tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77050385996157246342024-02-20T17:30:14.818-08:00The Blog Where I Review 1 Movie A Week Until I DieCopperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-9873932190656220452011-03-12T22:06:00.000-08:002011-03-12T22:09:56.018-08:00On HiatusAs mentioned in a few other outlets, I'm going on hiatus (hopefully temporary). I have enjoyed scribbling in this journal over the past two years, but right now I need the time to focus on other things. If anyone has any suggestions or comments on my writing, I would like to hear them. Otherwise I shall pick this back up in due time.Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-33314214190241751572011-03-05T21:30:00.001-08:002011-03-05T21:33:39.369-08:00Odd Man Out (1947)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgY3e-ZJtGYhNMam9AUKx0U5gZ5u9wDidhVzmA8ongvlBKl77H9u-9XGX2GXGTwAFIoEWubYrrmO2QJ1D7-D8hk79RoZN0krK5nxsJE6zyjuJEU9TGt3BdRJeus198fVz6_oZSxvdoZnTb/s1600/OddManOut.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgY3e-ZJtGYhNMam9AUKx0U5gZ5u9wDidhVzmA8ongvlBKl77H9u-9XGX2GXGTwAFIoEWubYrrmO2QJ1D7-D8hk79RoZN0krK5nxsJE6zyjuJEU9TGt3BdRJeus198fVz6_oZSxvdoZnTb/s400/OddManOut.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580835130267567122" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Carol Reed. <br />Starring James Mason and Robert Newton.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A wounded revolutionary disappears into the city, evading a manhunt. <br /><br />The potential hotbed of political posturing and outlandish plot trappings quickly evaporates from one’s viewing of Odd Man Out. Before Carol Reed transformed Vienna’s war scars into an expressionist dreamscape, there was Ireland’s Belfast. Shot by Robert Krasker (also of Third Man status), the streets become a twilight-lit purgatory for its wounded protagonist. Johnny McQueen (James Mason), a notorious leader of the Irish Republican Army, is left dying at the scene of a botched robbery turned accidental murder. He struggles for catharsis and escape, rubbing up against urchins, vengeful authoritative types and a trio of the eccentric-destitute. It makes a surreal journey, not just from Johnny’s slowly ebbing life, but his disorientating exposure to the world above, heightened through baroque angles and lighting. Framed within an opposing neorealism, ally Kathleen (Kathleen Ryan) keeps a cool head as she scrapes together a future for her love; fate looms ominous.</div><br /><div><br />One point of interest: the IRA and Belfast are never called by name, most likely to sidestep any overt politicizing. If there is any drawback, it over-generalizes the machinations of Johnny and Kathleen. Their emotion is broadcast in sight and sound, but overall both remain too enigmatic for a narrative hinging on redemption. In that respect, the attention to subsidiary characters can feel like a grope for “meaning” with allegorical figureheads in place of realism. Still, all the more accolades for Reed and Krasker, whose work transcends the material with a visual, poetic aura. The audience feels Johnny’s debilitation beyond the physical and earthly strife, even if they cannot speak it. It stands a film of beautiful, sensory experience, in its purest form. </div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-19653697222784247122011-02-26T22:12:00.001-08:002011-02-26T22:26:47.696-08:00Touch of Evil (1958)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6nyziotdl7tRKKUyBrTY_4hTAYRQRq0kZE6A-o9IV9A6setdcYhXjS6RM8vZnSojPLFrkMGiXxu7nhx3pzWchexq1MyhMQvIcC3ag6iK-cMX6BnFNn6qboNyxWGnY1pLp0ZPaCeaVX5y5/s1600/TouchOfEvil.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6nyziotdl7tRKKUyBrTY_4hTAYRQRq0kZE6A-o9IV9A6setdcYhXjS6RM8vZnSojPLFrkMGiXxu7nhx3pzWchexq1MyhMQvIcC3ag6iK-cMX6BnFNn6qboNyxWGnY1pLp0ZPaCeaVX5y5/s400/TouchOfEvil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578248429184202146" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Orson Welles. <br />Starring Charlton Heston and Janet Leigh.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A corrupt sheriff and upright narcotics officer clash over a murder case. <br /><br />Given a final bid at an American audience, Orson Welles pulled out all the stops for his B-movie cop-thriller noir. Panned then, acclaimed now, it offers the goods with such immense conviction that it rejects an involvement beyond admiration. It is a film that broaches themes as varied as drug enforcement, racial tension and corruption without using them for more than framework for its plot. And yet it hardly needs thematic discourse, not with such energetic filmmaking prowess on display. The plot itself is overshadowed by the ideological showdown between two investigators of a recent murder; self-righteous narcotics official Miguel Vargas (Charlton Heston) and crooked “police celebrity” Hank Quinlan (Welles). While Vargas officiates a by-the-book approach, Quinlan is suspected of planting false evidence to incriminate the most likely suspect (who may be a target of Quinlan’s racism). Vargas suspects this as all too commonplace for Quinlan’s investigations while Quinlan is choked with bitterness, believing that his past police work let his wife’s killer go free.</div><br /><div><br />Drowning in fatsuit padding, Welles makes for a memorable tyrant. His pathos is cohesive, but never in the foreground as the film calls for comeuppance without enlightenment. Again, the audience gets a plot detail rather than anything “meaningful.” But again, it hardly detracts. In fact, Touch of Evil teems with so much detail that it illuminates its own stark luridness and amoral complexity, maybe even for film noir as a whole. That famous opening shot oversees the hustle and bustle of the bordertown, zeroing in on Vargas and his bride, Susan (Janet Leigh). Their newlywed bliss is centered in a shot beginning with a bomb being wound and ending with its detonation in a car’s trunk. It is a flicker of pleasure that becomes trapped within our witness to the main crime. By the end, Susan will be brutalized by the film’s characters and marginalized by its story. </div><br /><div><br />Taken as mere execution over concept, Touch of Evil exemplifies the sort of tonal and visual panache that can make film such an intoxicating medium (pardon my hyperbole). It is a film built on strokes of filmmaking, from Welles sweeping camera movements and jagged cutting to colorful bursts of acting from the stock players. Henry Mancini saturates the screen with a jazzy soundtrack that veers from sinister to vulgar to explosive rage. It is no wonder it became a staple influence of the French New Wave’s experimentation. Touch of Evil is nothing but craft, a dark, indelible testament to the surface medium. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-65626576726498850682011-02-19T21:29:00.001-08:002011-02-19T21:33:20.685-08:00A Clockwork Orange (1971)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nq9stvT9P7UbtKsnZLhWKbiczDVTjRygtitBQDssWEgNhzqey_xgxQeXolf054UAWeY1LsyHc0yKaG30Q5cYY4mONhEmrB8A1ITKUnHRChSW3bt5If5UFBYsF-WDKDpO0ahB9a9HsN8J/s1600/AClockworkOrange.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nq9stvT9P7UbtKsnZLhWKbiczDVTjRygtitBQDssWEgNhzqey_xgxQeXolf054UAWeY1LsyHc0yKaG30Q5cYY4mONhEmrB8A1ITKUnHRChSW3bt5If5UFBYsF-WDKDpO0ahB9a9HsN8J/s400/AClockworkOrange.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575639685705522450" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Stanley Kubrick. <br />Starring Malcolm McDowell and Patrick Magee.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A teenage hoodlum is brainwashed into rejecting immorality. <br /><br />A directorial career rife with controversy, Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of Anthony Burgess’ satire may stand as one of his most contentiously debated. Branding it Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange seems adequate for the crucial variation on Burgess’ thesis. Violence and sexual deviancy are not just youthful sins that time’s passage shall erode but traits ingrained within our very being (just as the apes evolved into violence in 2001: A Space Odyssey). We can choose to obey such instincts; the film argues that the ability to retain that choice is far more crucial than leading a chosen life of compassion. Alex (Malcolm McDowell) has made the wrong choice, beating, stealing and raping the denizens of dystopian London. Far from acting out of desperation, Alex feels an unexplainable zeal for his actions, matched only by his appreciation for Beethoven. An accidental murder lands him in jail where he volunteers for an experiment that would “cure” him of sin. Alex’s treatment is a success, but due to an unintended side effect, listening Beethoven brings on crippling sickness. A hollowed-out soul, Alex must face a future eager for his suffering. </div><br /><div><br />There is a lot to love in this film including McDowell’s magnetic performance and Wendy Carlos’ bizarre score. Its thematic presentation can be a difficult experience to detach from, if only from Kubrick’s brazen manipulation of his audience. Alex is our first-person perspective, and the entire film is shaped in his morally repugnant mind. Scenes of violence and rape are distinguished by inappropriate soundtrack cues (typically classical music for an air of faux-refinement). Many of those scenes burst with vitality while several post-incarceration scenes drag from thematic repetition and over-attention to detail. Supporting performances are grotesque caricatures, with authority figures characterized as corrupt and self-interested.