Death of a Cyclist - Film Review

directed by Juan Antonio Bardem, 1955


Spain is one nation which underwent a cinematic revolution during the 50s; the decade before the French, Brazilian, Czech, British and Italian ‘new waves’ that would so rock the world the next decade. And unfortunately it remains largely ignored...unfortunate, if anything, because it is that rare nation which experienced such a thing under a totalitarian, right-wing regime. Death of a Cyclist is, at this time, the only film made during the middle period of Franco’s rule of Spain that I have seen, and the only Spanish film of the era available in high quality DVD to the English speaking world. Rather fitting that it is this one if any, as this melodrama is considered a milestone of Spanish cinema, one of the first politically challenging Spanish films to receive big international attention (the first was probably Bienvenido Mr. Marshall, though I only know it by name and reputation).

In Death of a Cyclist’s opening scenes, a cyclist has been hit by a car, which is occupied by a couple, Juan and Mario Jose. The man’s first reaction is to gaze in shock at what he’s done, and the woman’s first reaction is to hurry away from the scene of the crime, while the man lies still dying. They have some petty excuse for wanting to get away (she is married, and not to him), but the scene on its own implicates them in an act which is inexcusable, and rendering both individuals as highly unsympathetic...he a weak man and a coward, and she a person with little in the way of a moral compass. And when a sleazy art critic and intellectual wryly initiates a blackmail; seemingly at his leisure, both begin to fear for their safety.

Death of a Cyclist is interesting for many reasons, not least of which is the manner it uses cinematic conventions; many of them contrasting with others, in order to illustrate its political intent. It does follow a very traditional path of narrative, though, almost reminiscent of some of Clouzot’s thrillers; a slow pace which nonetheless builds tension, and a (rather famously) contrived Hollywood ending. Both of our protaganists are of the successful middle class; the bourgeoise to use Bardem’s prefered term (he was a member of the Communist party even during Franco’s reign), and scenes set within their milieu are tinged with a hint of Hollywood gloss; oggling the faces of the lead actors (Alberto Closas, who plays Juan, was an established Spanish leading man) and making much ado about their affluence. This contrasts heavily with the scenes where Juan; intent on righting some of his wrong (but not knowing how to do it) descends into the lower class areas...scenes which look like something out of neorealism, and occupied by characters you’d expect to see in one of de Sica’s classics...or even, at times, Antonioni. And then there’s more than a touch of noir in the film, as Maria Jose takes on the very definitions of a femme fatale; completely driven by selfish cravings and then some.

At the center of the film is both its relationship and its politics, though like Cria Cuervos and Spirit of the Beehive (both films I admire), the politics can be seen only vaguly beneath many layers of symbolism...much of which I’m admittedly not privy to, but so much of which manages to seep through the film’s text unmistakebly. Juan is our main focus throughout the film, and it is his guilt over the incident that is its driving force. His moral failure with the cyclist is both inflated by, and further irritates, his own failures in life. But these failures also indicate the moral failures of the upper classes he represents, which benefit from the regime, from turning a blind eye to their role in the state of Spain, and who overall live boring and dispassionate lives. Where the film’s political angle succeeds lies in its subtext; what happens between and outside the scenes we see. We’re rarely shown the poor people that the film’s protaganists contrast so much with, but when we do, the contrast is clear, and when one really takes the time to reflect, its more and more striking.

The film’s genre shifts are not just an obvious effect...its jarring, as is much of the film, with contrast perhaps being its weapon of choice. The film’s cutting and framing are just as unusual as its offset of genre; never seeming to follow the same rules, never allowing the audience to relax, as one could be lured into complacency in one scene, and suddenly find themselves lost in the next. The effect; using purely classical devices and distorting the viewer with them, reminds me in ways of Alf Sjoberg’s Miss. I mentioned Clouzot earlier, and like Clouzot, there’s something inherrantly nasty about this film and many of its protaganists, and the way it resolves itself, even if it does seem at times to look ahead to Juan setting things straight; and this is after the threat of them being discovered has past. There’s a sense of irony in the film, and it isn’t above speaking its piece very blatantly. One of my favorite scenes involves cutting between the two well-to-do lovers; separate and dealing with the crisis (him brooding, she covering her tracks at a petty bourgeois party). The film then cuts, seamlessly and deceptively, to a very similar scene of puffery, which is quickly revealed to be a stupid movie newsreel which Juan is watching. Its as sharp a dig at the world they inhabit as can be imagined.

I can only imagine that its trappings of classical movie making, almost to a fault at times (fragmented though it is), are a strong reason as to why the film was able to pass the Spanish censors. But its political implications are difficult to ignore, especially on repeat viewings. Every main character; Juan, Maria Jose, her husband, and the sleazily desperate Rafa, exist on screen for more than one reason. Death of a Cyclist is a very challenging film, and ultimately, I think its quite rewarding.

88 / 100

Available on DVD from The Criterion Collection, with a nice (if windowboxed) pristine transfer, and a very informative booklet, with an essay on the film by Marsha Kinder, and a reprinting of Bardem’s call-to-arms for Spanish cinema, written in 1955, seemingly resulting in this film. As with Cria Cuervos and Spirit of the Beehive; the other two debuts of Spanish directors to the collection, the disc includes a documentary on the director entitled Calle Bardem (after another film of Bardem’s, Calle Mayor). It’s the only digital extra on the disc, but one well worth watching.

The Mortal Storm: Film Impression

directed by Frank Borzage, 1940

There’s an inherant naivete in all of Borzage’s great movies, but its not the kind of naivete that puts its hands to its ears and asserts itself in protest. It’s a kind of naivete; a kind of morality, that is unmovable by its very essence, that overcomes the very massive size of oppression (not the usual literal form of oppression, but that which is a weight upon the spirit); because it is truly precious and human, because it is wanted and needed more. It could be said that Borzage and his protaganists have stars in their eyes, but in his films there is a sense that real blood and tears will be suffered for them. In The Mortal Storm, this optimism meets what must have seemed like the ultimate opponent: the ideals and encroachment of Nazism.

Unlike, say, his trilogy of Gaynor-Farrell films which all begin in a sort of purgatory for its characters, The Mortal Storm could be said to start in a snowy Eden; in the mountains of Germany in an unnamed town, with the 60th birthday of an imminent scientist, celebrating this day in the comfort of his home (not just his literal home; he’s “at home” at his house and at the university he works at), surrounded by his loving family, and friends. There is happiness and bliss in the life of this family; almost exagerratingly elated, but change comes to the Roth household and to Germany on this very day. Adolf Hitler has come to power, and only a few people are not ecstatic about this news. It’s a scene rife with a sense of the apocalypse; the genuinely elated sentiments of the supporters contrasting sharply with the warmth of the household, and with the obvious sentiments of its opposers (we quickly realize, though the film never makes it explicit, that the Roth family is Jewish).

The terrors of Nazism, at the time this film was made, were not wholly known, but the film addresses the German nationalism, bald racism and inherrant dishonesty very directly. The film observes the infection of Nazism as just that; a malady which quickly and effortlessly takes hold of the little town and the entire world, until the sickness is the body and the decency. The humanity that the Roth family, and James Stewart’s admittedly unconvincing Martin (this is probably the best film that Jimmy Stewart did a poor job in) are intolerable to this regime, which the film makes no attempt to make sense of. And, as is typical for all of the major Borzage films I’ve seen, love is the center of this calamity, though its promise and light has never seemed so pale.

