a risible idea on paper, and hardly better in execution; the director's influence may be the only thing saving this from falling into a completely bottom-of-the-barrel tier, as many sequences are far more tasteful and restrained than they could have been. It sufficiently counterbalances the action with plot elements to keep the ball rolling, though the pacing in general is uneven. We plummet into pure spectacle by the end, the gross CG absorbing the screen, the references flying everywhere. (Including the Iron Giant as a glorified gun. That is, the exact opposite of the point of that film.) There's also a painfully obvious setup that is paid off here (the Cataclyst), followed by an even worse one (an extra life, you've got to be kidding). Why are both characters wearing their fancy suits that allow them to feel impacts made in the Oasis? Sure, put it on when dancing with the missus, but you didn't think to take it off before going into battle? A pathetic attempt at establishing real-world stakes, made all the more pointless since ostensibly the game world matters more.
The best scene in this movie is one set entirely inside another (The Shining), which speaks to how little originality there is on offer. We have a love story that, instead of considering unmet expectations brought about by a cyber relationship, merely gives the otherwise conventionally-attractive girl a very faded scar on one eye to show her insecurities. That's the level we're at. (Just checking, and yeah, this is the same guy who made Jaws. Wouldn't have guessed.) As if all this weren't reason enough to dislike the film, the basis for its narrative is the assumption that one may understand an artist's work solely through studying the details of their personal life, which runs flagrantly contrary to my own beliefs. (I'm not entirely in favour of Death of the Author, but this is just ludicrous.) In terms of positives, this still occasionally taps into the Spielbergian sense of adventure, and reaches an okay conclusion. (Now I see where Mark Rylance started his performance in Don't Look Up.) Although, the partial closing of the Oasis opens its own can of worms that we won't bother getting into. This is still the worst of the 24(!) Spielberg films I've seen, and will likely end up not far off once I eventually get through the other 10. (Exact number depends on whether one counts anthologies, shorts, and TV specials.) The only message of substance seems to be that we should all spend more time appreciating the outside world - if this is the alternative, then I'm all in favour of that.
Doctor Zhivago (1965)
Doctor Zhivago
Decided that Boxing Day Sunday would be the best time to tackle this mammoth epic from David Lean, itself a follow-up to his (even longer) Lawrence of Arabia. Turned out the version I watched was "only" 184 minutes, so not too bad - and there was a scene set at Christmas Eve, so I'll call it suitable viewing for the 26th. Surprised that this of all things, a sprawling adaptation of a Russian novel set during the Bolshevik Revolution, is - adjusted for inflation - one of the ten highest grossing films of all time. (Still second that year to The Sound of Music!) Seems odd on paper, but actually watching the movie might lend some explanation; I have zero familiarity with Pasternak's novel, yet it is evident that it has been parsed quite heavily to fit on screen. At the end of the day, this is a straightforward romance, a love-triangle set amidst political troubles which seem to be little more than background goings-on. The source material appears to be a typically-expansive Russian work that would have likely required a full mini-series to capture in any meaningful depth: the Wikipedia character chart speaks for itself. (No doubt it's been artificially rendered more complex by including any and all side-characters, however the point still stands that the adaptation has nowhere near this level of intricacy in its relationships.) Still, it's long enough as is, and one begins to wonder whether these filmed portrayals of classic literature are fundamentally misguided and ultimately unnecessary. (To use a book I've actually read, trying to picture a movie version of The Brothers Karamazov gives me a headache thinking of all the changes needed to switch the narrative devices and trim its unwieldy size into something remotely manageable.) An admirable effort, though, and, rather unexpectedly, I was never bored, just fairly uninvested in the events unfolding; more disinterested than uninterested.
What is abundantly clear is that David Lean knew where to stick the camera - a scene shot entirely from outside a building, through frosted window panes, dollying to follow the characters running in between rooms, was breathtaking. Trouble is, not sure his formal sensibilities can forgive his apparent dispassion in the material. This overwhelmingly appears to be an English drama that is incidentally set in early-20th-century Russia. Lean certainly captures beautiful images, despite this being shot mostly in Spain, but some unquantifiable nationalism is so desperately lacking. Watch a Tarkovsky film and the "Russian spirit" or what-have-you is palpable; here, the revolutionary commentary is minimal, with the extent of its substance being the depiction of the hardships experienced under Soviet-communism (likely pertaining to the ongoing Cold War). Early on, we have Lara's affection being fought over between a member of the Bourgeoisie and a young revolutionary, which is a clear microcosm for Tsarist Russia, but this must be a carryover from Pasternak rather than Lean's contribution. In lieu of anything else, we have an excellently-directed love story, strengthened by the wonderful, balalaika-led score. As romantic as the choreography is, much of the dialogue still comes across as stilted, and Yuri and Lara's connection seems to be strictly physical; it is no coincidence that the most successful sequences are entirely wordless. Nevertheless, there is a great cast doing their best to make it work: Julie Christie's eyes are so subtly expressive, and Omar Sharif, while often stone-faced, has many sympathetic moments. Rod Steiger is fantastic, utterly despicable until he becomes merely another pitiable brick in the Bolshevik-wall. Alec Guinness displays a profound presence, interestingly narrating over his speech in the past - is this to emphasise his subjective viewpoint? Yet, in all other scenes, we view the events as an omniscient observer, despite the film portraying this as the recollections of Zhivago('s brother). Having not read the book, perhaps this is utilised there - Dostoevsky often employed a third-person narrator that occasionally admits to not knowing everything (I at least recall that in The Idiot) - but it comes across awkwardly on film as compared to text. That really summarises the main issue with Lean's Doctor Zhivago: there isn't much communicated cinematically that wouldn't have functioned literarily. Sharif's death scene is borderline embarrassing, overtly theatrical and worthy of a soap-opera. It's a beautifully directed story of love interrupted by history, but an inherently watered-down one, and it shows.