</div><br /><div><br />All of this seems destined to elevate Alex into the only true sympathetic character. One can only ascertain Kubrick’s intentions from these elements. Alex may find joy in the pain of others, but those restricting that choice seem just as immoral (or in this context, worse). The film seems to thumb its nose at those angling to reform “instinct” but seems more willing towards juvenile condemnation than anything too probing. Its subject matter may be too polarizing to be viewed without one’s biases providing its own interpretation. But it is still admirable how Kubrick never falters in his devil’s advocacy. If you do not agree, who is he to make up your mind? <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-32273919024970579672011-02-12T21:03:00.001-08:002011-02-12T21:05:30.379-08:00The Asphalt Jungle (1950)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZW1KD0uztRhu3u4btqaZihAgkTrbd3sl0Y-gbiF_7kf81u1LkfY-2LOghgyyGLCkRwIIVEk7qhrYHbGUAzzbLm3H6HwZY5p16hKNgyOVWbQAFspI1t_hZsNO4x-L2s65p-SuWTdoCmroG/s1600/TheAsphaltJungle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZW1KD0uztRhu3u4btqaZihAgkTrbd3sl0Y-gbiF_7kf81u1LkfY-2LOghgyyGLCkRwIIVEk7qhrYHbGUAzzbLm3H6HwZY5p16hKNgyOVWbQAFspI1t_hZsNO4x-L2s65p-SuWTdoCmroG/s400/TheAsphaltJungle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573035470167954434" /></a><br /><div>Directed by John Huston. <br />Starring Sterling Hayden and Louis Calhern. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A group of criminals pull off a heist with devastating consequences. <br /><br />It can be said with some confidence that nearly every heist movie can be traced back here, one that owes that distinction to weakening censorship of the Production Code. Specifically this refers to the actual heist itself, a detailed centerpiece celebrated for its authenticity. Every action, every move is studied, slowly sealing the fate of the crooked men behind it all. The Asphalt Jungle is pure noir abandoning a potboiler appeal for a thesis on societal decay and amorality. Though that is markedly less engaging compared to its narrowed character focus; seasoned criminals upholding their degenerate lives with dignity, if only to escape desperation. Atalented cast of supporting actors handles the characterization; highlights include Louis Calhern as the financer wrestling with a burdensome conscience, and Sam Jaffe as the mastermind whose clipped delivery suggests an incarnation of Walter Huston in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.</div><br /><div><br />Director John Huston revels in constructing the house of cards, though it may leave some finding the first act shapeless. But once the heist collapses, the plot momentum moves with crushing intensity, undoubtedly the film’s greatest strength. Despite its judgeless lens on the criminal element, it offers little authentic insight. Its portrayal of the law is no better; cops are flabby, corrupt or John McIntire’s snarling bulldog. Though such complaints feel extraneous given its necessity to the plot, one already colored by enough fine atmospheric detail. The Asphalt Jungle leaves little to chew over, but it exists beyond its moralistic musings. A well-to-do stroke of masterful Huston storytelling.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-38622125513045616292011-02-05T21:32:00.000-08:002011-02-05T21:35:39.810-08:00Secret Honor (1984)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNq7n49AZ2lF-HZ1gg64yC1eZTa82iBqCyYNppPjhI_1WFCXyggsFsrIASn0CQYnG8CkggwElDS7-EW_WzrIhnUQHRhSGsQfqrQa97A6eZfT9Tx2pF-mA786ZX6ecquLFM2zrckaVAZSE/s1600/SecretHonor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigNq7n49AZ2lF-HZ1gg64yC1eZTa82iBqCyYNppPjhI_1WFCXyggsFsrIASn0CQYnG8CkggwElDS7-EW_WzrIhnUQHRhSGsQfqrQa97A6eZfT9Tx2pF-mA786ZX6ecquLFM2zrckaVAZSE/s400/SecretHonor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570445428687533458" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Robert Altman.<br />Starring Philip Baker Hall. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A fictionalized portrayal of former President Nixon’s reflections. <br /><br />What sort of truth can be ascertained within fiction? Particularly when it so brazenly skews well-documented fact? Secret Honor attempts this, showcasing a memoir, drunkenly dictated by Richard Nixon (Philip Baker Hall). The account is near-complete fabrication, but portrayed as if it could have happened. Nixon himself is not quite the man we know, more of an expansion on his public persona. Though that would in fact make him a more familiar figure than the “real” Nixon; self-righteous, bitter and willing to stand before the American people their victim. Hall treads that line between embodiment and impersonation in a similar vein, running the emotional gamut to near apoplexy (not a criticism per se, but a clear example of how jarring stage acting can sometimes feel on film). He veers from emotional high to low, dotted with sputtering digressions and unconscious profanity, expertly exposing Nixon’s wounds underneath.</div><br /><div><br />Ever the dependable “actor’s director,” Altman observes with little fanfare. Though he does restate one noticeable motif; Nixon’s image in a television monitor; a parallel to his own self-created image, now washed out and trapped in recorded history. This image created by Altman, Hall and writers Donald Freed and Arnold M. Stone (the latter a former lawyer for the Justice Department and the National Security Agency) is able balance both sides of the political spectrum. Nixon is still the left’s adversary, but abused by his friends on the right into a man willing to extend the Vietnam War for drug money. This Nixon can only absolve himself by his own hand and the movie presents an intriguing invention to the Watergate scandal. Without aligning with any real history, it does well to exploring the shady moral waters that run our country, and what sort of man it produced. Or could have produced and probably did anyhow.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-26871833039609613212011-01-29T21:22:00.001-08:002011-01-29T21:36:03.680-08:00Shadow of a Doubt (1943)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT346FhVaF-oz4Jrfcs7qpIinQKRFmfu741TXnBCbWnxoEYnrvOgCMSFQIC0TxGTmXLenB1LKCxsyZxV1CmoMugU0gyheyxqSjr0__7BzWpAuJryiXjfb3EqGd8Ieo99Y76PtL2YUOk4Z/s1600/ShadowOfADoubt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT346FhVaF-oz4Jrfcs7qpIinQKRFmfu741TXnBCbWnxoEYnrvOgCMSFQIC0TxGTmXLenB1LKCxsyZxV1CmoMugU0gyheyxqSjr0__7BzWpAuJryiXjfb3EqGd8Ieo99Y76PtL2YUOk4Z/s400/ShadowOfADoubt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567845257787420514" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. <br />Starring Teresa Wright and Joseph Cotten.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A girl suspects that her uncle may be a serial killer. <br /><br />The commercial and critical success of Rebecca and Suspicion aside, Hitchcock may have produced his first quintessential "American" film with Shadow of a Doubt. Not merely due to strength in technical elements (though there is that) but for its attention to the angst of upper-middle class suburbia (which would become increasingly heightened after the war). Being a Hitchcock film, this sets the stage for murder. Charlie Oakley (Joseph Cotton) is such a man disgusted with the decedent lives of the wealthy, specifically widows. He returns to his sister’s house to hide from the authorities, reestablishing his bond with his niece Charlie Newton (Teresa Wright). Their shared namesake had evolved into what Young Charlie describes as telepathy. But Uncle Charlie’s secret life gradually comes into focus, a terror only Young Charlie can grasp.</div><br /><div><br />This is the sort of suspense film not set in darkened alleyways but sunny, welcoming neighborhoods. The Newton household is gloomy, seemingly lit with just dappled sun streaks, a contrast to the bitterness seeping through Cotten’s benign façade. Though he would argue, it is dark world. Even odder peculiarities are burrowed under this all American-family, including Mr. Newton’s (Henry Travers) obsession with murder mysteries or the youngest Newton girl’s aggressively precocious (and ignored) social commentary. The progression from second act to third act keeps this worldview only as an intriguing layer to the suspense plot. But even then, a broken step or billowing car possesses an unnerving familiarity.