The Lost Weekend (1945): Shira's Take

What an unpleasant film. Not bad, of course, but very unpleasant. Do people really have such vivid hallucinations when they've been binge-drinking?

Okay, so my only real complaint is that it seems that his girlfriend and brother have tried EVERYTHING, but in the end, it only takes a few compliments and a nudge in the right direction to fix Don Birnam's (Ray Milland) alcohol problem. Somehow I doubt that it's that easy after three straight years (at least) of on-the-wagon, off-the-wagon. In general, it was a very well-written and well-acted movie. Unsettling, sure, but I really got a sense of each character (even the bartender). I think that's Billy Wilder's gift. I could understand Don's need to drink, because he got so much chattier and more verbose when he was drunk. And sometimes in a good way. He really could express himself after twelve shots through three hours more than I've ever seen anyone do. I don't have much more to say. It's not really my kind of movie, but I can appreciate it for what it is. Notes to myself: Ray Milland IS Chris Noth. Jane Wyman (Helen St. James, girlfriend to Don) was married to Ronald Reagan when this movie came out. "Somebody Stole a Purse" is one of my favorite bits in any movie so far. 8/10

The Lost Weekend (1945): Eitan's Take

Watching Billy Wilder's uncompromising, grim, and deeply unsettling The Lost Weekend, I was reminded of great episodes of the Twilight Zone. It wasn't just the eerie theremin music wafting through the background; it was the entire mood -- a mournful dirge on a member of humanity lost forever to a hidden and psychotic demon. In the case of Don Birnam (Ray Milland), this demon is alcohol, but for all intents and purposes it could have been anything. The genius of The Lost Weekend lies in its shocking honesty and its deep concern for its protagonist, who cycles painfully through self-deprecation, violence, hallucination, utter self-hatred, bizarre confidence, brutal honesty, and back again as he slips into bottle after bottle of rye, whiskey, and gin. Wilder the director is concerned with Birnam the sad and angry alcoholic not because he's the most fascinating character in the world, or because he's wholly redeemable (in most ways, he's completely unredeemable as a human being), but because he's so frighteningly real. At times, I forgot I was watching a film, and instead felt like I was looking through a muddy glass window into any bar on any street in any city in the country.

In bringing Birnam face to face with reality (including one night in a stark sanitarium filled with shrieking withdrawal sufferers and a planned rendezvous between his face and a pistol), we're reminded not of the grisly effects of alcoholism -- mind you, this is not a morality play or an expose as much as it is, simply, a pull-no-punches exploration of madness -- but of the power of film to convey the utter sadness and depravity of human beings when pushed to the edge. Wilder is so effective at conveying this dark truth that he is able to direct the audience's reaction with absolute precision (a talent he shared with Hitchcock, who directed the similarly dark but much more whimsical Rebecca); we are never allowed to feel schadenfreude for Birnam, nor are we ever allowed to truly identify with him. The Lost Weekend leaves us paralyzed, wishing we could do something to stop his pain and the pain of all who surround him, but watching with an unstoppable and sick fascination nevertheless. It is one of the great early Best Picture winners, and one of cinema's sickest and most compulsively watchable masterpieces about a train wreck of a human being. 9/10.

Going My Way (1944): Shira's Take

I have a feeling Eitan is writing right now about how this movie isn't worthy enough or good enough to win best picture. The way I see it, I'm watching these movies as movies and not as winners. As a movie, Going My Way was pretty good. Bing Crosby (as Father O'Malley) is always charming, and this was no exception. I had some problems with the plot of the movie. Take a gang of teenage boys, for instance, and discover that all they need is direction. So all you have to do is teach them to sing, and of course they'll be your church choir. Except, actually, they'd probably just go off and do drugs and take advantage of girls (and not hijack poultry trucks to steal turkeys). Also, take an 18-year-old girl who has run away from home because her parents just won't let her stay out late with boys. Just find her a nice rich man to be her sugar daddy, right? Except in real life, instead of marrying her, he'd probably be her pimp. Still, I never have any problem with plots revolving around old fuddy duddies meeting progressive charmers and rediscovering themselves. It's a pretty consistently fun idea for a movie.