The Mortal Storm is a bleak film; a black film, literally as it is figuratively. A lack of light permeate much of the movie’s physical texture; not so much expressionism as a dulled, oppressive darkness. It is doom as has rarely been portrayed more plainly in American cinema, and in all of Borzage’s films I’ve seen so far, love and happiness seem all too obscure a possibility, as the very notion of human decency fades further with every appearance of a brownshirt. What truly struck me about the film was, despite how much of the film naturally was about the two lovers (Margaret Sullivan in her most beautifully tragic role, and Stewart...well, I said my piece about him before), how it is also about so much else. While the film’s portrayal of a community; a family mostly, may not have the depth of Ford or the breadth of Walsh, it somehow manages to give it an impact almost exclusively because it is about the aftermath of loss.

If Borzage is a director of great grace, he’s also very direct...unlike Sirk or Ray, there’s not much to read between the lines, but there is so much to *feel*. Crucial points in the film are almost entirely devoted to feeling, and though the artifice of MGM is more distracting than the artifice of Fox in his silent films, he’s lost none of his quiet power. The Mortal Storm could be called a cinematic tract against Nazism, but then, it is a great one. Its final shots, while posessing none of the optimism of the Borzage films I’m more comfortable with, is unmistakebly sublime in a way only a master could do, marking this one of those rare films that so blisteringly portrays just how bad the Nazis were. Not only “for all mankind”, which they were more than anything else, but for the people who *were* Nazis, and would one day have to wake up and face their reality. Its one of the saddest and most brilliant sequences ever put to film; a moment and an observation that seems to come out of nowhere. While watching the film this morning, I thought it was somewhat messy, but the more I think about the film, the more haunting it seems as a singleexperience; the more whole it seems. I almost feel guilty about giving it a score. I definitely want to see it again. Sooner, rather than later.

93 / 100

Yet another great film relegated to the Warner Archive. The transfer of this film is rather disappointingly bland, though I don’t think the film is supposed to look radiant.

Judex (1963) - Film Review

directed by Georges Franju, 1963



Perhaps the strangest homage to a pop culture protaganist in cinema’s history is this film; a re-imagining of Louis Feuillade’s Judex from 1916 (which will be known as Judex 16 from this point on). Stranger still that Franju didn’t really like Judex that much; citing it as lesser Feuillade, and indeed that he wanted to remake Fantomas instead. And the film (which shall be known as Judex ‘63) is just that; a ‘remake’ of Judex, eliding or breezing through as much of the original story as possible in order to fit into an hour and a half time slot, to the point that a synopsis might be needed *before* watching the movie...though I would fully recommend checking out Feuillade’s original series, too, especially if you’re into the worst pulp of the very best kind.

Judex ‘63, as in Feuillade’s five-plus hour serial from 1916 (which will here on out be called Judex 16), is a caped crusader on a mission of vengeance against a criminal organization, led by a man called Favraux, responsible for his father’s death. He becomes torn in his duty, though, when he falls in love with the daughter of Favraux. That’s the gist of it, and Franju is in many ways “loyal” to the original film’s cliche ridden plot and nonsense characters whose feelings are barely hinted at if not completely elided, and whose motivations are utterly unclear and change on a whim. But Franju’s film (which will be Judex 63)is not a film meant to be seen “literally”, and those who see it (or the original, for that matter) with a literal approach will be disappointed by it. Franju’s film, instead, is almost a divining of Judex and Feuillade; a loving homage to the shadows and fantasies that Feuillade’s films inspires, and for its turn-of-the-century milieu...from iris shots to the wonderfully detailed period costumes.

Even if Franju didn’t love Judex, he obviously loves Feuillade, and he draws out the essence of the sheer bizarreness of his work. Every moment in the film is dealt in a cold, almost sterile hand that had filled even the most banal moments of Franju’s earlier film, Eyes Without a Face, with an aloof strangeness. Though there’s hardly anything banal about this film...the black masks and clothes, sinister traps, bizarre and sudden changes in plots, Judex’s helper dogs, the sudden reappearance of “dead” characters, the amazing coincidences, double and triple crosses, and the incompetence of both the arch villains and genius protaganists are all handled in such a loving and insane fashion. This film has fun with its crazy self. Even though the film moves fast, it feels drowsy and slow. Again, like Eyes Without a Face, Judex moves and feels less like reality than it does a dream, and Maurice Jarre’s score (he had also scored Eyes Without a Face and Heads Against the Wall for Franju); in addition to winning three Oscars for big David Lean epics) certainly helps.

Everything works to the favor of the film’s otherworldly, illogical aura; from the score, to the chilly black and white cinematography, to the way Feuillade sticks primarily to the night, and the day time scenes seem dreary. Its this ghostly strangeness that makes the film so unique, and its what I think I now love about it. Judex ‘63 takes everything that made Judex ‘16 such a strange experience, and made it much more explicit and vibrant. More disturbing and visible than ever is Judex’s questionable nature; few who have seen Judex ‘16 would call Judex much of a hero, and in this film he’s more sinister than ever. He’s a nightmare figure, for sure; a masked avenger, and his goals make less sense than ever. Magician Channing Pollock, who plays the titular character, is wooden and he posesses an almost statuesque persona, making the character of Judex seem even more out of this world than everything else in the strange film, and he possesses a chilly grip on the world around him even when he’s being duped or knocked down by his opponents, or doing something stupid.


By far the most well known scene in the film is the ballroom scene, in which Pollock exercutes a series of magic tricks for the party attendants, all while wearing a startlingly realistic bird’s mask (one of several at the party). For sheer psychic impact alone, this scene (reminiscent of scenes from Max Ernst’s Une Semaine de Bonté) rivals the most haunting moments of Cocteau, and its one of the most breathlessly haunting scenes in all of cinema, as far as I’m concerned. Its almost a surprise that this scene of sheer fantasy has a narrative purpose; to initiate the death of Favraux, and to introduce its demonic protaganist. That this ‘surprise’ is even greater on repeat viewings is evidence of the film’s power. And this magical scene sets up the film’s sense of play, and in its way, the spectre of Georges Melies.

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The film, for all its poetic strangeness and beauty, is charming and playful to the extent that its actually very fun to watch when you’re onto its particular wavelength. Numerous in-jokes evoking both Fantomas and Alice in Wonderland (thanks in large part to the manchild detective Concantin) emerge, without ever resorting to knowing high camp, like Tim Burton or Christopher Nolan in their Batman films. Without ever breaking the film’s eerie atmosphere, Cocantin and the little boy who joins up with him are genuinely, wryly amusing figures; reminiscent of the way the actual serials of Feuillade saw fit to break the violent scenarios with vaudeville-like comedy. After all, who can forget Mazamette from Les Vampires? In other words, don’t take it seriously. A lot of people who see the film make the mistake of ‘tuning out’ once the ‘weird bird people scene’ is over, and even I did on my first viewing. And it is a mistake. Seen for what it is, Judex (63) is, on the whole, probably more satisfying than Feuillade’s original work. It is a work of movie poetry; a study of genre and genre archetypes that is never studious.

89 / 100

Masters of Cinema is responsible for releasing this on DVD in the UK, and sports a fine anamorphic transfer of the film in its original aspect ratio. The disc is a double disc set, and the other disc contains a crisp but non-anamorphic transfer (MoC couldn’t license a better master) of Nuits rouges, a second Franju film inspired by Feuillade. The set contains a fine booklet, with an interesting and poetic piece by the director, as well as interviews with him, a very nice but short essay by Jacques Rivette, assorted praise for the film, and a piece by Tom Milne on the second film. The discs themselves have video interviews with Jacques Champreux, who is not only Feuillade’s grandson, but adapted Feuillade’s Judex serial to a scenario and dialogue in feature length form, and in Nuits rouges he plays the villain. An amazing purchase.

Louis Feuillade’s Judex is currently available in the USA from Flicker Alley, in a two DVD set. A new restoration of the film is in the works by Gaumont in France.