</div><br /><div><br />Young Charlie becomes the only Newton capable of exposing Uncle Charlie to the feds. Her decision is not so much a question of morals, but whether Young Charlie can bring herself to stir the calm. The ending seems dismissive of such status quo fury, but a closing shot of well-dressed ladies swaying around a ballroom (also the opening shot) demonstrates Hitchcock’s cheekiness. No matter what the script says, once you “rip the fronts off houses,” Hitchcock cannot let you unsee the swine within. It makes for a wicked coda and another fine example of this film’s dark charms. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-77084403693308743862011-01-22T19:50:00.001-08:002011-01-22T19:56:19.097-08:00The Battle of Algiers (1966)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHt3xVz9kvcdYlXHPFffcpfy8Y_0nPUrGWbZFIp8U8u7zhQL_E2Pi79zWzyxjDJC9agUL_k9-e4eu4rsguaaDp3ISN94zfAA7C41oSuT0HlhCq1ej_u_z_uMaPMo5h4f0Bf1aClla2Sdlw/s1600/TheBattleOfAlgiers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHt3xVz9kvcdYlXHPFffcpfy8Y_0nPUrGWbZFIp8U8u7zhQL_E2Pi79zWzyxjDJC9agUL_k9-e4eu4rsguaaDp3ISN94zfAA7C41oSuT0HlhCq1ej_u_z_uMaPMo5h4f0Bf1aClla2Sdlw/s400/TheBattleOfAlgiers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565223834008385362" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Gillo Pontecorvo. <br />Starring Brahim Hagiag and Jean Martin. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A recreation of the revolutionary battle within the Algerian War. <br /><br />In 1954, native Algerians began to strike back against French colonists through urban guerilla warfare. French counter insurgency assassinated or captured the leaders of the National Liberation Front (FLN), sometimes acquiring crucial information through torture. While this culminated in a victory for the French in the city of Algiers, the countrywide uprising would help the French lose the Algerian War. Now we come to Gillo Pontecorvo’s film, a frank account of the struggle on both sides of the opposition. Pontecorvo idealizes the FLN, but the French are allowed sympathy, portrayed as dutiful men tasked with an invisible threat. Still a starkly political film, it renders its ideas without sensation thanks to its unvarnished documentary-style of filmmaking.</div><br /><div><br />The film does not weigh on the struggles on any one person, but does obtain the perspectives of two peripheral characters. One is Ali la Pointe (Braham Haggiag) a petty criminal who rides the revolution wave to become one of the FLN’s most prominent figures. The second is fictional French commander Mathieu (Jean Martin) who accepts his job with taciturn resourcefulness. Ali contrasts with his callow and radical ways, ready to give plenty of malevolence to the French. Both have the necessary pathos to extend to their troops waging their own horror. Pontecorvo’s impartiality leads to extremities in Algerians’ depiction. Close-ups of innocent café patrons are shown seconds before an Algerian woman’s bomb blows them up. However, when the French detonate a terrorist’s house, the soundtrack mourns the bodies being pulled from the wreckage.</div><br /><div><br />With its use of actual Algerian streets and untrained cast members, Pontecorvo is plainly looking for aesthetic realism to support its political honesty. It works, even partisan viewers can value the film’s deconstruction of the French’s strategic errors. Since its release it has been screened before military experts (including a publicized 2003 Pentagon screening) to question the efficiency of brute force and torture. Alternatively, revolutionary parties have used the film as a blueprint. Either appropriation circles back to its historical honesty, offering new answers for the next generation at war. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-59420826541515637152011-01-15T21:26:00.000-08:002011-01-15T21:30:59.336-08:00Raging Bull (1980)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje572tG1_Z4mW9A0v1md2U6tfXH28H4certohozPhSbs6bIZkUGzXzkdX8clcXKKLwmANhW5nO-DMLJ0PVztacJMR5047KzjIWZAKQ-4PW7kQ9iiHbrB0HANLk3hOKS1TzHot2hW45pC0T/s1600/RagingBull.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje572tG1_Z4mW9A0v1md2U6tfXH28H4certohozPhSbs6bIZkUGzXzkdX8clcXKKLwmANhW5nO-DMLJ0PVztacJMR5047KzjIWZAKQ-4PW7kQ9iiHbrB0HANLk3hOKS1TzHot2hW45pC0T/s400/RagingBull.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562651137010790130" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Martin Scorsese. <br />Starring Robert De Niro and Cathy Moriarty. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: The life of self-destructive boxer Jake La Motta. <br /><br />Like the real Jake La Motta, Raging Bull has been prized for its unforgiving, brutal nature. For a biographical film with a firm pulse on the emotions that constituted Taxi Driver’s forlorn soul (inadequacy, jealousy, hatred) it is a far more effective portrayal than a study. Much has been written about the process, and it deserves no less than the accolades previously bestowed. Perhaps its insight can only rise from the technique that Scorsese, writer Paul Schrader and Robert De Niro bring to their recreation. Even the real-life La Motta’s work as a technical advisor does not yield a picture that burrows into his mind. The insecurities portrayed are vast, complex. Could La Motta have answered these questions? Without being privy to that knowledge, one can only draw their conclusions from the screen’s output. It would be foolish to praise this film for its objectivity, but it succeeds without the need to comment or blame.</div><br /><div><br />Key to this method is Jake’s many relationships with the supporting characters that play off of his intensity. To them, Jake is an angry, paranoid, dangerous brute (a very deserving view, mind you) to be engaged gingerly, then rejected after reaching rock bottom. Schrader’s script gives the surest definition of La Motta by utilizing his repeated motif of character study through solitude. La Motta’s anguished cries curse the burden of his inexplicable self-destruction. Violence and his unbearable sexual anxiety have consumed him; La Motta’s redemption does not triumph over these primeval emotions nor does it render them dormant (as the end of Taxi Driver suggests). Raging Bull’s catharsis champions our self-forgiveness, knowing that men like La Motta can never escape such feelings. It is material Scorsese never has to explain beyond the bare authenticity. The result is visceral, devastating.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-31389909284965845032011-01-08T18:34:00.001-08:002011-01-08T18:42:44.281-08:00Sansho the Bailiff (1954)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPw1bDDaXW1monZLmrKCDbRXSAvCQjjWIZKsBz5wP4fNcmVRGZdplmUM-5UIxKPPD3catnIKj3b9bN1PAlpUieafIsmF1o2pgrH1glSckZuEASUN2HJJXdnMeM1Qe8IZuIUtwBdg6YIq-u/s1600/SanshoTheBailiff.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPw1bDDaXW1monZLmrKCDbRXSAvCQjjWIZKsBz5wP4fNcmVRGZdplmUM-5UIxKPPD3catnIKj3b9bN1PAlpUieafIsmF1o2pgrH1glSckZuEASUN2HJJXdnMeM1Qe8IZuIUtwBdg6YIq-u/s400/SanshoTheBailiff.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560009086100590834" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Kenji Mizoguchi. <br />Starring Kinuyo Tanaka and Yoshiaki Hanayagi. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A family is cruelly separated, each member on their own journey back. <br /><br />Based on Mori Ogai’s writing, Sansho the Bailiff is a tale of grand tragedy, blessed by the compassionate nature it extols. Social tyranny and divine sacrifice strike an aristocratic family, united through their redemption and love, if not on this earth. The plot unfolds simply, with its characters at odds with their own parallel suffering and catharsis. A bullying military force exiles a deputy governor for defying the draft. The governor’s wife (Kinuyo Tanaka) is sent to live elsewhere with her two children, but while en route, she loses them to kidnappers and is sold into prostitution. Under the rule of the cruel slave master Sansho (Eitarō Shindō), elder son Zushio (Yoshiaki Hanayagi) evolves into an obedient torturer while Anju (Kyōko Kagawa) continues to practice her father’s teachings, never losing hope for freedom. As she labors, Anju continually hears her mother’s voice calling for her children. The children plan for escape, setting the stage for Zushio’s salvation.