Some Like It Hot (1959)
Some Like It Hot
Sometimes, universally-beloved and celebrated classics live up to their acclaim; unattainable expectations can be met. Such is the case with Some Like It Hot, which I became hopelessly enamoured by. Despite mixed experiences with screwballs in the past, this is working on so many levels that it was impossible not to appreciate all of it: a slapstick within a gangster flick, a rom-com without sentimentality, a sex-comedy without any sex. With this, Notorious, and countless other Old Hollywood staples, I have realised that romance is better portrayed on-screen with subtlety - Wilder pushes censors to their limits, utilising innuendo, phallic imagery, and a half-dressed Marilyn Monroe to create a film where every character is thinking about sex constantly, yet it is never crude or explicit, only cheeky and winking. "Cross-dressing" comedies always run the risk of lingering on one joke, and a dated one at that, as inevitable scenarios occur where characters have to hurriedly change outfits, or resist advances by someone of the same gender (can't have that!). The film features these tropes, to be sure, and I began worried that the humour would wear thin, but the rapid delivery and natural progression made it all feel fresh. There are visual gags aplenty around the lead males wearing drag, yes, however for the most part, the comedy is drawn from the broader absurdity of the whole scenario; it never looks down upon the idea, only the characters themselves for somehow reaching the point where this seemed the best course of action. (Or, at least, *I* think so. The concept of two men getting married is treated as obviously ridiculous, but in 1929/'59, it was. Also, Jerry's genuine excitement at the prospect of being engaged was a subversion I was not expecting for a studio movie from the '50s. I'm not nearly qualified enough to take this analysis any further, though, and I'm sure those who are have made far better, in-depth reappraisals of this aspect. Go read those. I know nothing.)
The apparent freshness is at least partly due to a wonderful cast. Jack Lemmon is endlessly expressive, charming to a fault; Monroe and Tony Curtis are flawless too, exchanging dialogue as if they were coming up with it on-the-spot. Wilder's script is consistently witty, every punchline a cue for another. The hokey elements are delivered with such grace that they feel natural, helped by the heightened tone. Setups are executed wonderfully: see, for example, the use of Osgood, seemingly introduced for a throwaway bit where both "women" are advanced upon at the same time. (Acknowledgement of sexual harassment? In 1959? Gasp!) And, indeed, the porter who approaches "Josephine" serves exactly that role, occasionally reappearing as part of a running gag. But, Osgood is not one to give up, and his casual mention of owning a yacht had me grinning ear-to-ear at how precisely Wilder had put his pieces into place. (Joe E. Brown, incidentally, is also stellar in his role, and not nearly mentioned enough for being a vital side-character.) This is also shot far better than it had any right to be - see the wide of the pair escaping their flat, hidden by shadows, then later failing to conceal themselves coming down the window at the back of the gangster's room. A stark set of transitions between the two couples, one on a yacht, the other tangoing, generates laughs through blatant contrast. Generally I jot down brief notes while watching to remember what I want to mention, but not here: the greatness of Some Like It Hot is so apparent in its every scene that it was hard to reduce to specifics. From the first shot I was hooked, and spent the entire runtime just enjoying the experience. I feel confident in saying that everything after they arrive in Florida (so, the last hour-and-fifteen-minutes) is absolutely perfect; wouldn't change a thing. One of the best final lines in any film, ever.
Platoon (1986)
Platoon
Fundamentally worsened by the context of its specific sub-genre, one awfully oversaturated by unanimous masterpieces, all released at around the same time: The Deer Hunter (1978), Apocalypse Now (1979), and Full Metal Jacket (1987 - famously shafted at the Oscars for being released the year after this very film). As a result, if I wished to see a character drama on the prevailing effects of war in veterans' daily lives, I would consult the first film in that list. If I wanted a masterfully cinematic depiction of the war itself, I would watch the second. And if I were looking for a satirical portrayal of war's effect on an individual's psyche, I would seek out the third. All this to say that Platoon may be a worthy fourth-head on this hypothetical Mount Rushmore of Vietnam-war movies, but it still accomplishes little that the others didn't already do better. This covers all-too-familiar territory, with concepts such as masculinity, dehumanisation, class/race divisions, sexual depravity, layers of morality, the duality of man, et cetera, et cetera. What it does do differently is offer an on-the-ground perspective, as much of the runtime is dedicated to combat scenes; that being, incidentally, the aspect I find least interesting about war films. (Except when done to the highest degree, i.e. Saving Private Ryan.) Thus, despite the execution being mostly excellent - particularly struck by the visuals: gorgeously saturated colours which contrast well (green/red), plus some first-person shots or people talking directly to the camera also used effectively, and just generally well-framed and cut together - my engagement was relatively hindered. These characters are too one-note to maintain interest in their dynamics; this may be intentional to mirror the homogeny of a soldier's war experience, but the final result is unappealing from a narrative perspective. A general lack of subtlety altogether (again, many times purposely so, yet it was still bothersome): the first scene shows our protagonists walking off a plane, entering Vietnam for the first time. A body bag happens to be carried past them as one says, "Is that what I think it is?" A higher-up responds, "Welcome to 'Nam," and then (as if we didn't get it yet) another squad walk past, evidently having recently come back from the field, warning them to be scared and that they are not ready. Much of the film is like this, blunt and unforgiving - effective when depicting battle (the scene in a local village borders on too brutal, threats of rape and child murder et al) but not so much on a thematic level (the VO narration is perfunctory at best, pandering and counterproductive at worst). It is an apparently theatrical production, exemplified by its most famous sequence: Dafoe being shot down in slow-motion, on his knees trying to crawl away, overbearing strings playing overtop. Last thing to mention is the performances, as Charlie Sheen is an unexpected choice for the lead role, especially when viewed through today's lens. He is adequate enough that I bought his character arc, though often maintains the same expression throughout, and rarely projects the supposed inner turmoil in a meaningful way. Some awkward line delivery from everyone, and at least one instance of horrifically obvious ADR. Berenger initially off-put me, but by the halfway point I was convinced he was perfect casting. I love Willem Dafoe in everything that he's in, and this is no exception. That's about it.