The Great Garrick - Film Impression

directed by James Whale, 1937

Its hard to describe this film without a synopsis, so I’ll just go right ahead and do it: David Garrick, perhaps the greatest actor of his time (and a real figure too), leaves for Paris to perform at the Comedie francaise, but not before giving a speech to his Drury Lane audience which incites them to cheer him on; to basically go teach the Frenchies how to act. The president of the Comedie francaise gets word of this, and devises a scheme which will ruin the great Garrick once and for all: they overtake the country inn at which Garrick has reservations, and play the parts of the guests, servants, and innkeeper. Their goal? To teach Garrick a lesson in acting, and give him the worst night of his life. But Garrick, thanks to a forewarning by an adulant fan, is in on the joke. But when a young woman’s carrieage breaks down near the inn, the arrival of this ‘real person’ into the world of actors throws a wrench into everyone’s plans...and of course, she falls genuinely in love with Garrick.

Hilarity ensues, and what hilarity it is...its as absurd and silly as the premise sounds, and there isn’t a second in the film that isn’t loaded with wit. James Whale is known in many circles for the crafting of high camp, and I don’t think any of his movies (at least not the four I’ve seen) are as indulgently hammy, cheesy, and goofy as this. The Great Garrick; the film as much as its titular character, is in love with the art of acting and the stage. And it isn’t in love with the ‘best’ parts of the performing arts, rather with the joy of delivering, emoting, staging and chewing up the scenery...not just the actor characters, but the actors on screen. Its one of those rare films where part of the joy of watching it is being “in” on the joke with Garrick, and knowing that everyone participating in the making of the film must be having the time of their life. It’s a loud, naughty movie that rightfully celebrates its lack of restraint. Its wonderful to see Garrick, and his partner Tubby (*Tubby*!) clashing knowingly with the plans of their ill-meaning hosts.

The film is entertaining on several levels...of course, aside from a few big names, most of the actors in the film are minor faces in Hollywood; faces you might remember somewhere in the back of your mind. Even Garrick himself is played by Brian Aherne, an actor who was regarded in his time but essentially forgotten now, who had gotten his start in British silent films; in particular Anthony Asquith’s first two. My favorite actor was a funny little old fellow named Etienne Girardot, who plays the enthusiastic fanboy who warns Garrick. He is a joy to watch; not just for his overacting The few big names, however, include none other than Olivia de Havilland in one of her first major roles. And, if you weren’t sold on this film yet...giving one of his best performances; physically and otherwise (he gives some of the best facial gestures), none other than Everett Edward Horton as the joyously ill-named Tubby (*Tubby*!). There’s also a very young Lana Turner, if you can spot her.

The film is superbly crafted all around. What could be an amusing little farce is brought to levels of high art thanks to a number of things. First of all, of course, is Ernest Vajda, who wrote the play and the screenplay, can only be commended for adding so many levels of wit to this seemingly convoluted plot. Once the film really gets going, hardly a scene goes by that isn’t breathlessly hilarious. And there is James Whales’s direction, which consists of surprisingly more than telling the actors to do their worst. When moments of genuine emotion creep into the film (as it winds down to its finale, with the game being up), the effect he gives is almost akin to Ophuls, thanks to a delicate use of close ups, and tragedy briefly slips into the film. Also, surprisingly, I have to give Mervyn LeRoy some credit. Looking into a bit of the film’s history, it seems that he is largely responsible for this film’s sets...and if they aren’t among the most convincing 18th century sets and costumes in classic film, I don’t know what to say. I would, in all seriousness, compare it to Children of Paradise in this regard; though Carne’s film is certainly less of a farce. The movie is obviously a self-reflexive work; not just the film but the people involved in making it, from Whale to the cast, and I can only imagine that further viewings will open the film up even further. On a cursory viewing, its already pure bliss; one of the only films I know of which conveys such a love for the act of theatrical exhibition, and I don't know what else I can say.

93 / 100

This is yet another film in Warner’s Archive, and like so many of the others, it’s a magnificent film, and shameful that the company won’t give it a decent real DVD. While still very watchable, its definitely the worst of the Archive that I’ve yet seen.

Battleground - Film Review

directed by William Wellman, 1949

William Wellman is most well known, today, for his set-bound (but great) western The Ox-bow Incident, but in my opinion he should really be more well known beyond just that one feature. I really love Track of the Cat; its my favorite film of his by a wide margin, but perhaps easier to recommend are his two exemplary WWII films; The Story of G.I. Joe and this, made four years after the war’s end. A fictionalized dramatisation of the Siege of Bastogne, what Battleground does for war films in general is, in a way, a continuation of what Wellman did in The Story of G.I. Joe: inject a level of realism (and realism was an increasing concern in Hollywood in those days) into the sense of the war, in focusing on the grunts, and present it in a fashion which is honest, and defeat the idle heroism that most WWII films propagates.

Its anyone’s guess which of these two films is most successful in that regard; both of them are great works in their own right, but since its been a while since my last viewing of G.I. Joe, I’ll just stick to this one. Battleground is an ensemble piece; something Wellman excelled at, and perhaps its greatest assett is its naturalism, in this and other regards. I know I just got done blabbing about naturalism in another film last night; the languid masterpiece Intimate Lighting, but on this second viewing I was really drawn to just how leisurely this little film could be at times, and how much time it spends drawing the character of the boys. Our ‘heroes’, all of them average guys and fleshed out with amazing versimilitude (considering its an ensemble piece and runs two hours; this ain’t Edgar Reitz’s Heimat), spend most of the film in varying degrees of discomfort; mostly the cold, and most of that time they’re complaining, making fun of one another, or scheming to get out of there somehow (though nobody’s quite cowardly).

In all honesty, looking back, I realized at least half of the film’s dialogue was unshaven soldiers, in varying degrees of jokiness, wishing they were back home, or that they could catch pheumonia or a nice flesh wound to get them out of combat; the only thing keeping the rude jokes from flying is probably the production code. Instead, we get gags about clattering false teeth (and the fact that if he loses them, he gets to go back and get new ones fitted), one soldier’s attempts to scramble precious eggs in his helmet, and a Hispanic fellow who is overjoyed at the snow (which promises misery for the others). There’s also a wonderful degree of pathos to be found beneath several of the characters’ richly simplistic ‘quirks’...paricularly the older man, called Pop, who gets a discharge home due to his wife’s illness, but cannot leave due to his squad being surrounded by enemy forces. The film is irresistably honest about the laid back mentality of the soldiers, and we’re never given the opportunity to believe that these guys are enjoying any part of this fight, but have to make do with what they have to keep their spirits up and survive.



More than anything feels like a precursor to The Big Red One in its humor than, uh, Green Berets, and it moves through its slowly paced plot with a breezy effortlessness. Its also perfectly honest about the grime of warfare; the guys are almost *always* dirty and unshaven as I said, and there are a few scenes of surprisingly . The film’s beautifully deep, grainy Oscar winning cinematography reflects this, as does the nice clean print on the DVD. A sort of slice of life in WWII at points, in other words. Its entertaining; actually *fun* to watch, without ever making light of the dead seriousness of combat. And it is dead serious...danger lurks around every corner, so to speak, from the heat of battle, to the dropping of bombs in the town, to the phenomenon of German soldiers donning American uniforms to when the action scenes do come, they’re fast, furious and deadly, and there is more than one instance of one of the men attempting to escape the carnage. All the while the film, despite being the usual ‘manly bonding’ of war films of its time and up to today, eschews much of the usual melodramatic plot devices. There are no daring, heroic rescues, and every moment is frought with not knowing which direction death will come from next.