</div><br /><div><br />Mizoguchi opens with the quote; “This tale is set during the late Heian period an era when mankind had not yet awakened as human beings.” There is a simple directive to the characters’ portrayals; power aligns with cruelty as Zushio and Anju’s father demonstrates the foolishness of kindness within the hierarchy. True to this mythical structure, it boxes its characters into firm definitions. The titular Sansho exemplifies this. Not just as a villain who wields his influence the way his minions wield branding irons. But in his static characterization, firmly couched in his role, existing in the past, remembered only for the destruction he has caused for the present. It is a storytelling technique used throughout. Mizoguchi traps his characters within a variety of framing devices. Each sweeping camera movement defines their fate, tracking every ascension, retreat, descent or progression as a careful notation for the future. The camera also acts as storyteller, cherishing intimacy and shielding pain.</div><br /><div><br />But for this entry, an excess of technical deconstruction pales behind the sheer emotive power of this film (pardon the hyperbole). Tragedy comes not just from its characters’ physical separation, but the separation from their own compassion. Its resolution may be bitter, but it celebrates our humanity and our ability to discover our compassion and find redemption. Mizoguchi has constructed a film of passion and understated delicacy, a film that can be touted as a purely emotional experience. Such cinematic beauty is almost impossible to further scrutinize. Perhaps one can justly sum it up by quoting Gilbert Adair’s proclamation, “Sansho the Bailiff is one of those films for whose sake the cinema exists…”. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-89723247675585880092011-01-01T21:39:00.000-08:002011-01-02T17:01:03.606-08:00Le Cercle rouge (1970)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fQ4dRujIWukPrMWssx4M3wpjUx3WWlCgRUhbHm4csOlQUlc5Hd6Ba_PmJqrfykVCdv_Un8rsvd83lfbKNqv5G-Z18Bouc9CAtX1XTy6-rnwIUbfKxjqNoonPa4DTT0BJ56_lNBXOUuRB/s1600/LeCercleRouge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fQ4dRujIWukPrMWssx4M3wpjUx3WWlCgRUhbHm4csOlQUlc5Hd6Ba_PmJqrfykVCdv_Un8rsvd83lfbKNqv5G-Z18Bouc9CAtX1XTy6-rnwIUbfKxjqNoonPa4DTT0BJ56_lNBXOUuRB/s400/LeCercleRouge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557459302463847762" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Jean-Pierre Melville. <br />Starring Alain Delon and Bourvil.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A thief enlists a murderer in a heist while pursued by the police. <br /><br />Cigarettes, trench coats, fedoras, deception. Le Cercle rouge is heaven for noir fetishes, and a refreshing example of conduct for film’s sake. Its characters seem to act in spontaneous harmony like jazz musicians, all within the unspoken code of criminals. But it is fate’s will that noir’s fatalism shall bury them in the end, their fate orchestrated by its master Jean-Pierre Melville. Le Cercle rouge could be a case study of the actions of men, if such actions existed outside of the hard-boiled universe that only novels and films can entertain. Alain Delon stars as Corey, a thief who in true Alain Delon fashion, broods intensely behind a guarded blue gaze. Upon prison release, he encounters a man named Vogel (Gian Maria Volonté) who escaped from the grasp of police captain Mattei (Bourvil). Corey enlists Vogel and ex-cop Jansen (Yves Montand) for a heist while Mattei pressures nightclub owner Santi (François Périer) for information. </div><br /><div><br />Everything unfolds and collapses for the men with Melville stripping down any frills and redundancies. Sparse mise-en-scène and clipped dialogue complements the men’s bare characterization. Even with such austere “cool” assigned to the players, Bourvil and Montand skillfully play up their respective character’s pathos, while Delon, Volonté and Périer squirm and bluff under the heat. The mannered tough-guy aesthetic makes every plot twist and coincidence feel fated, but understated enough that its artifice does not feel self-aware. It is the most advantageous stylistic move by Melville, and the folly of each man rolls out with unforced precision offering a complete view of this gangster world. Undeniably studied, but fewer films hold its internal laws to such rigor. </div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-13744018047258422272010-12-25T19:42:00.001-08:002010-12-25T19:45:54.934-08:00If.... (1968)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5XOv2VCCkkXV1dxsfol5yoSoXuqdUdBcG8F2swNmn-5Euazwf0cuWYZJPOuJ96eibBHrrW8ZfTKXbwzk6jEAGRkc0a0TSCh4ajhJaIhfRAnFg1t4o-oLtdZV0NW5EzB0nJdE60DyllFO/s1600/If.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5XOv2VCCkkXV1dxsfol5yoSoXuqdUdBcG8F2swNmn-5Euazwf0cuWYZJPOuJ96eibBHrrW8ZfTKXbwzk6jEAGRkc0a0TSCh4ajhJaIhfRAnFg1t4o-oLtdZV0NW5EzB0nJdE60DyllFO/s400/If.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554831474233349042" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Lindsay Anderson. <br />Starring Malcolm McDowell and David Wood. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A group of boarding school students form a revolt against their superiors. <br /><br />“Violence and revolution are the only pure acts,” youthful musings of the restless and lost. Director Lindsay Anderson’s film studies the subculture of an English boarding school, a storm that has rebellious student Mick Travis (Malcolm McDowell) smirking in its eye. If…. is a unique film; it subverts realism without falling into stylized trappings that would fetishize its anarchic thunder. Yet Anderson manages a finely detailed portrait, all fading into the larger picture. What that larger picture “is” the film never concretely outlines, as the 60’s provided plenty to rebel against. But Anderson is not interested in that sort of statement, at least not enough to find the humanity in his characters. As the chief instigator, Travis is embodied by McDowell as an imp and dreamer, with just a glint of devilishness. His wide-eyed ruminations and refined cultural sensibilities inject romanticism into his deeds, albeit steeped in naïveté. As a poster child for the audience’s rebellious cravings, he is indelible.</div><br /><div><br />Travis’ world is deftly constructed. Though filled with archetypes, a talented array of character actors infuses Anderson’s character sketches with life and personality. Anderson catches small moments of the microcosm, defining a whole world with little exhibition (the blossoming love between one of Mick’s revolutionaries and a prepubescent tells its entire story in as little as three scenes). One odd touch is randomized scenes devoid of color, explained by Anderson as cost-cutting measures during interior filming (though Anderson would have preferred to shoot entirely in black and white). Narrative-wise, the scenes carry no additional pattern but a dreamy ambience, carrying into the boys’ waking fantasies.</div><br /><div><br />Such tones of revolt, wistfulness and dark humor do not seem to contrast, but flow to capture the tumultuousness of youth. Anderson was suspected to be closeted, and the burning rage and despair he might have felt emanates through the boys’ desire to break free. Its much-discussed ending encapsulates the film’s tone into pure action, carried forth by the surrealism. Is it necessary? Particularly as the ending shatters the satirical context into pure protest. It may be hard to judge from a modern context, but could not blame If…. for having its finger on the pulse of youth, requiring such a scene to hammer home their frustration. And as Mick would argue, it stands as one of the film’s purest act. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-8554950655793526712010-12-18T23:14:00.000-08:002010-12-18T23:27:33.686-08:00The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9udU1Cfx-TbujguBzhCW7fFiniIlGw8ihm0hKIdEgewLYWIrSi3-NOb_3XLITGcq3QLSDRqwfC77nLXid6gTxqggnlijLwgFAobUkhQQtxMzmrDuH1n7R5JToC4nAC_1KEWsUd8UqjXY/s1600/TheKillingOfAChineseBookie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9udU1Cfx-TbujguBzhCW7fFiniIlGw8ihm0hKIdEgewLYWIrSi3-NOb_3XLITGcq3QLSDRqwfC77nLXid6gTxqggnlijLwgFAobUkhQQtxMzmrDuH1n7R5JToC4nAC_1KEWsUd8UqjXY/s400/TheKillingOfAChineseBookie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552288647303953794" /></a><br /><div>Directed by John Cassavetes. <br />Starring Ben Gazzara and Seymour Cassel.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A club owner must commit a murder to pay off a gambling debt. <br /><br />In response to his detractors, John Cassavetes once quipped, “A movie tries to pacify people by keeping it going for them so that it's sheer entertainment. I hate entertainment. There’s nothing I despise more than being entertained.” Perhaps there is a hint of facetiousness, though it is still a statement worth considering while viewing this film. Its premise suggests noir pulp, but Cassavetes pushes all that into the background for an unapologetically realistic character study. And that character may be John Cassavetes. His protagonist Cosmo Vittelli (Ben Gazzara) is a man proud of his meager lot in life. When we meet him, he has just paid his last debt to acquire full ownership of the strip club Crazy Horse West. As entertainment, Cosmo offers tawdry peep shows boasting a low-rent artistry. His shows are earnest, deeply personal but humiliating in their faux-sophistication. Too soon, Cosmo accumulates a heavy gambling debt with some mobsters who offer him a way out; kill a Chinese bookie.