I thought some of the singing was overkill. Do we have to hear "Going My Way" and "Day After Forever" so many times each? I wouldn't have minded hearing "Swinging on a Star" (aka "The Mule Song") multiple times, having loved it as a child when I knew it as the theme song for the tv show Out of this World. And honestly, Jenny/Genevieve Linden (Rise Stevens) DID have weird rhythm for Carmen. I thought she sang it beautifully, but kind of awkwardly. And she was way too skinny to be an opera singer. Notes to myself: THE PUPPIES IN THE BEGINNING. 7/10

Going My Way (1944): Eitan's Take

1944 was the last year that the Academy used painted plaster Oscars (instead of gold-plated ones), and I can't remember a film more deserving of a plaster Oscar than Bing Crosby's flat, clumsy 1944 "classic" Going My Way. Sure, I admire its warm heart and its ambition of telling a neat little story about a talented young priest and the people whose lives he influences, but not even Jesus Christ himself could save this dull film. Shifting clumsily from weird and uninvited musical scenes (including a wholly unnecessary rendition of "Habanera" from Carmen and the utterly lifeless title song) to scenes depicting the quaint (read: DULL) goings-on of a charmingly strapped-for-cash Catholic church in a sort of fantasy New York City where the only bad things happening are turkey theft and baseballs sailing through windows, Going My Way never really finds its soul. If it had shot for the moon and explored the way Crosby's Father O'Malley reconciled his love for music, art, and secular happiness with his religious life, the film could have been a hugely successful meditation on modern religion, as well as a charming musical backed by serious plot points that truly invited song into the story.

Instead, what we have here is a lifeless bowl of cinematic oatmeal: watery, loose, and begging for some spice. Yes, Crosby is charming. Yes, his chemistry with ornery old Barry Fitzgerald is commendable. And yes, "Swinging on a Star" is lovable and appropriately syrupy. But these elements do not a great movie make. I was thinking the entire time that Going My Way would have fit in better during the self-important run of Best Picture winners in the 1930's; it clearly wants to be a classic musical, but its notes fail to resonate and its feet fail to leave the ground. For Bing Crosby alone, I award this movie a 4/10.

Casablanca (1943): Shira's Take

Firstly, I must write here my favorite bit in the movie: "I came to Casablanca for the waters." "The waters? What waters? We're in the desert." (pause) "I was misinformed." I think it epitomizes one of the multiple things I love about this movie: how shamelessly funny it is. It's amazing how it can be so melodramatic and soap-opera-ish in all the scenes with Rick (Humphrey Bogart) and Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman), and then go on to be so funny in scenes with Rick and Renault (Claude Rains). That is the beauty of Casablanca. Noir, comedy, romance, adventure, and the list goes on. This movie really has something for everyone. Namely, some of the best, most famous and quotable movie lines of all time. And that's about it. I don't think there's anything original to be said about it. Notes to myself: I must have a knockoff of Ilsa's white coat. You know, the one she wears when she comes to Rick's alone the first night? With the cinched waist and the puffy shoulders? 10/10

Casablanca (1943): Eitan's Take

Nothing can be said about Casablanca that hasn't already been said. One's first time seeing the movie feels like the hundredth; everything has a strange and beautiful familiarity. No romance has ever been better, no wartime picture has ever been more spectacular and complex, no drama has ever been more personal or more perfectly constructed. The whole film plays out like a "greatest quotes of all time" list, and each scene bears with it a special resonance, different from and counterpart to all the rest. At the same time, everyone feels about Casablanca the way they want to feel -- everyone loves it differently but equally. Every viewer owns their own chord of "As Time Goes By," their own self-deprecating Rick witticism, and their own piece of Ilsa and Victor's suffering. Thirty years from now, sixty years from now, one hundred years from now, every frame will still ring true. This is a film that no one can take away from you.

The perfect Best Picture winner, the perfect film. I would be insane to give this anything but the most heartfelt 10/10.

P.S. I would LOVE to see the remake with Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck! OMG YES!

Mrs. Miniver (1942): Eitan's Take

Anyone who has ever seen Kubrick's masterpiece Paths of Glory knows just how immersive and moving a war movie can be, without drifting off into either histrionics or gratuitous sentimentality. Mrs. Miniver is undoubtedly the film that set the trend for explorations of the new kind of war that WWII was. All Quiet on the Western Front beautifully and hauntingly depicted the utter insanity of WWI, which is too frustrating a war to even wrap your mind around; WWII, however, needs to be depicted not only as a war on the battlefield, but a war within the home, and a war within the hearts and minds of those who fall victim to it. With scenes of unparalleled civility, subtetly, and common kindness, Mrs. Miniver was the first Best Picture winner of the lot that truly moved me to tears.