Its not a perfect film...some of the little character traits lead to outcomes that are far too ironic for the film’s own good, for example, though I won’t spoil any of them. And though its follow-through is well within the spirit of the film’s tone, there is one tiny bit of preachiness (the film otherwise wastes no time moralizing the war, except for showing how undiscriminatingly miserable it is to soldiers and civilians), where a chaplain delivers a multi-faith prayer to lift the fog (its actually less dopey than I made it sound, trust me, but still a weak point). And much of the final ten minutes or so are a little too going-through-the-motions for a war film, complete with a montage of victorious war action. But the film still shines...that rare old war film that is entertaining; not because the war is entertaining, but because of the soldiers we’re thrown into battle with. Battle sequences are harrowing not just because they’re exciting, but because we care about these men and because we know they are in real danger. Its definitely one of the best American WWII films of the classic era...its only real competition probably being Twelve O’Clock High from the same year, and Wellman’s own The Story of G.I. Joe. Well worth your time. Its stood the test of time surprisingly well.

88 / 100

Available on a rather barebones DVD from Warner in the states, with a nice, crisp transfer, and a few short films which have little to do with the movie. Its not very expensive, so don’t hesitate too much if you like a great WWII flick.

Intimate Lighting - Film Impression

directed by Ivan Passer, 1965



I decided to go back to Czechoslovakia again tonight, with a film that has always enchanted me, even if I never really quite fell in love with it until tonight. Ivan Passer directed this film; his only Czech feature, one year after penning Milos Forman’s first feature, Konkurs, and some time before he penned Forman’s third and fourth films, the classics Loves of a Blonde and Fireman’s Ball. As its title indicates, it is a deeply intimate film...a quietly comic one, and it shares much of Konkurs’s focus on the observation of people, and its love of music (not just music, but actually playing music), real people and life seemingly caught unawares.

Konkurs is a special film, but Intimate Lighting shows a degree of grace and subtlety that even Milos Forman’s best films (from what I can gather, Fireman’s Ball and Loves of a Blonde; have yet to see Taking Off and Black Peter) only touch upon. What really strikes me about the film is just how delicate it is. It is, ostensibly, an observation of a couple of middle aged men who get together at one of their houses (in the country; the other man comes from the city, to catch up on old times. And “observation” is the key: there is no real plot to follow, and most of the scenes have no real great narrative link to the former scene. Instead, Passer and his film show tiny, incidental vignettes into their vacation; the people almost entirely at play or leisure. The film is alternately silly and banal, with there being only the tiniest hints of real ‘drama’...a child crying because a hen bit him, two old men complaining about how hard it is to play their instruments with their joints, and the two intoxicated friends quietly slipping about the little country house at night to listen to everyone’s snores.



And that’s really where the magic of this film is. While a cursory viewing to the film may prove to be a rather dull experience to a less observant viewer, a more observant viewing (and/or further viewings) reveals a sublime, gentle wit to those observations made by the film, and a cast of characters which; though so lightly presented, are nevertheless incredibly real and whole, and memorable. Again, like Konkurs, the film is played out in an utterly naturalist style; almost documentary, though its gentleness and quiet delivery definitely separate it from the more chaotic film I keep comparing it too. Even if you don’t quite get it; and on my first viewing I certainly didn’t, it has an effortless charm to it. And on repeat viewings, it gets exponentially better and more pleasing. Absurdity abounds in this film’s gentle nature, and there are so many little moments that will either leave you smiling or outright laughing. The character I most remember from the film is Steppa; the girlfriend of the guest. While much of the film is spent examining the little absurdities of the other adults, she brings a childlike tone into the film; almost a fable quality as she plays endearingly with animals and children and, most notably, bursts into uncontrollable laughter after an admittedly hilarious (but not for the others!) food mishap. She never breaks the film’s natural tone, however.

Intimate Lighting is a poetic film, but its poetry comes not from its visual aesthetic, but from that very naturalism I mentioned; moments of quiet observations, many of them made by Steppa as well as the camera. In the end, a bittersweet sadness underlines this tiny film...an unbearable lightness only occasionally emphasised by some of the film’s more overt ironies. Perhaps its most purely poetic scene and image; the one I remember most from the film, is the scene in which the hens have invaded the car garage, trying to find a place to lay their eggs. Furious, the husband starts the car and launches it out of the garage to knock the chickens off. The camera follows an egg; freshly laid in the chaos, as it rolls next to the body of a hen, dying as a result of the confusion. Its not really a metaphor for anything specific, perhaps, but it’s one of the most piercing moments in the film, and perhaps its most poignant. Handled quietly, delicately, simply and without moralization, like the rest of the film. Intimate Lighting is a true gem.



95 / 100

This film isn’t available to own in the USA yet, but in the UK, Second Run DVD has once again pulled through. While this simple black and white film transfer has some fluctuation in the image, overall its very sharp and faithful to the film’s low budget roots, and in much better shape than their disc of Milos Forman’s Konkurs. There is also a nice booklet with a good essay on the film, and a 20 minute interview with the director. I’d like to see this film get a US release; preferably by Criterion, but I can’t see what they’d add to it, aside from a somwhat better transfer and maybe the short film A Boring Afternoon, which Passer made one year prior to this. It’s a film that speaks for itself. For now, this great disc is worth a purchase. I would also like to see Passer’s American film, Cutter’s Way, and the TV film Stalin starring Robert Duvall.

Valerie and Her Week of Wonders - Film Review

directed by Jamoril Jires, 1970



Czech cinema of the 60s and early 70s experienced, like much of the world, a kind of renaissance in film. What makes Czech cinema unique, when compared to French or British cinema at the time (aside from the fact that practically nothing is said about Czech cinema *before* this New Wave) is just how vastly diverse the Czech cinema of the day is...and while there are some truly unusual films, I don’t think any of them are weirder than this. Describing Valerie’s ‘plot’ in the most basic terms is next to impossible, but here it goes: a young girl experiences intense symbollic daydreams; a mixture of symbollic sexual nightmares and childish fantasy, spurred by her first period and an ascension into adulthood.

It’s a beguiling film, to say the least, from the very first innocently mischevious glance that Valerie gives the camera, and the first appearance of the Weasel emerging blood-soaked from a chicken coop with his prey in his mouth. The film consists largely of her bewildering fantasies; frenzied dreams and daydreams which not only seem to follow no logical trajectory but which blend in seamlessly with the “reality” of the film, if it can be accused of having such. Even on second viewing, its hard to make “sense” of it all...recurring characters take up new guises and situations, shifting suddenly as if by the whim of its protaganist; resulting in a film that seems composed of half-finished fragments of fantasies. Valerie is never portrayed as anything more than an archetype; that of a 13 year old girl. She’s given no deep development as a character, and the images that make up her fantasies are highly symbollic.



Visually, the film is a stunner. Its that rare color film which is both ravishingly beautiful; making use of an incredibly wide range of all colors, and yet whose palette is subdued. Not content to be a candy colored gothic delight; akin to what you might think of when reading Alice in Wonderland (Carol was indeed an influence on the film’s surrealist source novel), the film seems to be shrouded in a veil, rendering its images both palpable and strangely aloof. Though the film’s images suggest horror, there’s little real gore...with the closest to it being dead animals, and a glistening drop of blood or two on a daisy. Flashes of white; the principal color of a blossoming young bourgeois virgin, permeate the film as well, and Valerie is almost always in white. Much of the film is shot in natural settings or actual places, as opposed to sets (I believe), but all are imbued with a highly artificial quality. And the film's editting patterns are just as fragmented as the rest of the film; making it quite a sensual overload at times. Much of the film’s tone and surreal nature owe more to writer and designer Ester Krumbachová. She worked on two other classics of surreal Czech cinema; The Party and the Guests and Daisies (among many others; those are the two I've seen), and director Jaromil Jires and others have often said she was essential to their films' vision. He’s a significant film maker of the Czech cinema before this one, though this is his only film I’ve seen.