</div><br /><div><br />True to the noir genre, Cosmo is fatalism-infected scum, and knows it. The pride he takes in his strip-theater performers seems born of sweaty desperation. He has little else for show, all the better than to cling to what you got. The artist id is split between Cosmo and the Master of Ceremonies, Teddy aka Mr. Sophistication (Meade Roberts) who is self-pitying and yearning for audience approval, when not upstaged by the girls’ bare breasts. He is the counterweight to Cosmo’s workingman ethic, yet naked with his insecurities while Cosmo struts a faux-suavity. Only when the inevitable comes in full terror by the end, does Cosmo try to pin down his facade as motivation for the troupe. Everything is fraud, just “choose a personality.”</div><br /><div><br />That is only what the film is, but how is it? The original cut is flourished with diversions featuring the film’s supporting characters including some extra performances. Though to say diversions may be missing the point of Cassavetes’ film; it is these cinéma vérité moments that he is interested in, not the bookie business (save what it can tell us about Cosmo and the gangsters). Cassavetes keeps the camera bare inches from the characters’ faces, thrusting this world at us and magnifies the barest quiver underneath Cosmo’s facade. Similarly, Cassavetes hides his character turmoil in full view within the gangster-noir murder plot (you know, “macho” stuff). We are left to explore this world and his lost characters, looking for art, looking for love, meaning, anything at all. Before the relief of the final curtain. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-44826820450863557172010-12-11T22:44:00.001-08:002010-12-11T22:46:36.433-08:00Fires on the Plain (1959)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxF3W7piu5ML_8j0uxVyRzVkAuIXtK7dxxecTM1bfVYyhjD-YCezSSc62ZtUvrIRnQOQVOdS6Ky2USSn0lM63BmQLVnbKQfMMaBA722cZuRgpmQxpA8GeSLc2gNQrXnJ4YFKyRZkLIBjO/s1600/FiresOnThePlain.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxF3W7piu5ML_8j0uxVyRzVkAuIXtK7dxxecTM1bfVYyhjD-YCezSSc62ZtUvrIRnQOQVOdS6Ky2USSn0lM63BmQLVnbKQfMMaBA722cZuRgpmQxpA8GeSLc2gNQrXnJ4YFKyRZkLIBjO/s400/FiresOnThePlain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549683175946179010" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Kon Ichikawa. <br />Starring Eiji Funakoshi and Osamu Takizawa. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A private in ailing health struggles to survive WWII combat. <br /><br />1959 yielded two humanistic war films intent on tarnishing the legacy of military nationalism in WWII-era Japan. Masaki Kobayashi's sprawling The Human Condition witnessed the slow, grinding demise of idealism and the human spirit. Kon Ichikawa’s Fires on the Plain depicts quick, ugly cruelty. It tests the will of man’s survival when reduced to the barest of resources. When Private Tamura (Eiji Funakoshi) becomes stricken with tuberculosis early on, he is ordered to consider two choices: find medical care (to continue fighting) or suicide. The battlefield offers far worse. Ichikawa tracks Tamura through the hell of combat with each repugnant side inflicting different brands of hostility. But there is purity to Ichikawa’s study of the human will at odds with the bleakest of frontiers. </div><br /><div><br />It is an unnerving film, with Tamura’s journey void of the rigor and civility that keeps society from folding in on itself. Ichikawa is not shy in revealing the haunting details, cut with occasional shots of scenic beauty too heartbreaking to smack of irony. But it is that compassion that reverberates with Tamura’s arc and his dogged refusal to submit to the elements. With his ambiguous ending (deviating from the novel) Ichikawa suggests little else is worth claiming. The cost is still great; even inner peace rewards no certainty. For Tamura, it becomes the only solace taken into abyss, moving towards the unseen salvation one prays will await on the horizon. In his pitiless rendering of war’s horrors, Ichikawa achieves the same revelation, and never looks back.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-80053066513576769002010-12-04T22:27:00.000-08:002010-12-18T23:17:43.927-08:00Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BlEzUOEAiUI3KPeQ_QnlKUH1_IWpl7zgPW0KWZ2Slg8QXAxwcAk-ujctypYtVkHQUhon9C3-qEODMCXoMkhW83kypsdBy3hzZCn-ev8XM_sriIL868xfKKFilgaxwG0Yy5twqic-IT5g/s1600/AliFearEatsTheSoul.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BlEzUOEAiUI3KPeQ_QnlKUH1_IWpl7zgPW0KWZ2Slg8QXAxwcAk-ujctypYtVkHQUhon9C3-qEODMCXoMkhW83kypsdBy3hzZCn-ev8XM_sriIL868xfKKFilgaxwG0Yy5twqic-IT5g/s400/AliFearEatsTheSoul.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547081377412016466" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder. <br />Starring Brigitte Mira and El Hedi ben Salem.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A lonely widow is ostracized when she falls in love with a younger Arab. <br /><br />Fassbinder conceived Ali: Fear Eats the Soul as a directing exercise in between two other projects. This hardly telegraphs a labor of love. But his speedy production schedule must have granted an unfettered simplicity to the film’s unlikely love affair. The story is a thematic reworking of Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows, supplemented with two like characters from his early work The American Solider (a far grimmer tale about discrimination). But Fassbinder presents this tale without irony, projecting Sirk’s subtext to boot. The end result is a beautiful love story between two flawed individuals aching for acceptance.</div><br /><div><br />The film's greatest achievement can be felt through the soulful performances of the resilient Brigitte Mira and sad-eyed El Hedi ben Salem. Today, ben Salem’s work carries a haunting truth. As Fassbinder’s real-life lover, the hostility he found in Germany built up until he stabbed three men, then hung himself in prison. As “Ali,” he faces victimization, even Mira’s unconscious prejudice, exhausting him to the point of emotional detachment. Mira’s Emmi faces the same tough decision of defying her family and peers for Ali’s love, and Fassbinder is careful not to define her plight as social martyrdom. Their conflict within themselves could reflect Fassbinder’s own struggle to find happiness, the unfortunate causality of human nature. Though the film’s end champions its progression as well. </div><br /><div><br />Select shots of visual artifice present still moments of separation or proximity. Such shots adopt any number of manners; evocation of Emmi and Ali’s love frozen in time or the overt manipulation each character feels within their given “role”. Or it may just be Fassbinder’s extreme depiction of his own experiences. It may feel unnatural, but not inappropriate. Much like its title, these shots express a blunt simplicity akin to the couple’s union. Fassbinder has crafted a moving love story, but even its original intent demonstrates his command. Cribbing from Sirk forecasts lazy movie making. But Fassbinder’s personal melancholy illustrates the story’s backbone, uncovering depths of humanity that would have been strangled by Sirk’s feverish melodrama. Only something as ineffable as Emmi and Ali’s love deserves his simple honesty. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-39938378029941995592010-11-27T20:29:00.001-08:002010-11-27T20:32:07.842-08:00Blast of Silence (1961)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_g6w7K0rjMAS7mxkiukpLpU3PQq3rHAza6HI5CqfX5fzR9xdFjbvvg4bU1_QQxlgDTeaL3QaEsZRWbwFcGurviAxtX6hyphenhyphenPaXWQx4mhyphenhyphen68GVqFKPK3ZYB-ZQqIgq4v47DaHSNGR4lAUgL/s1600/BlastOfSilence.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_g6w7K0rjMAS7mxkiukpLpU3PQq3rHAza6HI5CqfX5fzR9xdFjbvvg4bU1_QQxlgDTeaL3QaEsZRWbwFcGurviAxtX6hyphenhyphenPaXWQx4mhyphenhyphen68GVqFKPK3ZYB-ZQqIgq4v47DaHSNGR4lAUgL/s400/BlastOfSilence.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544453118449743842" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Allen Baron. <br />Starring Allen Baron and Molly McCarthy. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A hired killer is sent to New York where his past resurfaces. <br /><br />Devoid of studio varnish, Allen Baron’s independent classic is a bitter tribute to the bare essence of noir. As lean as Samuel Fuller’s best, flavored with John Cassavetes’ emerging expressionism, it digs into the coarse heart of all noir; embittered isolation. Baron stars as hitman Frankie Bono with Lionel Stander’s raspy tenor functioning as his inner monologue. Once in New York on an assignment, Bono is confronted with past melancholies and begins losing the focus that molded his intense professionalism. Shot on a shoestring budget on location, Merrill Brody’s imagery mirrors Bono’s desolation, with ubiquitous shots of Christmas decorations for a wisp of coy irony. Baron tracks nearly every step of Bono, deepening the seething hostility he projects at the city. In his life of slimy dealers and spiteful dames, it is that inward loathing that centers Bono, refining his craft. Blast of Silence projects the noir mood into cold comfort against the suffocating bleakness of day-to-day. </div><br /><div><br />What makes Blast of Silence such an indelible underground hit is how built-in these qualities were. Baron bucked the studio system, effectively alienating himself to roam the city streets. His acting technique is inhibited, but perfect for shading Bono’s unease. The pointed disgust Bono exudes seems to have coalesced with Baron’s ambitions to defy convention, create real film-making by the skin of his teeth. The end result faded quickly from audience consciousness and Baron’s career descended into TV Hell. Blast of Silence shares Bono’s lonely fatalism, with nary a flicker of humanity to be found.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-29308506219531944592010-11-20T21:26:00.001-08:002010-11-20T21:30:04.378-08:00Metropolis (1927)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4WYv5THK3DuscbOuyM0h2R7duoyZymbLy-08f8w1ZHdFhyrudxfmn9uUs_6UIXZ4nQVnJ5sK1vlmpbjVWyXxsM-DVM0X96UUDKG4-GEUQInKO_VPFSPJkdc8um0pRjIHY5QTDO3SyKRfA/s1600/Metropolis.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4WYv5THK3DuscbOuyM0h2R7duoyZymbLy-08f8w1ZHdFhyrudxfmn9uUs_6UIXZ4nQVnJ5sK1vlmpbjVWyXxsM-DVM0X96UUDKG4-GEUQInKO_VPFSPJkdc8um0pRjIHY5QTDO3SyKRfA/s400/Metropolis.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541870221912881282" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Fritz Lang. <br />Starring Alfred Abel and Gustav Fröhlich. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: The societal crisis between workers and owners of a capitalist dystopia. <br /><br /> A film that has not just changed our vision of our future, but the future itself through art, literature, culture, feeding into our perception of contemporary problems in a futuristic lens. It is a film of audacious visuals and grandiose ideas, one of the strongest survivors of silent cinema (and one of the most extravagant, equaled only by Intolerance and Greed). Eighty-three years later it has returned in as definitive a restoration as there may ever be (twenty-five additional minutes), and as powerful as ever. Metropolis concerns the struggle of class warfare, antiquated slightly by a proletarian impulse. The haves rule in sky-lofted paradise while the have-nots toil beneath the city. The privileged Freder (Gustav Fröhlich), son of an autocrat, falls in love with Maria (Brigitte Helm), an angelic beacon through the working-class smog. Witnessing an industrial accident propels Freder to defy his father and lead the workers in a revolution. Impeding his success is a mad scientist’s creation, a robot double for Maria, intent on sabotaging the workers from within. </div><br /><div><br />For all of Fritz Lang’s gloriously baroque expressionism and narrative absurdity, its conceptualization of social strife with the growing industrialization feels ageless. Both classes are hive-mind forces of destruction, united only by spiritual idealism, not equality. It is a message even Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels could embrace, championing the dissolve of political bourgeoisie for reform of the labor force. Lang himself expressed dissatisfaction in later years, but the thematic power he brought to these ideas is unmistakable. Garnished with the very finest German Expressionism, Lang turns buildings into heaven-piercing castles and the city’s machinery into an electric monster, insatiable in its appetite for worker blood. The deco of Rotwang’s (Rudolf Klein-Rogge) lab has birthed nearly every mad scientist lair since. </div><br /><div><br />Metropolis’ is a message film, one that is far too starry-eyed for our post-Marx society. Even with its newfound footage, not every narrative gap is bridged. But no matter. Few films can boast the literary and pictorial heights Lang brought to the medium. It is broad, occasionally over-explicit spectacle, but also buoyed by the unfiltered ideology that insulates Lang’s futuristic universe. There are hardly better examples that explore the capabilities film can be used to reflect our own struggles and shape our perceptions of tomorrow. I urge you all to see Metropolis in newly remastered glory, a landmark achievement in its final triumphant form. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-1703600095703491382010-11-13T21:38:00.001-08:002010-11-13T21:41:42.346-08:00Brute Force (1947)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQhwPQeL798di06tnK_cwWOlxPjwTvJ-kkpaDVwc1cQePjnL-egzzSV7V0Rl1-2Z5RdRJjvpQ0xB8o1VGqZRmcKPyC4k_eWktoJDOhCUTe8_47MfOLe-9LQIW2jPesrpC4j1IiX_smoept/s1600/BruteForce.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQhwPQeL798di06tnK_cwWOlxPjwTvJ-kkpaDVwc1cQePjnL-egzzSV7V0Rl1-2Z5RdRJjvpQ0xB8o1VGqZRmcKPyC4k_eWktoJDOhCUTe8_47MfOLe-9LQIW2jPesrpC4j1IiX_smoept/s400/BruteForce.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539275812354417490" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Jules Dassin. <br />Starring Burt Lancaster and Hume Cronyn. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: Oppressed prisoners plan their escape on drainpipe detail. <br /><br />The classic film noir is always about the luckless, the forsaken. Those crushed by society and try to worm their way to power only to fall on their own swords. Are they just and honest men? Not always, but they personify a struggle that separates haves from the have-nots. Jules Dassin’s prison noir Brute Force plays to this convention making our noir heroes are actual prisoners, but bad men only by title. They are gruff but kind-hearted, united in camaraderie and only guilty of minor crimes (usually in the name of love). Their prison is lorded by a gutless warden commanding a wave of fascist guards. Hardly a muddy moral line can be drawn before the prisoners plan to escape. Not just a physical release, but from the squeeze of imperialistic terror. </div><br /><div><br />The prison setting gives Brute Force a hard structure that bluntly highlights its politics. Its characterization is archetypical, but this is not a story that requires nuance. Given its release date, it functions as a Word War II parallel or civilian muscle versus the capitalist regime, relevant to any era (little surprise that Dassin was a member of the Hollywood blacklist). Such bleak commentary fused with a thundering Hollywood climax pitches Brute Force as a fine, rousing foray into the noir or prison genre (take your pick). Dassin may be overly earnest in his convictions, but his unshaken voice for liberation rings authentic.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-58517064074083325532010-11-06T22:11:00.001-07:002010-11-06T22:18:16.515-07:00L’Avventura (1960)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGqsV_ar4HnGIql5q8QecLjXJs-3wN3T0IdOKDJSYWL3cSwBN-9EhYu2r4E_TULonyAxcFxyPphG22Hn4kIP4GnD9FaBVsO5I56-d3l32CgmUw58ev4OL_UwEoMoUao5rKK7NYyCrKzWf/s1600/L'avventura.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGqsV_ar4HnGIql5q8QecLjXJs-3wN3T0IdOKDJSYWL3cSwBN-9EhYu2r4E_TULonyAxcFxyPphG22Hn4kIP4GnD9FaBVsO5I56-d3l32CgmUw58ev4OL_UwEoMoUao5rKK7NYyCrKzWf/s400/L'avventura.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536671197039679746" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Michelangelo Antonioni. <br />Starring Gabriele Ferzetti and Monica Vitti.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A woman becomes involved with the lover of her missing friend. <br /><br />If it is hard to measure the impact L’Avventura had on cinema upon its release, perhaps it is because so little of it feels dated today. The first of Antonioni’s Incommunicability Trilogy, and the one where Antonioni found his voice in the privileged desolation of his characters. Translated, the title is “The Adventure,” a wry comment on the stunted emotions of the wealthy Claudia (Monica Vitti) and Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti). Sandro had been the lover of Claudia’s friend Anna (Lea Massari), stuck in a relationship that grew more estranged by the day. After a visit to a deserted island, Anna disappears. Not just from the scenery; once Claudia and Sandro begin their love affair, it is as though Anna had never existed. There is a Hitchcock element to this first act, but Antonioni does not seem to care about Anna anymore than Claudia and Sandro do. And there is something very wrong with that.