Great Expectations (1946)
Great Expectations
Possibly the most lauded rendering of Dickens on screen; indeed, there is little to find fault with here in Lean's direction, which captures Victorian England beautifully in all its disgust and disparity. Light and shadow are masterfully utilised, with the opening churchyard scene, and those in Miss Havisham's house, bordering on horror. The editing is graciously rhythmic, capturing the broad strokes of the novel in under two hours. Perhaps one could take issue in the casting choices for adult Pip and Estella, the former of which is too old, the latter too plain. (The child actors, on the other hand, are quite good.) Beyond that, this is a superlative adaptation. All the more shame, then, that the source material is among Dickens' weakest. I have few memories of studying the book in school, though I recall thinking even then that it was hardly captivating. (We watched the 2012 film version in class, too, and that particularly struck me as dire.) Great Expectations is overwhelmingly plot-driven, and as a result the movie cannot help but come across as terribly bookish, struggling to even fit in all the major beats, much less deliver them naturally. In the first 45 minutes alone we are introduced to Pip, see his encounter with Magwitch, who then seemingly disappears, unceremoniously meet Miss Havisham and Estella, watch Pip spend a bit of time with them, but not long before his sister dies off-screen and is replaced by Biddy, both of whom serve zero function narratively, then he suddenly comes into fortune and travels to London, after a quick goodbye. Whew. The whole story is like this, scenes following one another in disjoint fashion, even relying upon occasional voiceover narration to render Pip's inner monologue and Dickens' prose in filmic shorthand. The problem, then, is adapting the plot, one which is overly contrived and twisty, melodramatic and unsubtle. Try as it may, the film cannot help that. And try as I may, I cannot buy a story about a jilted bride so vindictive that she seeks to exact revenge upon all men through her protégée, a girl who just so happens to be the presumed-lost daughter of a transported convict, a man who decides to gift hugely generous sums of money to someone who, as a child, once showed a small bit of generosity to him when on the run from authorities, that same child now grown up and in love with the convict's daughter, assuming the money is coming from the ex-bride since she looked after both of them as children, and since the attorney acting as his guardian happened to be a lawyer for both the presumed donor and the real donor. Even as a high drama, that is awfully convenient. It even skips the part in the novel where the convict's arch-enemy is revealed to be the ex-groom! (Also, Havisham's death: not great. A radical character change and laughable comeuppance(?) all in a single, small moment.) Not sure what to draw from this in terms of subtext past the obvious and pandering class commentary. Lean's adaptation of Oliver Twist will remain superior in my mind simply due to the better material he's working with: helps that he also improved the third act to such a degree that his version is almost considered canon now. Nothing here quite as stunning as Twist's wordless prologue, either.
Katok i skripka (1961)
The Steamroller and the Violin
Tarkovsky-lite: contains his stylistic and philosophical hallmarks without the typically grand scope. For a student film, this certainly shows preternatural confidence in direction, and a mastery over the camera which would prevail throughout all his work - simple conversations are framed and lit in creative ways to hold viewer's attention, and the streets of Moscow are beautifully captured through shots of puddles, broken glass, and dilapidated buildings. As for the screenplay, this is a simple tale of an unlikely friendship, performed naturally and with dialogue that never gets too weighty despite its subject matter. Essentially a filmed portrayal of the "boots or Pushkin" debate; interesting that the title refers to the tools of both characters rather than the wielders themselves, as if that were what defines them. Hardly digs deep into ideas around class divisions and the value of art, though it achieves more than enough in a mere 46 minutes. A wonderful ending signifies only the beginning of an illustrious filmography.
Escape from Alcatraz (1979)
Escape from Alcatraz
Ever seen The Shawshank Redemption? How about The Great Escape? (Forgive the achronology, but the point holds for both its influences and those influenced by.) If so - and that's more than likely - you have nothing new to experience watching Escape from Alcatraz. All the prison-movie stereotypes are here, whether in the characters (a newly-convicted protagonist used to introduce: the sexual predator, the wise librarian, the innocent old fella (with a pet rat), the respected veteran (with special privileges that will inevitably be taken away), the naïve new kid, the sadistic guard, the hubristic warden, et al) or in the action (planning the impossible escape, barely avoiding capture by the guards, a beloved inmate dying along the way, another failing to see the escape through, even people dropping dust out of their pockets during yard-time). Not that retelling a familiar story is inherently a bad thing, but when the execution is this lethargic, it begins to feel rote and grows wearisome to watch. Everything is so drawn out as to negate any possibility for sustained tension; see, for example, when Frank requests a dime in order to weld some metal for his digging tool. We watch the prisoners sequentially pass the coin down the row, hand to hand, until one accidentally drops it. Barely a beat passes before it is picked up, however, and the dime makes its way to the destination untouched. So why the lengthy build if there's no payoff? It's a small scene, really, but indicative of a broader problem I have with the film: there are too few attempts at suspense, and those that are present are too obvious or contrived. When the guard goes to check on Frank sleeping, we fully expect the timely switch-out from the fake head to his actual self (even though the papier-mâché is so poor that viewers can spot some trickery going on quite easily) - there is not a single moment of genuine surprise. What is left, then, is the main narrative thrust, set more on the logistics of the escape than the characters themselves. This makes for very dry viewing; Escape from Alcatraz resembles Prison Break more than the above films due to how much it focuses on the plan itself, and thus how little we actually care for the fate of our "heroes". Yet, the extent of detail given is contradicted by the inherently outlandish and unrealistic plot. (Yes, based on a true story, blah blah blah - as presented in the film, with its grounded tone, this story makes no sense. They would have been caught. Can't have it both ways; just make the plan ridiculous and intricate for entertainment purposes. It's a movie, you can do that!)
The cinematography is capable but plain, as are the sets - this is likely purposeful (Alcatraz ain't a colourful place), however it only adds to the lack of things to latch on to. Even the music is sparse to the point of being absent. There is some vague racial commentary to be found here, I suppose, but that is also wafer-thin. Clint Eastwood is the main draw, channelling his Man With No Name persona almost completely: taciturn and solitary, with a gruff and opaque exterior, except the film around him is so free from fun characterisation that this personality appears more boring than mysterious. Just a slow and dry film all around, exemplified by the ending - hits the perfect note as the Warden sees the chrysanthemum, acknowledges its significance before crushing it and proclaiming they must have drowned, then pan up to the horizon and we are left to decide if they truly escaped or not. No, never mind, as the obligatory closing text comes up only to communicate the same thing explicitly. An awkward conclusion, especially since the "true story" element was completely irrelevant otherwise. For something this well-acted and choreographed, this is remarkably boring.