But somehow, despite being a collection of ‘similar’ fragments, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders feels like a complete experience, as well as an utterly unique one. Despite the narrative incoherance of the dream images in the film, they operate with the same cast of characters who always have the same (sinister, usually) goals, and they also operate under similar themes. The villainous Weasel (Tchor); an amorphous being who takes on several roles and guises but usually appears as a white faced monster (a cross between Death from The Seventh Seal and Count Orlock from Nosferatu; truly the film’s most memorable visual figure) and her grandmother (who also takes on many forms) are authority figures; restrictive beings who form both the heart and the opposition of Valerie’s dreams, and represent social forces of sexual repression. And, conversely, sexual perversion. On the other hand, our 4th principal character is the Eagle (Orlik), is a young male her age and represents a somewhat more positive sexual existence; a friend and companion whom she often saves, and he often does the same in turn. Though even he is imbued with uneasiness.

The film is highly sexually charged, but there’s nothing pleasant or erotic about any of its figures and their sexual aims; ranging from normal heterosexual desire, to lesbianism to obvious predatory pedophilia. There’s no actual sex; one can only imagine Valerie doesn’t quite know what sex *is* and therefore her dreams have only suggestion. The relationship of the character’s add yet another level to the film’s already twisted sexual politics. It is suggested at many points that Orlik is Valerie’s brother, her grandmother’s intentions towards Valerie are often sexually charged, and it is often suggested that the vampiric Tchor (who takes on several roles; including a constable and a missionary, as well as an actual weasel) is both Valerie and Orlik’s father, adding a level of incestual curiosity to the film’s dreamlike structure.

Its hard to take a middle ground on this film. Personally, I think I love it. I tend to have rather mixed feelings on intensely surrealist films; I think El Topo and Holy Mountain are great cinema but I never want to watch them again. But Valerie just works for me. It’s a thing of weird beauty; its feverish pace and story rendering it ever elusive and yet utterly transfixing, denying any sort of clear reading...and damn it all, its just a blast to watch, without a slow or dull moment. Like Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, it has a feverish quality to it, and a visual otherworldliness. It’s a strange, twisted child fairytale, and its played out in an intoxicating, unsettling, bewildering and charming fashion. Horror buffs and lovers of weird films should run, not walk.

94 / 100

Released in the UK by Second Run, one of my favorite little companies. They’ve done a stellar job with the film’s transfer, preserving the film’s original 1.33:1 aspect ratio and presenting its unique color palette quite crisply and progressively. The extras are small compared to what Criterion might do, but its one of the meatier discs for this company. We have a short interview with young Jaroslava Schallerova, the star of the film who would remain active in film during the 70s. We also have a 20 minute piece by British film scholar Michael Brooke, which is a very knowledgeable piece about the film’s place in Czech cinema, its director’s ouevre, and the film’s production as a whole. Considering the price; its usually found for lower than its measly £12.99 retail (approximately $20 US) at the time of this review, it’s a great bargain, and it would be hard for me to *not* recommend this DVD with all my heart to the adventurous movie goer. I think there is a Facets DVD in the US, and though I’ve heard its one of their few watchable discs, region free is the way to go.

Straw Dogs - Film Review

directed by Sam Peckinpah, 1971

Of all of Peckinpah’s films, this is the one I’m most familiar with, as it was my introduction to him. Indeed, I’d seen it no fewer than three times before I even saw another film by him. So this film also shaped my view of Peckinpah’s later (and earlier) works to great extent, and I’ve always held it in high esteem. Much like The Wild Bunch, Peckinpah’s first and only British made film opens with shots of children playing (over the credits, mostly), and while the shot is of a much less grueling nature (they aren’t exactly tormenting the pooch seen on screen, as they do the insects in The Wild Bunch), its nevertheless a shot laced with menace. That menace; that dread is retained throughout the film.

The initial scenes serve to, like almost any drama, quickly set up the characters (the itinerant mathemmatician David, his wife Amy, and many of the townspeople, including an old boyfriend of hers), a subdued and muddy tone, and the air of the town itself (I don’t believe the Cornish town; which is Amy’s hometown, has been given a name). We quickly learn that David has come here because of a grant to do work, and that a couple of the townspeople he has hired to make the garage are taking their precious time. It’s a perfect introduction to this carnal film; these early scenes already underscored with a sense of violence, and of sexual threat to the sanctity of David and Amy’s marriage; which is already in dire straits. These opening scenes are writhe with all sorts of tensions, which bubble up throughout the film like the aforementioned feeling of dread.

David is the primary focus of the film, though the viewer is always somewhat distanced from him; just enough to know that we aren’t supposed to sympathise with him, rather than observe him...though many have made the mistake of doing otherwise. David (played by Dustin Hoffman; perhaps in his best role) is a frustrated nebbish of a man, intimidated by the aggressive nature of the rural male townsfolk that he hires to work for him, and in numerous scenes he weakly tries to assert himself, or brush them off; a weak act of contrariety, as he is too puny to confront them directly (even when the men hang their cat). We also quickly begin to realize that he begins to identify with the marginalized Henry Niles; a disturbed but mostly docile looking man with a bad history (one can safely assume he’s a known pedophile, as he has his eyes on the niece of a local drunkard and this is a problem)...an identification which takes on disturbing conotations later.

Much of the film takes place inside David and Amy’s rented country house, as does much of the bubbling and brewing of the various tensions of the film. When in public, the two seem to be “going through the motions” of a socially happy marriage, but in private neither is happy with the other and scarce few moments of marital bliss can be seen. David is more interested in pursuing his work than his wife’s affections, even when she makes gestures towards the other men (though she claims to dislike their leering, she nonetheless encourages it, and constantly goads David into ‘manning up’ and standing up for himself). David’s cowardice doesn’t just exist in his own personal vacuum; she suffers from it as well, and David even seems to take a good deal of personal glee in tormenting and contradicting her (and her responses in kind seem to bewilder him); and when it comes to some of the more civilized townspeople, he’s not above bullying the local vicar when confronted with a rather weak insinuation against his occupation as a scientist. David is a very petty man.



With regards to civilization, I think the film obviously makes a treatise against the pretentious veneers we have constructed about human society. The men whom David has hired to fix up his house belong in that peculiar class of rascal antagonists in Peckinpah’s films; repulsively real men whose base desires nonetheless pry a tiny semblance of some kind of twisted sympathy from the audience. And these men; men who would hang a cat for a joke (and far, far worse just because they want to), seem to exist side by side with the rest of the townspeople, laughing at the vicar’s quips at the church gathering alongside the children. Authority in this town, while certainly authoritative, is immasculated (the constable’s arm is in a sling) and treated as being essentially ineffectual; certainly given only a moderate degre of respect by the ruffians, and doing nothing but get killed when they try to stop it. The vicar in question is more worried about nuclear weapons.

Its impossible to discuss this film at all without mentioning its most infamous passage; the rape sequence, between Charlie and Amy. And its rather rightly the most remembered scene; considering Amy’s importance to the story and her reaction during the rape (which Peckinpah intercuts with images of David hunting on the moor; having been left there by the others). Most undeniable and commented on is how Amy, despite her initial struggles, begins to derive a kind of pleasure from the sequence; albeit a pleasure which is interrupted when one of Charlie’s friends forces Charlie out of the way at gun point, in order to join in. It’s one of the film’s pivotal traumas, and one of the most loaded (with regards to the psychology of the characters, and the compounded sexual politics therein) scenes in the film...as harrowing and horrifying a commentary on the baseness of human nature as can be imagined.