</div><br /><div><br />The island of Anna’s disappearance is an abyss of edged, sloping rocks, with hardly any plants and no animals. On land, the extravagance of Sicily has never looked so barren or its people so drab and clammy. The opening scene watches a vast patch of lush earth being excavated. Such images (courtesy of Aldo Scavarda) reflect despair on the amorality of its people. No crescendo of love is ever reached; Claudia and Sandro pass through their affair like lost spirits. When Sandro shatters the white noise, it is as though Claudia regains an entire consciousness, remembering what it is to feel again. </div><br /><div><br />Perhaps that is a harsh characterization. Vitti (Antonioni’s muse in three subsequent films) delicately navigates Claudia’s plight: to batter against one’s own hollowness, grasping for happiness. She does not judge Claudia, and neither does Antonioni. Instead he offers the experience (the “adventure”) as its own commentary. Pure mood, L’Avventura is liberated from structure or a tangible purpose to its events. This made it a breakthrough in storytelling. And it is that story, of empty impulses and insulated angst that has earned L’Avventura’s legacy into our modern day. Draw your own conclusions about the sad, sterile lives of Claudia, Sandro and the rest. For their adventures will continue to reinvent themselves as our lifestyles continually leave the moral landscape in disarray. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-41475815195484547242010-10-30T22:02:00.001-07:002010-12-23T19:02:15.084-08:00The Hole (1960)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGpmA8PRHzr8s_RUdkZnDMB3RQA2W2JHfBc3UN29AaEyu4GFTOK2P87Z1zufCE345O5sSkYdasmqKfaa50ndfJFOvG7FEWv8Vehu0hdVvlDQR-ilnteW1Yv6rJ19Ly5a3N6qRrWhn9A7Y/s1600/TheHole.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGpmA8PRHzr8s_RUdkZnDMB3RQA2W2JHfBc3UN29AaEyu4GFTOK2P87Z1zufCE345O5sSkYdasmqKfaa50ndfJFOvG7FEWv8Vehu0hdVvlDQR-ilnteW1Yv6rJ19Ly5a3N6qRrWhn9A7Y/s400/TheHole.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534071183456977074" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Jacques Becker. <br />Starring Mark Michel and Jean Keraudy. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: Five inmates attempt an escape. <br /><br />The final film of director Jacques Becker is a marvel; smoothly unsophisticated in its depiction of grimy, laborious escape. Filmed in pseudo-documentary style with long unbroken takes, untrained actors (including real-life prison escapee Jean Keraudy) and no score, The Hole has a somber authenticity to its mechanisms. It does not thrive on grand spectacle or proclamations; the characters’ actions pulse with the animalistic instinct, be it freedom, desperation or brutality. But it is also a world of unity, one tested by the arrival of the fifth (Mark Michel), an adulterer sentenced for accidentally shooting his furious wife. He gradually enters the four’s inner circle as they plan to break through their cell floor to freedom’s beckon. </div><br /><div><br />Drawing the viewer into the exertion is done with minimalist skill. One of the most famous shots has a four-minute take of the men pounding away at the concrete floor. This is real labor, not the sort of detail glossed over in a cut or dissolve. Close-ups of hands, dim lights and sweaty faces shrink close us into the spiritual purity of the struggle. The tremors of each new development and bond resonate against the bareness of the production. Becker has his finger on the pulse of the collective, the scrutiny of the prisoner’s day-to-day and the yearning to escape into the darkness. The underground that the men must traverse becomes a mythical labyrinth where, forgoing all earthly tension, each man becomes one with the same resolute hunger. By the time two of the men get a glimpse outside the walls, each is stirred in awe. But through Becker’s eye, even the slightest glance can tell so much more.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-820115762743508842010-10-23T21:10:00.000-07:002010-11-06T22:13:54.441-07:00Good Night, and Good Luck (2005)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXyhdCz3onV5etMboZTe3KUp9xvxvlpTiL7o029LDkfzMKii9lSSLgL6ZNMENMC2entwTFbq1QI8RGDK3Ts38FJAWA6h1AiXN2UmdVHdB0vDPYJElcSyF2EnMx_VJ2sf0_gj1ioPV_AL_R/s1600/GoodNightAndGoodLuck.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXyhdCz3onV5etMboZTe3KUp9xvxvlpTiL7o029LDkfzMKii9lSSLgL6ZNMENMC2entwTFbq1QI8RGDK3Ts38FJAWA6h1AiXN2UmdVHdB0vDPYJElcSyF2EnMx_VJ2sf0_gj1ioPV_AL_R/s400/GoodNightAndGoodLuck.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531460674616928914" /></a><br /><div>Directed by George Clooney. <br />Starring David Strathairn and George Clooney. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: Edward R. Murrow brings down Joseph McCarthy over his news show. <br /><br />America’s anti-Communist movement of the 50’s found a regrettable mascot in Joseph McCarthy whose witch-hunts spread fear and ruined reputations. Sickened by McCarthy’s dishonest slander, Edward R. Murrow sought to disrepute him from the desk of his nightly CBS news show. Director/co-writer George Clooney frames this as an ode to Murrow’s legacy if also a cautionary tale his successors. The film is an undeniable champion of Murrow. By keeping this focus on Murrow, Clooney gives an absorbing account of journalism’s fight for civil liberty, trimmed with all necessary period details. McCarthy is played by stock footage, showing the man as a spitting, raving bully before his shameful Army hearings. David Strathairn’s Murrow acts as a beacon of quiet, reserved principle amidst his anxious newsroom peers. </div><br /><div><br />The McCarthy fight seeps into every single scene, creating an insular world of news and politics. Compounded by Strathairn’s news-ready close-ups, Clooney magnifies the film into a grand struggle for television’s soul. Strathairn’s Murrow feels mythical, though the actor is canny to allow a glimpse of humanity even when the script does not. That the film follows a single-minded approach to Murrow feels refreshingly old-fashioned. Murrow’s epilogue mourns the loss of media ethics and our appetites for baseless fear mongering. If the ending reads too blatantly (but sorely deserving of current audiences), it only exemplifies the unstated social strife beneath every monologue. With the fear of communism antiquated beyond our memories, Clooney pleads for our media to account for the delusions and smears that run our news cycle. With Good Night, and Good Luck, his direction can at least take its advice to heart, sticking straight to the story and nothing less.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-88323647395617801342010-10-16T22:22:00.001-07:002010-11-06T22:15:46.916-07:00Bande à part (1964)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUTmdDgdXMxWiCzLMNO2fnuMu0iDDsELCgLSM95DleHSz1bGDF-aQ3wpi50m2naO-iFovRH2GB3rTK_FXyCuChql4rqJaPp2VDeDflLm3E1CSBEC2_lWGbZBw4V0U2FE9VBSS9MLfAuQx/s1600/BandeAPart.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUTmdDgdXMxWiCzLMNO2fnuMu0iDDsELCgLSM95DleHSz1bGDF-aQ3wpi50m2naO-iFovRH2GB3rTK_FXyCuChql4rqJaPp2VDeDflLm3E1CSBEC2_lWGbZBw4V0U2FE9VBSS9MLfAuQx/s400/BandeAPart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528881133186198850" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Jean-Luc Godard. <br />Starring Anna Karina and Sami Frey.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: Two youths enlist a young woman in their next robbery. <br /><br />“A few words chosen at random. Three weeks earlier. A pile of money. An English class. A house by the river. A romantic girl.” And the most fun ever to be had at a Godard movie. Bande à part is a crime film only in theory, disposing its pulp origins for a breezy cadence. The plot has two hoods (Sami Frey and Claude Brasseur) ensnaring a virginal classmate (Anna Karina) into robbing her aunt. That is a plot, but it is not the movie. This outing has Godard’s self-consciousness and pop-culture bitterness in check. His characters are still living through cinema; play acting gangsters while fumbling for the next conquest. For a while, Godard asks us to live this, to want to live it. And we can, because it is just so much fun. </div><br /><div><br />Before the heist, Frey, Brasseur and Karina engage in youthful delectation, rendered by a parade of set-pieces aped to this day. Take the Madison sequence where the characters dance to a jukebox swing. For just a few minutes, they move in step (Karina in between the boys) unnoticed by the café’s patrons. Godard’s amused voiceover cuts through the soundtrack. “Parenthetically, now’s the time to discuss their feelings,” as if such isolated bliss could never be so pure.</div><br /><div><br />Godard leaves a distinct nostalgia-infused tinge on his film, from the mist-covered villa of Karina’s character to the confused materialism of Frey and Brasseur. But his smoother pacing and camera movements diffuse his pretensions. As with the later Masculin, feminine, the characters are not cultural figures, their America worship an oddity of their own delusions. That fantasy eventually shatters (death is involved), but is quickly followed by the cheeky promise of an American sequel. It is those humorous reflexive touches that make Bande à part so enjoyable, such freedom from Godard’s chord of disdain. At least for some. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-50337299248129378512010-10-09T21:32:00.001-07:002010-10-09T21:34:09.120-07:00The Man Who Wasn’t There (2001)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRThHJocUPg4U5u1p3ZXbSWtU2f8SEi3vPdcoEhtZQlX7Jt1x9H6r0hE-gfRWj6i1hrzBvIb2XohV1_UhPI2WDC3LBN7eR7-No24kO8rkO94e3tQSXKSaawVdH6v_RBciAtInF_EO5HuJ/s1600/TheManWhoWasntThere.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRThHJocUPg4U5u1p3ZXbSWtU2f8SEi3vPdcoEhtZQlX7Jt1x9H6r0hE-gfRWj6i1hrzBvIb2XohV1_UhPI2WDC3LBN7eR7-No24kO8rkO94e3tQSXKSaawVdH6v_RBciAtInF_EO5HuJ/s400/TheManWhoWasntThere.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526270704807982370" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. <br />Starring Billy Bob Thornton and Frances McDormand. </div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A barber’s blackmail scheme goes awry. <br /><br />Pre-Cold War era noir casts a hard-bitten glare over the alienating suburbia slice-of-life that is the Coen Brothers’ The Man Who Wasn’t There. The Coens have proven insidious manipulators of whatever genre strikes their fancy. Here they bring an expert’s restoration to film noir, bustling with timely idiosyncrasies. Its protagonist, Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton), is the quintessential noir icon; a man condemned to misery for wishing a better life. Though Ed is a greater puzzle, narrating about his dull barber job and unpleasant wife with deadened candor. He hardly seems aware his life is one worthy of unhappiness. When Ed is offered a business investment, he blackmails his wife’s boss (Ed suspects they are having an affair) without pause. </div><br /><div><br />But something goes wrong and Ed kills one of his transgressors. I will speak no more of the plot, though the manner in which it circles back to Ed is more happenstance than contrivance. Such plot mechanisms benefit from the ease of the film’s languid pacing filled with ancillary subplots and other asides. Plenty diverts from the film’s core conflict, moving in step with its solemn narrator, musing on the little details. This is pure narrative style, nearly supplanted by Roger Deakins’ chillingly crisp cinematography and Thornton’s dry calm. It can feel far too mannered and insular, like a malevolent puppet show. Taken as an exercise in lavish cinematic aesthetic, it will not disappoint. Besides, it is not as if Ed Crane was there to begin with.</div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-35683259699284663932010-10-02T21:29:00.001-07:002010-10-02T21:31:37.467-07:00The Big Sleep (1946)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji1lcjt2CUg5pb_moMjtR39FwrvMrd52mfEFRqGCeROBYn8BUL_V99dG3eNN048zpMBI3aoTt2t_IDBCvhHU9fzqY2DslP_CPN86QbvvAPwjC0fkmOYTkYnbyfiy-Pl17sduQa9Zhz_OZy/s1600/TheBigSleep.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji1lcjt2CUg5pb_moMjtR39FwrvMrd52mfEFRqGCeROBYn8BUL_V99dG3eNN048zpMBI3aoTt2t_IDBCvhHU9fzqY2DslP_CPN86QbvvAPwjC0fkmOYTkYnbyfiy-Pl17sduQa9Zhz_OZy/s400/TheBigSleep.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523672366293661378" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Howard Hawks. <br />Starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: A PI is hired to untangle a family’s underworld involvements. <br /><br />Sometimes all a film needs is charisma to overcome its own limitations. Howard Hawks’ adaptation of the hardboiled Raymond Chandler novel succeeds this, with no small thanks to the studio. The executives behind The Big Sleep recognized its overly convoluted plot as too disposable for audiences. Re-shoots and re-edits changed the film’s rhythm from a morose noir into a coy love story amidst a tumultuous underworld. Even with the outsider influence, the current incarnation of The Big Sleep remains definitively Hawks-ian; relaxed and cynical, but hardly morose.</div><br /><div><br />Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart) is sent to clear the names of an infirm general’s daughters (Lauren Bacall and Martha Vickers) centered on a family employee’s disappearance. Though Marlowe becomes quickly steeped into a web of hoods, gamblers, pornographers and other riff-raff. Bogart was the first to play Marlowe, honing the weary romanticism that has lived in film PI’s for decades. The plot throws out tight bits of suspense, with Bogie retaining his collected wits. It is as “cool” as movie “cool” gets. Bacall, Bogart’s love on and off set, matches the whip-smart repartee with the aplomb of a seasoned pro. With the murders and motivations fading from moviegoer memory, it is their crackling, cutthroat courtship that has burnished their reputation as one of cinema’s most iconic couples.</div><br /><div><br />If The Big Sleep could keep one distinction, it demonstrates exactly how to bottle star power. It rolls along good-naturedly through sin and vice without acting wary of its own shadow. This effortless “cool” can be distilled to the inward manner Bogart sizes up an adversary or deflects a sexpot’s advances. Hawks and a trio of screenwriters punch up the noir gloom with droll self-amusement, nimbly avoiding histrionics. Without a proper structure, it could be argued that The Big Sleep coasts on its surface strengths, but that’s just it. It is not the plot that leaves us spinning, but great dialogue, great acting, great scenes. As free floating as cinematic jazz, albeit with some outside improvisations. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705038599615724634.post-739735117317182982010-09-25T21:55:00.001-07:002010-09-25T22:05:48.452-07:00Bigger Than Life (1956)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvUtxXosEhtlhR6A8O6XrQbLd1FMLIxuyfeITZp5HWYwsGisZUoWxdEBHFPTuerFRNQ9kUUEyqsxEdvP1p-heUXjWzLvPYAVHf4svajgj8ELj8ryiklH-mKCk4xvrG3ITdwzQ6mjGq_V1/s1600/BiggerThanLife.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvUtxXosEhtlhR6A8O6XrQbLd1FMLIxuyfeITZp5HWYwsGisZUoWxdEBHFPTuerFRNQ9kUUEyqsxEdvP1p-heUXjWzLvPYAVHf4svajgj8ELj8ryiklH-mKCk4xvrG3ITdwzQ6mjGq_V1/s400/BiggerThanLife.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521081473592551778" /></a><br /><div>Directed by Nicholas Ray. <br />Starring James Mason and Barbara Rush.</div><div> </div><div>In a Nutshell: An experimental miracle cure wrecks havoc on a teacher’s mental state. <br /><br />Tapping deep into the yearning that defines the “Nicholas Ray hero,” Bigger Than Life makes the persuasive case for setting that man loose in bourgeois society. It is a film that rattles the chains of 50’s American life, far and away from any sly Douglas Sirk-ian understatement. We begin with the sort of drab ripped-from-the-headlines melodrama that many thought they were buying; prim schoolteacher Ed Avery (James Mason) becomes deathly ill and finds a cure with an experimental prescription of cortisone. In order to get back on his feet (including a night job as a taxi dispatcher to make ends meet), Ed takes dosage after dosage. Not only does he get better, but Ed also transforms into the idealized advertisement of 50’s patriarchdom (football lessons, shopping sprees and disciplinary lessons soon follow). Though once the drugs seize Ed’s mind, the American dream slides into expressionistic nightmare.</div><br /><div><br />Over the years, Bigger Than Life is upheld for its critique of 50’s values. While Ed may take these to frightening extremes, he nearly breaks free from his suburban conformity (or at least closer than Jim Stark and his hungry brooding). Even after a horror-movie showdown and a skeptically happy ending, the question remains. Is he a rebel or a monster? Ray either keeps his cards hidden or remains as divided. Within Ed’s megalomania is a drive for self-improvement with no room for lenience. It heightens, and nearly rips his family apart, but until then, Ed had mastered his life’s duties to live in comfort with all the gadgets a successful life could provide. Is that happiness? Even a tearful embrace at the end cannot tell.</div><br /><div><br />Despite his conspicuous British accent, Mason hits every right note. From meek to might to menace, his performance is matched on by Ray who shifts genres without becoming a pastiche. Under Ray’s eye, the Avery house is a shadowy prison of domestic clutter and excess. Ed’s life peaks and bottoms out in such a scant amount of time that it beautifies the film’s brutality into a broad stroke. Bigger Than Life lives up to its title only to befit its study of our own inhibitions. Even as it weighs Ed’s struggle between conformity and liberation, the most unnerving impression one can take is that even Ray cannot give an easy answer. It is a puzzling, harrowing and outsize as life itself. <br /><div></div></div>Copperheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14525838360629897990noreply@blogger.com0