About Time (2013)
About Time
Ok, so I can accept that the time-travel mechanics are nonsensical and purposely left unexplained beyond the basic premise. (Still insufficient to stop me from spending the whole two-hour runtime considering the inevitable paradoxes and contradictions that arise from the half-baked concept.) Fine. Back to the Future is a great movie with similarly inconsistent rules which we ignore because, well, it's fun. What I struggle to go along with is the inherent sexism of the script, which conveniently allows our male lead (and only him) to jump back-and-forth through time, utilising past memories exclusive to him, so that he can have a tonne of sex with Rachel McAdams, basically. Yes, that's the point, as he learns to live each day by its own merits and to not abuse his powers, and he's supposedly a "nice guy" - except, not really, as he still retains the experiences they shared all to himself, and he still uses his god-gifted abilities carelessly, even if sparingly, and he still seems perfectly comfortable that their relationship is founded on a lie, one that he still neglects to share with her: there is no meaningful character development here. For a useful comparison, consider Groundhog Day - Phil is clearly portrayed as an asshole who would use sudden omniscience to pick up women without second thought. However, by the end, his powers are taken away as he finds what is most important in life. In other words, he changes. Obviously he also possesses a lot of knowledge only privy to himself, and shows little remorse for how they have ended up together, but this is a lesser sin due to the film's lighter tone; About Time might fall into the same camp had it not been so smugly proud of itself, lacking almost completely any sense of humour and thus making the "heartwarming" elements feel frankly pretentious. Little is delved into regarding the sci-fi premise, beyond making obvious and tiring jokes: he goofs up in an awkward and humiliating way the first time, so let's watch him try again! Two attempts were made to explore this concept in any depth, both making for the best moments in the film - (1) the baby switch, which is simultaneously crushing and reinforces the major themes (viz. You can't save everyone, and that every tiny, singular choice we make can have colossal repercussions on our lives and who we are today); (2) the final talk with his dad. This latter point is the sole potent scene to be found here, and the father-son aspect in general is the only worthwhile plot-line (thanks in large part to Bill Nighy being effortlessly charming in his every role). Still, I was hardly weeping, and the rest of the movie was fairly enervating to sit through. I realise that Curtis' smothering sentimentality is not at all for me, but would it have hurt him to make any of the females more than a blank canvas? ("Liking Kate Moss" is not a character, Richard.) Might have helped sell me on the supposedly-emotional romantic angle, which is to say nothing of Kitty's arc in the film: that was downright embarrassing. Oh, terrible music, too. Some okay performances I suppose. Nighy saves the day once again!
Punch-Drunk Love (2002)
Punch-Drunk Love
Frequently canonised as one of Sandler's few "good movies". (Alongside Uncut Gems and, uh, maybe The Meyerowitz Stories? Is that it?) It's certainly the best performance I've seen from him; perhaps a little two-note, between nervous and violent, but this exactly suits his bipolar personality. Many aspects of the film, the lead character in particular, are distinctly Kaufman-esque. (Charlie, that is.) His crippling social anxiety, his pathetic awkwardness around others, and his overwhelming self-loathing form the basis for all interactions here. Beyond that, the frequent absurdism echoes the surrealism of Kaufman's work, with seemingly looping corridors of never-ending exit signs in Lena's flat, a sudden kidnapping leading to a bizarre chase, and sporadic but serious accidents occurring inconsequentially to Barry, only adding to the chaos of his world. Loved all the little quirks and tics that show his anxieties: the long, painful oner that captures him frantically pacing around the room, sitting down then getting up from his chair, picking at and fiddling with random household objects, all while nervously "chatting" to the phone-sex worker; or the way he walks half a pace ahead of Lena after embarrassing himself in the restaurant; or his half-hearted sprint out the airport, before slowing to a walk due to self-consciousness, then back to a sprint once he realises he doesn't care; here is a man so unique that we believe he would collect and horde thousands of coupons for airline miles from the backs of pudding containers, despite scarcely being able to leave his own home.
Shot gorgeously, to be expected at this stage from PTA, with a striking but elegant blue-and-red colour scheme. (Also note the lovely touches of vibrant colour for certain transitions.) Jon Brion delivers a wonderful score as always, constantly reinforcing the manic paranoia of Barry's mind; this borders on obtrusive at times, though only in a few instances when playing over dialogue. The script is an odd balance between Sandler's relationship with Emily Watson (who is obviously great, albeit a little underwritten) and him trying to avoid the wrath of Philip Seymour Hoffman's mattress-kingdom-slash-phone-sex business. The first plot-line is nearly flawless in execution, save for their Hawaii meet-up which, while providing the most emotionally satisfying moment in their silhouetted embrace, is perhaps too typically romantic for the nature of the story. (That is, keep the dramatic kiss, but don't let them have sex. We do get some funny-awkward dialogue as Sandler tries and fails at foreplay, though, so it's not totally out of place.) The latter story is straight out The Big Lebowski, which is to say a little odd, and the tension is often undercut by the film's generally comical tone, but it is reasonably well-presented, all things considered. Even with the occasional random-for-random's-sake plot beat, both sides conclude perfectly: an utter non-confrontation between Hoffman and Sandler, and a suitably meandering apology from Sandler to Watson.
Far more than a rom-com, this is a beautifully scored and shot film, and an often funny one, about living with severe anxiety: "I don't know if there is anything wrong because I don't know how other people are."
They Shall Not Grow Old (2018)
They Shall Not Grow Old
A towering achievement in sound design: the painstaking detail and craft required to render this raw footage audible, including sounds of boots, gunfire, and the soldiers themselves, is unimaginable. The colourisation itself never stops being uncanny, perhaps less stunning than intended when displayed on my television screen, and the cropped aspect ratio is sometimes noticeably obfuscating. This is not at all radical in form, but executed in a very effective manner - to take small snippets of countless soldiers' stories, and edit them together to create a fairly cohesive narrative of the experience of each individual soldier, is quite the accomplishment. Ends up too impersonal at times as a result, though. (See e.g a faceless voice, sobbing over killing a man to end his suffering, being immediately buried in the mix of hundreds of other memories; emphasises the ubiquity of the horrors seen at war, sure, but loses an emotional resonance nonetheless when no single veteran is given more than a few sentences at a time.) The structure makes the absence of genuine battle footage all the more felt, as the switch to artists' renditions of the fighting can only be anticlimactic after the lengthy buildup. More of a curiosity than a rousing document in my view, as the first-hand accounts of the war are always fascinating but gradually become droning; its significance as an historical artefact and tribute to millions of innocent lives, on the other hand, cannot be understated.