A few brief mentions of the political upheavals of the early 70s also mark the film politically in its time, and David as a man who has fled any sense of moral conviction; and thus has a confused moral compass in addition to his frustration. This, and the increasingly tense circumstances, leads to the film’s finale, which is explosive to say the least. David’s decision to stand up for himself comes at the worst possible time, and for the worst possible reasons, which leads to a showdown with all four of the ‘ruffians’, and Tom the local drunk, in an effort to keep them from breaching “his” house. This last sequence; which my brother described as “a grown up Home Alone from Hell”, is a frenzy of violence, intimidation, and fear. Its in this scene that every thread in the film is tied up; not just in a narrative sense but in a blistery, infernal sense. He succeeds in keeping them out; in defending his territory, but in doing so, destroys himself and Amy (who may be the film’s only sympathetic character; and the victim of its antagonists), and the only reward he has is the safe passage of the pedophile killer, a pair of broken glasses, a bevy of corpses in and around his house, and precious few loose ends.



No matter how you look at Straw Dogs, it’s a greatly effective movie. The way the tension builds up; between the characters and the scenes, is faultlessly seething, and there’s hardly an image, a glance, gesture, or shot in the film that exists for no or only one reason. Scenes in the bar, on the road and at the church, briskly hint and reveal the internal strife of the town; tension mounting upon each and every scene, with each and every level of information.. I really am at a pains to explain why the film has such a bad reputation by many. Some have purported that the film is a celebration of American machismo; some have even called it a fascist film, but its final scenes are imbued with such a terrible, unflattering and hopeless aura that its hard to imagine why one would think Peckinpah relishes in this idiotic carnage. If the film can be criticized for anything, it would be for being too bleak; too unnerving and having very little good to say about the human condition. I can’t imagine what that would look like in this film. If Straw Dogs is a tale of David’s rise to manhood, then what is it saying about being a man?

93 / 100

Out of print on DVD now, though a limited edition release from The Criterion Collection in the states is the one I own. Its probably the best Peckinpah DVD produced. Not to insult Nick Redman, Paul Seydor, Garner Simmons and David Weddle, but they are absolutely no match for the smooth, thoughtful delivery of Stephen freaking Prince, who gives commentary. There is also a small booklet, and on the second disc, there’s an 82 minute documentary on Peckinpah entitled Man of Iron (essential viewing), some video interviews and on-set stuff, and my favorite of all, an audio recording of Peckinpah responding to his critics. Its an essential purchase. Its not terribly expensive on Amazon.com, but with the MGM disc out of print and Criterion having entered a deal with MGM, I wouldn’t be surprised if a reprint and Blu-ray were announced.

Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors - Film Impressions

director Sergei Paradjanov, 1964

This is going to be a short review, because describing this film is a rather futile gesture. Besides Paradjanov’s other films, there’s nothing out there that is quite like Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. Right from its opening shot; a travelling shot in the snow as a boy calls for his brother, the viewer is subject to an incomparably feverish tone. The film is, ostensibly, a folk tale or a fairy tale; a story of star-crossed lovers in the Ukraine struggling against their families and the very forces of life itself...though its visualization (and “auralisation”?) of the Hutsul people of Carpathiais not only believably textured, but rendered with such vividness and vitality, imbuing the tough lives of these people; people to whom death comes often, with unparalleled beauty.

“Vivid” fails to describe this film. Shot almost completely in the Carpathian mountains, it depicts a simple people; sheepherders and woodsmen ekeing out a meager living in conditions so timeless yet ancient that the sudden appearance of muskets, about halfway into the film, is the only thing to clue us in to its occurrence some time in the last thousand years. It’s a simple story and there are no real thrills, but Paradjanov’s camera seems to be a soaring eagle for most of the film. The eye of the hand-held camera is constantly flying, pulsing, and wandering; constantly from one image to the next either by motion or by montage, and its still vibrant and seething when it isn’t...always celebrating life and existence, making this ancient fable feel not only timeless, but making the film itself feel ahead of our (not its, but our own) time. The film has some of the most frenzies montage in cinema, and often times we see fleeting images of trees or mountains in place of the faces of those who are speaking.

Paradjanov isn’t content to give us mere exotica; it’s a film of flesh and earth and boundless energy, and use of special effects is almost entirely limited to blazes of stylized colour done in camera. When it comes to the use of color in the film, using superlatives is an equally impotent gesture. Aside from making up the faces of the actors and perhaps an embellishment of costume colors (and there are periods where the people in the film put on celebratory costumes), all of the film’s vibrant images are taken directly and without manipulation from the bosom of nature. From the winter seasons, to the gorgeous spring, to the many embodiments of fire, water, the earth and the wind. Paradjanov was notably influenced by Andrei Tarkovsky (who had only made one feature at this time; so he was really influenced by Ivan’s Childhood); but the many shots of rain or water drenching the hair of the characters are among the only real visible links. It’s a film of its own power, and the passion and pain of Ivanko and Marichka seem to be bleeding right into the frame.

Along with Paradjanov’s three other features, there are precious fews films in cinema that can boast . Of course, there are films that have tried...Yeelen has a similarly otherworldly yet earthy spirit, and the Czech film Valerie and Her Week of Wonders boasts exquisite color and a similarly feverish style. Marketa Lazarova, a personal favorite, is similarly stylized; though its narrative far more complex. The Iranian film Gabbeh by Mohsen Makhmalbaf is notedly influenced by it, and is an admirable emulation of the film; though Makmmahlbaf’s film is (admirably) cultural and political in nature. Of course, some of Michael Powell’s films have moments of breathtaking lushness that match it, and I’m sure Werner Herzog must have been inspired, in part, by similar muses. But Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors is, from start to finish, a matchless feast for the visual senses; a narrative film that feels completely unbound to the chains of narrative cinema, and one of a handful of films that I would call absolutely perfect. It is not so much for one seeking a puzzle or a work of intellectual rigot, but for people who like explosions. Not of dynamite or nuclear weapons but of primary colors, of life, of nature.

100


Available on DVD from Kino in the states. Unfortunately, the disc is non-progressive, and taken from an unconverted PAL source. When you get past those limitations, it’s a gorgeous presentation of the film. The extras on the disc include a featurette entitled “Songs”, which I really don’t remember, and an awkward but illuminating documentary on the relationship between Tarkovsky and Paradjanov. Limitations aside, its an essential purchase for now. A Blu-ray would be sublime; I can think of few films which would benefit more.

Uzak - Film Impression

directed by Niri Bilge Ceylan, 2002




Uzak, set in cold and wintry Istanbul in the early parts of the last decade, was lauded with numerous awards upon its international release. It wasn’t the director’s first acclaimed film, either, but the response to Uzak was quite a different story, and though it hasn’t exactly gained anything near mainstream appeal among film goers (like In the Mood for Love, Diving Bell and the Butterfly, or what have you), its success is assured, as is its status as a modern masterpiece. The first time I saw it, it left me embarassingly clueless. On second viewing, I think I have a better grasp of what it is. Of course, its basic story is a simple one. A youth named Yusuf, having lost his village job due to the recession, comes to Istanbul to find work, and live with his older cousin Mahmut, who has a seemingly secure job as a photographer. Not a whole lot happens in the film...we see Yusuf looking for a job, we watch Mahmut as he watches TV (which is most of what he does), or take care of his ailing mother at the hospital. At one point, Yusuf and Mahmut have a fight over a missing watch. Eventually, Yusuf leaves. The end.

Many of the film’s detractors; who have often compared the film unfavorably to Antonioni and Tarkovsky, have criticized it for being an overly simple and empty film. Such criticisms aren’t entirely unjustified, because Tarkovsky is even mentioned thrice; once by name, and twice when Mahmut watches Mirror and Stalker on his television. Furthermore, Uzak isn’t exactly audience friendly, and is perhaps even less ‘eventful’ than anything by either director. There’s no dialogue in the film for the first ten minutes, and very little human contact (direct or indirect)...the first words heard are that of Mahmut’s mother on the phone, an answering machine, with him listening to it dispassionately.