The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992)
The Muppet Christmas Carol
A Christmas Carol is a surprisingly difficult book to adapt on screen. Its story is familiar to all, making it hard to deliver in a fresh way. The structure is fairly repetitive, too, and Scrooge's character arc always comes across as too swift or unearned. Rendering the fairytale imagery of Dickens' language proves to be a challenge visually, and the subtext is too inherently blatant to be expressed creatively. So, why not make it a musical featuring the Muppets? Certainly an inspired choice, and while this version suffers from the above pitfalls of every adaptation, it reigns supreme amongst all other Christmas Carol films precisely due to its uniqueness. The Muppets add some necessary levity - no one could take this overdone story seriously by this stage anyway - and the absurdism of the concept alone holds interest throughout the welcomingly short runtime. Michael Caine's performance is the counter-balance here, being oddly genuine (and quite good indeed). The songs add next to little, though even the weaker tracks are charming and easily watchable. Goes without saying that all the puppetry and voice acting is stellar, with the sets also standing out as lovingly crafted. Largely does away with Dickens' social message, the extent of its presence being two mentions of "workhouses" and the sympathy built for Cratchit's family. Feels rushed at times, as though it were struggling to fit in all the essential beats of the novella; end of the Christmas Yet to Come section in particular gave a reaction of "Oh, that's it then." Following sequence of Scrooge as a philanthropist is a joy to watch, however, and as a whole the film is too short and heartwarming to take any major issue with it. Doesn't exactly work as a Muppet movie or a Christmas Carol movie, yet I can't deny I was smiling throughout. (Except upon seeing the Ghost of Christmas Past - that's solid nightmare fuel.)
Phantom Thread (2017)
Phantom Thread
Third viewing. Just as magical as last time; I am now convinced more than ever that this film demands a second watch. So low-key and seemingly weightless (by virtue of the flawlessly restrained drama) that its brilliance almost passed me by the first time around - spellbinding as it is, the climax is "just" Daniel Day-Lewis silently eating an omelette, with few moments less understated than that; the one time there is a brief altercation and shouting, it is immediately ignored for all scenes thereafter. The tension remains simmering on the surface throughout, such that Alma loudly biting down on a piece of toast is considered nothing short of a resounding statement. Above all, the final reveal re-contextualises all preceding events, making viewings after the first distinct in the knowledge that Reynolds is willingly submissive (an accepting - or knowing? - smile when he is tucked away for the first time especially stuck out). Initially appears to be a Vertigo-esque story of an obsessive dressmaker shaping women to his precise wants, which *it is*, but gradually morphs into a far more complex dynamic involving the same man's masochistic, Oedipal desire to be cared for and ultimately controlled by the women in his life. (More broadly serving as a metaphor for our willingness to change and compromise for love.) Cyril fills this role better than any partner could, or at least until Alma appears and takes over, the exchange of power seen when both women answer simultaneously to the doctor's questions directed at "Mrs. Woodcock" (also note the double entendre in the name, present elsewhere too - e.g. "I really must insist that you come"). Loads of details to pick up on that show this relationship, particularly in staging: the dress slowly disappearing off screen in the proposal scene as Reynolds' focus shifts to Alma, the marriage itself subtly placing Alma slightly more central in the frame, the next shot showing Cyril directly in between the couple. Goes without saying that the performances are excellent across the board, as is the period-appropriate cinematography, costuming and set design. Sounds gorgeous, too: Jonny Greenwood's score deserves all the praise in the world for how perfectly it encapsulates the tone of every scene, but also the sound design more than earns a nod for its importance (think of the breakfast scenes). Not a moment wasted; spectacular from start to finish.
The Green Knight (2021)
The Green Knight
One of those films where you leave the theatre with countless feelings, none quite yet clear enough to put into coherent sentences, and as such a second viewing feels essential - if The Green Knight did anything right, it is surely the case that it will pervade my thoughts for a while. Thematically breathless: a deconstruction of the hero's journey and storytelling itself, exemplified by the stunning final sequence; yet equally a mythologised commemoration of chivalry, honour and bravery; but, further still, also a revisionist reading of the inherent misogyny in Arthurian legend, framed through various sexual encounters and our hero's figurative impotence; beyond all that, a rumination on the inevitability of death and the constant weight felt under that knowledge. This admirable breadth is both its greatest strength and biggest downfall - the film is about all of these topics and many more (there are sure to be numerous analyses made dissecting every frame in a vain hope for some unifying subtext), but as a result feels as though it isn't really saying anything. It's all so disjointed, left vague to the perfect degree yet still inexplicably unsatisfying. On paper it has all the right elements - whilst watching, however, I am entirely disinterested. The stanza-like structure is initially compelling but becomes stagnant and repetitive, with the gradual declination into surrealism only muddying things further. Several odd editing choices as well. Often appealing visually, if mostly vapid in its overly familiar A24-gothic-horror aesthetic, a grossly desaturated colour palette being the worst offender. Shows brilliance in small bursts; the lengthy, wordless montage to finish is spectacular, with the actual ending hitting the right note to leave viewers with plenty to chew on. Performances were solid across the board, Patel himself communicating a lot throughout solely by his facial expressions. Loved the music, too. This review has ended up as incoherent as the film itself; hopefully a second watch will clarify my thoughts and whether or not the disorderly themes match the uneven plotting. For now, I can say that there are many interesting patches, but nothing quite unifying it all.
The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun (2021)
The French Dispatch
At some point I would love to read (or write, but it would be more preferable to leave it to those more informed than I; namely, anyone else) an essay on the phenomenon of artistic self-parody - likely observable in most forms, but particularly present within film. Regularly do auteurs reach a point of such notoriety and acclaim that they resort to attempting to recapture their earlier work, shaping their newer projects to suit the public or critical perception of what their films "should" be. The result is often an ungainly amalgam of all the artist's trademarks, overtly portentous in its conceit as some sort of magnum opus. The examples are numerous: Lynch's Inland Empire, Tarkovsky's Nostalghia, even Nolan's Tenet. Wes Anderson has reached this inevitable step with his latest, The French Dispatch. As such, viewers are likely to be polarised between smitten awe at his generous display of stylistic idiosyncrasies (black-and-white, colour, animation, changing aspect ratios, dynamic camerawork, perfectly symmetrical staging, aggressively witty dialogue, et al), or utterly disenfranchised at the sight of this mechanical recitation of his defining tropes. I fall largely into the former category, albeit occasionally off-put by the usual issues that come with anthology films (viz. Superior segments highlighting weaknesses of others, lack of overarching purpose, difficulty to establish an emotional through-line, etc.; though many of these don't apply here, or at least not entirely, and the palpable craft and detail on display won me over on second viewing just as effectively as the first.) All this to say that The French Dispatch is Wes Anderson doing Wes Anderson, a wonderful thing if one is a fan of Wes Anderson. The fact that I struggle to pick a favourite segment is a positive sign (perhaps the first story, if only for my deep love of Tilda Swinton), and the entire runtime is just gorgeous shot after gorgeous shot, the cast listing overflowing with star talent, the score delightful throughout, the dialogue suitably charming, and pacing frantic enough that repeat watches allow for new jokes to be uncovered. Wall-to-wall with references, most of which I did not get as someone unfamiliar with the French New Wave, yet I can't help but smile even when it is clear he is writing well over my head. Perhaps lacks the sentimental counter-balance of e.g. Fantastic Mr. Fox (for the most part; each section ends with a moment that affected me in some respect - the longing final look between an artist and his muse, the elegy for a young rebel and his naïve cause, the reflections of a chef after tasting poison, and the last scene) but still a blast from start to finish. Currently my film of the year.
Dune (2021)
Dune
After directing two magnificent sci-fi films in a row (Arrival and Blade Runner 2049), Denis Villeneuve has tried his hand at adapting Frank Herbert's celebrated novel Dune, featuring music by Hans Zimmer and an all-star cast. Given the immense amount of talent poured into this project, then, the final result can only be considered underwhelming. Despite the rich philosophy and patient storytelling of his previous two works, Villeneuve's latest renders Herbert's political and religious allegory thin, discarding any substantive subtext in favour of an action blockbuster; what is left is strictly spectacle. Characters are given minimal development or, in many cases, zero defining attributes that set them apart from any other member of the never-ending list of names. That Villeneuve is deeply enamoured with the source material is always apparent, often to its detriment - I struggle to imagine how confused someone might be who had no previous knowledge of Herbert's creation. It is never made clear why the audience should care about the events on screen, in lieu of a discernible protagonist to identify with, or what the relevance of the numerous expository narration sequences are; the viewer is bombarded by fictional terms to the point of being overwhelmed. Indeed, I fear the brief moments of emotional attachment I felt while watching was solely the result of my fondness for the novel. The film is loyal to a fault, yet parses multiple scenes that might have added to the characters which so sorely lack any depth. Yueh is barely granted five minutes of screen time before his betrayal, making the supposed reveal utterly meaningless. The whole affair feels rather thrown together: scenes follow one another in disjointed fashion, with a profound absence of any forward momentum. The film feels as though it were about to end several times, making the eventual conclusion comparatively random and sudden. Dune is not exactly a novel of two parts - though stopping just after Leto is murdered would perhaps have been more natural - and this is apparent in the adaptation. Zimmer's score regularly employs one of my least favourite types of movie music, that being discordant choral sounds and/or tribal chanting (think of Wonder Woman's theme in Zack Snyder's Justice League, or the *climax* in Munich - bleh). Obviously not all bad, as the cinematography and VFX work stand out as stellar; too often, however, the landscapes are unappealingly monochromatic, generally a dull grey or sandy orange. Deakins' absence is felt - Blade Runner 2049, this is not. Runtime mostly glides by, and there are some adequate performances. Just can't help feeling that this is merely a two-and-a-half hour prologue to the real story that is teased throughout in premonitions, a second part which hopefully will feature character arcs and actual substance beyond the action and effects. Here's hoping.
Old (2021)
Old
One of M. Night's most accomplished films visually, even if the shots are mostly vacuous and made irrelevant by the stupidity of the script. The dialogue here is atrocious, whether laughably on-the-nose ("I can't wait to hear it when you're older") or just blatantly unnatural ("I'm sorry you were on this beach, but this is my family." "I'm not a forensic pathologist, but..." "I curate exhibits for museums. I'm telling you this because I want you to trust me..." "No, I don't know, man. Maybe it was butterfly stroke. I don't watch the Summer Olympics like that." "The dog has died!" / "Oh, my God. He was only just alive." and so forth). Given the material, the uniformly awful performances are hard to blame on the actors, though there are still some stand-outs, Vicky Krieps (Phantom Thread) in particular being surprisingly terrible. All the setups are painfully obvious: the free cocktails, the seizure, "You don't want to be hunched when you grow up", the entire opening scene and its constant references to the future and ageing; the payoffs are not much better. Any attempts at horror are ruined by the confused tone, in that the comically bad elements diminish the possibility of sustained tension. Occasionally a psychological horror is tapped into, with the premise naturally providing ample opportunity to consider themes of growing old, health, experiences and memories, but these ideas are presented clumsily, and any success is retroactively neutered by a final twist that serves no purpose other than to surprise the audience (which, of course it does, as who could see something so illogical coming?). In fact, its inclusion takes away from the previous hour-and-a-half, by reframing the narrative to be about *spoiler* rather than the concept of people ageing while stuck in time, gradually dying without the chance to ever live. Hard to understate how idiotic the final fifteen minutes are - this makes for an exemplary case as to why a twist is not inherently compelling. Luckily the main movie is too weak to be at all "ruined" by its ending, already suffering from stilted dialogue, poor performances, nonsensical plot-beats, and lame body horror regardless. Shyamalan films the heck out of that beach, though.