That said, its an unfair criticism, and very much untrue. In my opinion, its kind of annoying to have Tarkovsky or Antonioni thrown around every time someone makes a slow movie, and I can’t help but wonder if those critics even began to understand this film; much less the work of the directors they compare it to. Neither Tarkovsky or Antonioni (to my knowledge) used such a naturally drained color palette for their films; primary colors show up only sparingly, and its even rarer to see much besides snow and city; people standing out amid the harsh white environs, when the film ventures outside the apartment...though there are fleeting vistas to be seen at times. The film is also, despite its slow manner, neither poetic or metaphorical like those other guys, and lacks their rigor. Though events are depicted sparsely in the film, what the film does show speaks volumes about modern life; Mahmut’s in particular, and the bleak wintry scenery of Istanbul is a perfectly dreary backdrop. And the film’s title, which means “distant” in Turkish, obviously refers to the distance between individuals, and it’s the primary theme of this film.

Mahmut is consistently presented as an inert individual...complaining about the lack of good programming on television, yet constantly watching it, his exploits in Tarkovskyland often interrupted with boredom, and more often than not he’s watching pornography on that tube than art films. His relationships with people are just as unfulfilling as his relationships with television, and though he’s not a complete introvert, its easy to see why he is divorced to his wife, and he is rarely friendly to others around him. The film seems to revolve around the plight of his soul; his inertia, his faded humanity and failure as a man. For film goers especially, an observation of this man’s behavior is very revealing...watching him switch the channels vacuously from Stalker to pornography; while not something I’ve indulged in, its impossible to not think of our own movie watching habits. That Ceylan uses Tarkovsky; a director he is notably an admirer of, to show this is beyond admirable.

And the arrival of Yusuf; by far a more ‘alive’ individual, causes a rupture in his enclosed life. When Yusuf isn’t out and about looking for work (the film takes great pains to capture not only his search for work, but the interim, as he observes the world around him; ironically more aware of things than his photographer uncle), his presence disrupts the usual mechanical procedures that makes up Mahmut’s life. Mahmut is frustrated by him, of course, but I also think he’s shamed to jealousy by his presence; the presence of someone so much more alive than him. One of the pivotal moments in the movie is when he, having lost his silver watch, initially blames Yussef...but when he finds the watch, he keeps that a secret, as a sort of emotional blackmail. Numerous such private moments make up the bulk of this movie.

The film observes both men quietly, capturing a sense of their everyday lives and personalities, but the film has an incredible natural sense to it; something missing from the Antonioni or Tarkovsky, and at times it feels more akin to another great modern film maker, Abbas Kiarostami...though comparisons fail to capture what makes this film, in my opinion, a truly great work. Its realism; not just considering the way the film observes the passage of time but the way the actors perform; subtlety to the Nth degree all around. I was particularly taken by Muzaffer Özdemir, who plays Mahmut...he absolutely embodies the character, right down to his facial gestures. The result is a brilliantly ambiguous film; right up to its quiet and perfect ending, which places Mahmut’s fate in his own hands; much like the end of Gopalakrishnan’s The Rat Trap, though this film has taken an approach that requires even more of the viewer. I look forward to seeing more of Ceylan’s films; especially since almost all of them differ from this one.

94 / 100

A DVD of this film had been available in the states, courtesy of New Yorker Video. The company is defunct, however, and this film is out of print until further notice. I own the Artificial Eye DVD from the UK, and though its not exactly a perfect transfer, it looks pretty darn good. There are some nice extras on this little disc, as well...an English language interview with the director, the director’s first film (a short entitled Koza; a surreal film where both Tarkovsky’s influence and Ceylan’s occupation as a photographer are far more noticable), and some behind-the-scenes footage. I hope that somebody is able to produce a higher quality edition of the film in the states; preferably Blu-ray and preferably Criterion, but for now the Artificial Eye disc is more than a worthy purchase, and can be had quite cheaply. Do it.

Ballad of Cable Hogue - Film Review

directed by Sam Peckinpah, 1970

Considering what one usually thinks of in being associated with Sam Peckinpah, Cable Hogue is perhaps the oddest film of his career. A director primarily known for violence; and with The Wild Bunch still fresh on audience’s minds at the time, this film represents almost a complete 180 in tone from almost every other film he’s made, aiming for (to paraphrase that Monty Python sketch) the calmer, more lyrical waters of folklore...though with the ruggedness of the world and the mind remaining ever present. Just look at the way in which Peckinpah shows Hogue’s mind wandering between Hildy’s breasts and the business at hand; a moment of lust treated with such affection on their first encounter. It’s a far different use of Peckinpah’s signature montage than in prior films. Of course, Hildy is a prostitute, and equally “of course”, she is probably the strongest female character in the Peckinpah canon, probably the best lady performance in them, and just maybe the ladiest damn lady ever.

This is among many of the film’s great contrasts. Peckinpah’s films are loaded with ideas and characters whose components and attitudes; and audience expectations thereof, clash. This one is no different, but the result of Cable Hogue’s twists is a kind of alternative folktale; albeit a lighthearted one, which is really what makes the film so unique for Peckinpah. The film has the air of a tall tale to it, but the way so many of its characters wind up contradicting first impressions; and indeed grow, is special, and of course it’s the kind of folk tale meant for adults. It’s a western film for sure, but few of the usual ‘action’ pleasures we asociate with the genre are indulged in.

The film’s ability to see Cable, Hildy and Joshua so fully, and love them regardless of their more obvious shortcomings (perhaps best expressed in each of their theme songs; songs which I feel perfectly capture their individual spirits and give the film a quality that is both dated yet ageless) that makes it such a strong film even to this day, despite ‘indulging’ in a lot of things that are particular to late 60s and early 70s popular films. Its a film of far greater passion and light pathos than most of its contemporaries, especially Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a film I’ve always found grating. Your mileage may vary, of course, but I think its wonderful that the film gives such unconditional affection to Joshua, our itinerant rascal preacher, even as he seduces a grieving woman (Peckinpah probably never loved a psychotic rascal more than Joshua).

And of course how it so lovingly hangs onto his lengthy and beautifully honest sermon at the end of the film. Its that honesty that really does it. There’s no glitz or glamour at all to the film, and the characters are constantly dirty and smelly, covered in dust, glugging down the same ochre liquor, sleeping in stained mattresses, watering their mules and eating rattlesnakes and jackrabbits; all of which is photographed with dirty splendor. The theme songs used for eah of the three characters; anachronistic as they are, perfectly . Hogue’s theme is first given over a wonderful four-split screen opening credits; and its nakedly, optimistic. , Joshua actually sings his tune at one point; a perfectly whistful ballad for the wanderer. Hogue joins Hildy in singing hers. All of them are so much made of elemental things...time, butterflies, sunflowers, and the sunrise. Frankly, Butterfly Mornings and Wildflower Afternoons is my favorite...it makes me think of pancakes.

The film’s performances certainly help this honesty...Jason Robards, in particular, embodies the desert sage of the film’s title so perfectly, that its hard to imagine him as anything else. David Warner’s performance as the Reverend Joshua Sloane is remarkable. One review mentioned this, and I can’t help but repeat it, but his Bible quoting love machine character relishes every spoken word of the good book like a Shakespearean actor. To say nothing of the rest of the cast. And then there’s Stellla Stevens...who I’ve already said a word or two about. The supporting cast is equally blessed...Slim Pickens is underused if anything; some of the film’s great belly laughs come from his various exchanges with passengers and Cable Hogue. And, of course, L..Q. Jones and Strother Martin as Hogue’s nemeses are wonderful and rich. Peckinpah obviously had a way with actors all his own.

Like everything else in the film, its primary themes are handled so lightly that its hard to feel the weight of them...and its one of the few things that really seem to drag the film down a bit for me; only just a bit. I guess that the film’s primary theme would indeed be the encroachment of technology...though, if you’re so caught up in enjoying the film’s numerous pleasures, the introduction of this theme (nigh at the end) and the narrative disruption it offers, will likely catch you by surprise. To be completely honest, I still don’t know what I feel about this ending, though its implications are pretty obvious. And still, leave it to this film to have one of its most memorable and resonant moments in such a confounding, perhaps convoluted conclusion.