College (1927)
College
So far my least favourite Buster Keaton feature - "Spite Marriage" is all that is left to claim that title - and, paradoxically, it is clearer than ever to me that the man could do no wrong. His mere presence alone makes for a pleasant experience, with many lukewarm gags gaining mileage from his candid delivery. Still, no doubt either that this is his least impressive comedic outing, closely followed by "Go West". Majority of the setups can be surmised as "watch someone perform an action well, then see just how awfully Buster can mess it up." This becomes especially repetitive during the track-and-field showcase, where obvious takes on this premise are made, generating little more than a smile - one student runs the hurdles (is that how you say it?), so naturally Keaton tries it and knocks them all over. Yet, as stated before, his delivery elevates the material; Buster not noticing his failing until successfully passing over the last hurdle, then dejectedly laying it down like the rest of them, works as a satisfactory punchline. (Some suspension of disbelief is also required in these scenes, e.g. When he struggles to lift a shot-put, as his outfit makes clear that the man is more athletic than any other actor in the film.) Off to a mediocre start.
And then Keaton does blackface. Yeah... unfortunate, to say the least. Made all the more jarring by Buster himself donning the makeup, comparing to instances where other actors do it in the rest of his films. In all fairness - and this is by no means condoning its inclusion, let me be clear, it is still blatantly racist - his character is depicted as the idiot in this scenario, rightfully being ran out of the building (with knives, no less) once revealed. This, in my mind, makes it distinct from most other examples where the offensive portrayal is, in the movie's universe, meant to be considered a "real" black person. The idea is, I suppose, that audiences are meant to laugh at the character's stupidity, rather than at some minstrel show of gross stereotypes (although there is some of that). Still, any of these "jokes" where the "humour" is solely derived from an inherently hateful sentiment completely ruins any potential comedy, and takes the modern viewer out of the film entirely. A product of its time, yes, but nevertheless unnecessary and contradictory to its timelessness otherwise. Chaplin never did blackface (that I know of); must be an American thing.
*That scene* aside, the conclusion here is fairly thrilling. Despite some manufactured tension ("if we don't win this one rowing match, the sport will be indefinitely suspended from the school's programme"), the boat race is a fine replacement for a usual chase finale. The following sequence, a payoff from earlier in that Buster showcases prowess in every athletics discipline he previously failed at, is pretty sublime. This is brought about by a rather contrived event, though, and one which displays the unwitting sexism of the period: if some creep locks himself in a girl's dorm room, *she's* the one who gets expelled. After that is a bizarre ending in which we see a brief montage of the happy couple living out the rest of their lives together, the final shot being of their graves. Not much material here that's all that special - or even serviceable, for the most part - and any successful scenes are almost solely to the credit of Buster Keaton's talents. His weakest flick, but still an enjoyable watch.
Top Hat (1935)
Top Hat
Narratives centred around a persistent misunderstanding between characters have always been among my least favourite; the classic musical "Top Hat" is no exception - quite the contrary, in fact, as the precisely vague dialogue and exact plotting here, such that the miscommunication gradually exacerbates, is patently frustrating and tiring. The stars are not particularly charming (Alberto and Bates being the worst offenders), their interactions hardly witty - despite its screwball aesthetic, this scarcely produces a chuckle. (The film's sexual politics are too backwards for it to qualify as a screwball regardless, comparing to e.g. Hawks' "Bringing Up Baby" from three years later.) This is worsened by Fred Astaire's smug performance, his delivery seeming to suggest that every quip is a punchline. Ginger Rogers, on the other hand, is consistently splendid. Her scenes with Astaire are obviously the main draw, when the plot is sidelined, the camera stationary in an all-encompassing wide shot, and the viewer is treated to some song-and-dance. The co-stars display natural chemistry in the "caught in the rain" scene, incorporating their unfamiliarity with each other into the choreography. Astaire shines on the title track, performing a memorable tap-dance number where he mimics the sound of gunfire. "Cheek to Cheek" is possibly the highlight; even a philistine like myself can appreciate the elegant movements of the couple. Frankly, the songs themselves are not noteworthy, often resembling muzak (perhaps that is harsh). "The Piccolino" is especially mediocre as a finale, though once it moves to a larger ensemble this hardly matters, as the editing, cinematography and choreography are all pitch-perfect. These magical sequences just about make up for the lacklustre script, though taken as a whole the film fails to live up to its widespread acclaim.
The Wizard of Oz (1939)
The Wizard of Oz
There are certain films that are so ubiquitous, widely seen, acclaimed, influential, parodied, and deeply ingrained within popular culture that one feels a bit silly writing a "proper" review several decades after the fact. The Wizard of Oz is one of those films. In fact, it is likely the prime example, being possibly the most famous movie ever made: "Somewhere over the rainbow", "We're not in Kansas anymore!", the Wicked Witch of the West, munchkins, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!", "Ding dong, the witch is dead!", the yellow brick road, "We're off to see the wizard", "There's no place like home" - it's all so iconic, all the way up to the "it was all a dream" ending, which remains perfect ("And you were there!"). And yet, the consciously grand reveal of the vivid colours of Oz is *still* simply magical. Crazy to think that Victor Fleming directed this and "Gone with the Wind", two of Hollywood's most celebrated classics, in the *same year*. Judy Garland here gives one of the great child performances in screen history (she was 16). Notwithstanding some banal musical numbers and annoying "comedy", this holds up as well as any film from 1939. As discussed above, I won't bore you with evaluating Oz as a charlatan and symbol of capitalist greed, giving the heroes hollow recognitions of attributes they already possess; or explaining the obvious farmer/industrialist/politician allegory, or how the return to sepia suggests a bittersweet ending, because you've heard it all before and, honestly, who cares. The idea is to instill a little childlike wonder in the viewer, and remind us that there's no place like home - that, it does. So yeah, it's good, but you know that already since you've seen it. If you haven't, go watch it. That is all.