Flaws aside (frankly, its hard to find any, and I can only say that I don’t consider it a masterpiece because I feel bad about tossing the term around), I have to say that this is, for me, that rarest of things: a wholly American fable that that dispenses sentimentality in favor of genuine sentiment (something nearly impossible to find after the 40s, let alone the early 70s), moralizing and “religion” in favor of genuine amity and, well, a more human kind of faith. It’s a wonderful ballad of saints, sinners, rascals and ladies, a film whose strengths more than make up for its discrepancies. I wouldn’t say this is one of Peckinpah’s masterpieces, but it’s the kind of movie you might love a little anyway. It was Peckinpah’s personal favorite.

88 / 100

Like Ride the High Country, this film is available individually, or as part of Warner’s Peckinpag Legendary Westerns collection. A fine transfer, and extras, though I haven’t bitten into them for ages.

The Citadel - Film Impressions

directed by King Vidor, 1938

This is probably not the best place to start with King Vidor; but start here I did. Vidor is, hands down, recognized most as the director of two of the American silent screen’s most enduring classics: The Big Parade and The Crowd, among a host of other silent and talking films, including an adaptation of War and Peace, an adaptation of Ayn Rand, and numerous Depression dramas. The Citadel isn’t one of his most obscure films, but it is far from one of his most recognizable masterworks. Nevertheless, if its any indication of his talents, I believe I can dig him.

I’m going to say one thing before I continue: Rosalind Russell looks so much like Setsuko Hara in this film. Its absolutely uncanny, and it took me a little while to get a grip on myself and get over this. That said, as for the film itself. The Citadel is a very straight British dramatic film, detailing the exploits of an idealistic young doctor named Andrew Manson as he, constantly battling prejudices, superstition, apathy and his own human shortcomings, as he moves from the coal minds of Wales, to London. Narratively speaking, its nothing one hasn’t seen before, is perfectly predictable, and for the most part well within the expectations one has of classic Hollywood.

But the film excels, nonetheless, most assuredly due to two or three things: first of all, the production values are sterling. Though one usually thinks of MGM-produced films (which this is) in terms of glitz and glamor, whatever money was spent on the sets of The Citadel obviously went to making it look very convincing and authentic, and the production never calls attention to itself in either the direction of artifice or blandness. This extends beyond the sets; especially for a 1930s film, its extras, wardrobe and use of location work perfectly. Granted, for high level British productions of the time, this may well be the norm, but I have little experience with those. Anyway, the integrity of the film’s milieu is beyond question, and it never quite looks or feels ‘Hollywood’ the way, say, Keys to the Kingdom did; and that film was mostly set outdoors, while this one is set indoors.

A good deal of that unique look must be attributed to Vidor, and the film’s single minded certainty reflects such a strong hand. No matter how predictable its plot, the story always rings true, and the performances are sublimely, suitably understated. One scene in particular had a very palpable weight to it: the scene where the good doctor, refusing to give up on the apparent failure of his first attempt at delivering a baby, returns to the assumed dead child and resuscitates it. It’s a harrowing, even grueling moment...probably the least ‘Hollywood’ shot in the film is a particularly unnerving (and frankly photographed) shot of the still child itself.

This level of dramatic weight is upheld throughout the entire film, and a natural authenticity underlines its drama, which is exceedingly important if you’re telling a story that deals with issues that are very real. The Citadel attacks the nature of corruption in the medical profession, and ardently argues the importance of personal responsibility, altruism, and friendship in terms of great clarity and, unlike similar films (mainly Kurosawa’s Red Board; a film I still admire), never drags or resorts to senationalism. Its that rare thing for a film of the 1930s...a serious drama about serious things that never shifts to melodrama even in its darkest hours. Its an utterly, profoundly solid and unpretentious film, and like I said earlier, if this film is reflective of the rest of Vidor’s filmography, then I can’t see more of them soon enough.

87 / 100

This is yet another film in Warners’ Archive series, unfortunately. I believe the transfer is progressive on this disc, and the print is in very good shape.

Three Comrades - Film Impressions

directed by Frank Borzage, 1938

I absolutely adore the four silent films of Frank Borzage’s that I’ve seen: Lazybones, Seventh Heaven, Street Angel, and especially Lucky Star. Though I’m obviously missing *several* key films (Lonesome, The Wind, Greed, anything by Vidor or von Sternberg...so on), to me they represent a zenith of American silent film, and apart from that, the latter three are perhaps the greatest romantic ‘trilogy’ in film. I’ve only seen four, but I’ve been none too keen on Borzage’s sound films...Bad Girl and After Tomorrow were interesting, but no masterpieces. I’ve said my piece on They Had to See Paris in my Ruggles of Red Gap review, and Song O’ My Heart was even worse. So I had to say I entered this film with some trepidation. Ultimately, to be rewarded, though this film is not quite on their level still.

Three Comrades is a melodrama that takes place after the first World War, and in Germany...and though there are hints of it, this Germany is far from the romanticized countries of Italy or France presented in Street Angel and Seventh Heaven, respectively. And the three comrades in question are German war vets; bosom buddies through and through, and bosom buddies seem to be a requirement for surviving with sanity before the rise of the Nazis. But the film doesn’t seem to be so much about these three buddies, as it does the burgeoning love between Erich (played by Robert Taylor) and Pat (Margaret Sullivan, in her second of three Borzage films)...both of which are the best thing to happen to the other. But can one really find happiness in the ruins of postwar Germany?

The film is legendary for being one of the only screen credits of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and its also known that producer Joseph L. Mankiewicz tampered with the film...and while I can’t say much about Fitzgerald or Mankiewicz’s talents (being unfamiliar with them, personally), its obvious to me that the film definitely suffers from a sort of schizophrenia. For one, Robert Taylor doesn’t really seem to work...in fact, of the three comrades, only Franchot Tone has any real chemistry with the story and Sullivan’s character; and he unfortunately isn’t the leading man. The film’s story constantly switches between its three comrades and the romantic element, and in the end I don’t feel the film was very successful in coalescing these strands into a proper story.

And to be fair, sometimes through its convoluted and unrequited themes, there is more than a semblance of their weight. The film is set in the early 1920s, but being released in 1938, the audience knew very clearly what awaited Germany in most of the next two decades, and the film only needs to briefly allude to the shadows of the future for poignant effect; and when its more than allusion, its at least obvious what the audience should be feeling. So, unlike Major Dundee, its at least coherant in this regard. It just doesn't quite follow through as much as it should.

What makes this film ultimately so rewarding is the pairing of Borzage and Sullivan. Borzage excelled at elevating earthly love to divine heights, and the scenes between Taylor and Sullivan have much of that same “stuff” that made the sequences shared by Gaynor and Farrell in their trilogy so exquisite. As with those other films, there’s a deeply romantic, almost violent tenderness that punctuates the ups and downs of this star-crossed duo, and thankfully much of this passionate interplay between the two lovers bleeds into the film’s later scenes and neatly covers up many of the film’s more glaring flaws. And then there’s Sullivan...of all of the people we see on screen, she’s the one who shines. It’s a peculiar kind of radiance; one could compare it to that of the cold light of a dying star if one felt poetic. If one wants to be less poetic, one could say she more than makes up for anybody’s lack of chemistry with her.

So, in conclusion, Three Comrades could be said to be a failure...but it’s the kind of failure that, in its own way, succeeds, and almost entirely due to the preoccupations of its director, and its leading lady’s strength. A very worthy film; never exactly unbearable, beyond watchable in its worst moments, and ravishing in its best. I give the film an 83 / 100