I Walked with a Zombie (1943)
I Walked with a Zombie
What a bizarrely interesting film. Could there be a more misleadingly goofy title than "I Walked With a Zombie"? (Add this to "Titles Which Spoil the Movie", along with A Man Escaped, The Death of Mr. Lazarescu, Kill Bill, etc.) Yet, there is so much ground covered here: a retelling of Jane Eyre within a colonialist setting, the impact of slavery still felt, including familial breakups and marital infidelity, moral questions around medical treatment, religious conflict and fears of the unknown - all in a brisk 68 minutes. (It's a shame that studio pictures are obligated to run on for at least two hours now, for the most part, as many of these early productions show how much can be accomplished in half that time, not a minute wasted.) Tourneur is once again masterful in his use of lighting and sound; in several stretches music is completely absent, a marked difference from most other heavily-scored films from the time period, and in all other moments the usual orchestration is discarded for diegetic tribal drums and conches. Is it racist? Perhaps, yes. Unfortunately stereotypical depictions of witch doctors and voodoo, with the otherness of the culture and people often used for the purposes of fear (at one point they are even called "primitive"). However, this can be argued to be from the vantage of the characters, living on a sugar plantation and generally dismissive of the non-white population - as it turns out, many of them secretly believe in the possibilities of voodoo, and it is revealed to have power by the end in its effects on Jessica. The film surprisingly mentions the long-lasting effects of the slave trade, and does not present the Caribbean island as some paradise that they were lucky to be brought to. In a time when blackface could still be gotten away with, I Walked With a Zombie includes many people of colour and at least attempts to make some depiction of their culture - clearly stereotypical and offensive by today's standards, but borderline progressive for a 1943 studio movie. (Is that a stretch?) Voiceover narration felt slightly thrown-in, the biggest offender being Betsy explaining her love for Paul and that motivating her to cure Jessica (which is all shown later), though far from the worst example from this era. Gorgeous black-and-white photography, genuine horror built from mood and atmosphere, and a rich screenplay to boot. Again, in just over an hour. A fascinating little masterpiece.
The Curse of the Cat People (1944)
The Curse of the Cat People
A film doomed from the start, really - best viewed as separate from its predecessor, yet it relies too heavily upon the success of Cat People, such that the two approaches conflict and never quite coalesce. Any attempts at horror feel halfhearted at best, and inevitably weaker than the original due to the absence of Tourneur; Robert Wise's ("The Sound of Music", "West Side Story") directing is comparatively flat. More compelling are the themes: Oliver's grief over Irena necessitating a little normalcy, clashing with Amy's fantasies, which she uses to find company with the equally lonely ghost of Irena. However, the dialogue and general delivery of these concepts is so stilted and blatant that it renders any subtext... well, just text. Never quite ties these ideas to the mother/daughter relationship in the Farren house, which seems to only be included to add glimpses of horror - one fairly lame (the headless horseman), another admittedly effective in a vacuum (the suggested strangling of a child!). Some unintentionally funny moments early on, too: the comically aggressive slap sound when Amy gently places her hand on another child's cheek, and an amazing interaction - "Hello, Jack!" / "Nah!" (runs off). Shamelessly sweet ending hits the right note, though, even with Ollie's jarring transition from complete jerk to caring father. If Wise were given the reins to make something similar to this, without being held back by obligations of being the follow-up to a beloved classic, the final product may have been fairly decent. What we got was not bad by completely-unnecessary-sequel standards, but still a mere blip in comparison to the original.
Cat People (1942)
Cat People
Slightly worried going in that this would be a schlocky B-horror about human-cat hybrids. As it turns out, not really. More so a psychosexual noir with some delightful suspense elements thrown in for good measure; Irena serves as a symbol of women's sexual repression, anxious about the smallest embrace, playing off prejudicial fears of foreign religions (her accent is comically dissimilar to Serbian). Oliver represents men's struggle to comprehend love without sex, eventually resorting to infidelity, while Dr. Judd has the opposite approach and takes advantage of Irena's chastity (i.e playing into historical/religious fascination with virginal women). Always interesting to see how directors in the past could communicate these ideas without being explicit (see also: Notorious). Beyond that, a brilliantly executed exercise in suspense; the music-less park chase and swimming pool scene are rightfully praised as masterful examples of economical horror. A noir in the truest sense: lighting - or, more often, the absence of it - is used here to its fullest potential. Can't quite hold this up as a masterpiece though, due to one-dimensional characters (psychiatrist is only there to dump exposition, lead male is *incredibly* boring), dialogue which gets a little too goofy for my taste ("Looks like a cat", "A cat just walked over my grave", etc.; a lot of other great lines though), and a somewhat mediocre finale (likely couldn't have ended any other way, but still). Pretty spot-on aside from that, however - at only 70 minutes, this races by.
Tommy (1975)
Tommy
I suppose I should open, as a sort of disclaimer, by stating that I'm not a big fan of The Who. Obvious respect for their significance in music history - especially this piece as an early concept album/rock opera - but their songs rarely interest me like those of their contemporaries (i.e. Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, The Doors, et al), and their two celebrated double albums don't hold a candle in my mind to e.g. The Wall or The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. (Who's Next is pretty great, though.) Maybe, then, "Tommy" was doomed from the start - particularly since the music has been chopped up and rearranged for the film anyway, and the lyrics sung by various performers to transform the work into a musical of sorts. The score is thus considerably less enticing than the (already middling) original album, and entirely eclipsed by the visuals, which are the main draw. No doubting they picked the right man to direct: Russell fully embraces the patently ridiculous story and creates a two-hour long acid trip, essentially. Lots of fun and creative visual work, but it all feels hollow when the images are in service of such a puerile concept; I guess one could likewise call "The Wall" dull in how it brings all the symbolism from the album to the screen in a painfully literal way, but my love for Pink Floyd's music makes this a lot easier to bear, and Waters' lyrics, no matter how unsubtle, at least have something substantial to say. Tommy (the movie, that is) combines the idealistic innocence of the '60s with the pretentious excesses of the '70s in a conflicting and resoundingly unappealing manner. Gets by through its self-aware tone and hammy imagery, but becomes very tiring by the second half. If this were cut down to a little over an hour - as in, the actual length of the source material - it might be quite enjoyable. As it stands, Tommy is too much of a good thing.