Throughout the film, I remained impressed by the strength of the screenplay -- be it Vincent and Carol's playful intellectual banter or the echoes of battle-won heartbreak drifting through the conversation of Clem Miniver (the wonderful Walter Pidgeon) and his friends as they gather in bars and on boats to sail off to Dunkirk and hold off the Nazis -- and the uniform loveliness of the acting. But it was three truly great scenes in the film that stuck with me the most: Mrs. Miniver watching a fallen Nazi airman gulp down a bottle of milk and tear through a slice of ham in her kitchen, the priggish Mrs. Beldon's transformation into a graceful and kind host as she rewards the humble and shocked station-master Mr. Ballard with the Silver Cup in the town's annual flower competition, and the final scene in the local church -- which we suddenly and heartbreakingly discover has been ripped apart by Nazi shells. The power of these scenes lies in how effectively they convey the complex themes at play: love, honor, duty, and faith.

With a name like Mrs. Miniver, I stupidly expected a dainty tale of the bored upper class in London, replete with doilies, tea parties, and gossip. I am surprised and delighted that the film turned out to be at turns heartbreaking, lovely, and filled with hope coming from the most unlikely sources. I know very few people who have seen this movie, and it is one of the first of these films that I really strongly encourage you to check out. A solid, well-deserved 9/10

Mrs. Miniver (1942): Shira's Take

So finally we have the first movie (and I promise you it will not be the last) to make me all teary. The greatest thing about Mrs. Miniver is how the first 45 minutes or so feel exactly like an episode of Bewitched--funny, quirky, and all about love and friendship. Even after the war starts, it doesn't seem to get too serious until a scene in the Miniver family shelter when an air raid interrupts the nighttime reading of Alice in Wonderland, blowing the door open and furiously shaking the whole shelter with the family trapped inside. Vin Miniver (Richard Ney), son of Clem Miniver (Walter Pidgeon) and Mrs. Miniver (Greer Garson), comes home from the University of Oxford early on a changed man. He is now a self-described "socially conscious" person and wants nothing more than to change the world. He meets Carol Beldon (Teresa Wright), a confident teen, and in an incredibly funny and entertaining scene (humor mostly at the expense of college students who think they know everything about the world), they fall sweetly in love. They rush into marriage, because Vin has joined the Royal Air Force and they want to savor every moment together. In a powerful scene, Carol tells Mrs. Miniver that being with Vin, she is experiencing a lifetime of happiness, because she is afraid Vin will die in the war. Nothing ends quite like the audience expects, but the viewer is left feeling strongly about family ties and contemplating a "people's war". The most amazing part of the movie, though, comes at the end. At Church, the reverend gives a compelling speech about the nature of the war and whether it is okay that it claims civillian lives. All I could say when I turned to Eitan at the end was, "Remember when there were wars worth fighting?" Notes to myself: "Is he still a vegetinarian?" Must never forget the first encounter between Carol and Vin. 8/10

How Green Was My Valley (1941): Eitan's Take

It's a shame that John Ford's How Green Was My Valley has come to be known as "the film that beat Citizen Kane for Best Picture" when it should have already rightfully earned its place among the most well-regarded films of all time. Kane is a distinctly American film, with the labored intellectualism of Orson Welles driving a plot about business, ego, and the "American Dream." Meanwhile, How Green Was My Valley is a different kind of story, built upon foreign family ideals and the traditions of a far-off land few people seem to care about (Wales). However, I feel as though the values set forth in this wonderful -- though utterly depressing -- film are universal: family, faith, hard work, and preserving even the most painful memories of childhood as a way to stake out a vision for the future.

Although Kane was truly a masterpiece of cinematography, it's unbelievable that few look to this film as a perfectly shot specimen of celluloid. Every frame could be a photo; the bleak Welsh coal-mining landscape is rendered beautifully in a gritty black and white, and the angelic face of Roddy McDowall is photographed in such a remarkable way that you feel his optimism break through the dark clouds of grief that permeate the rest of the movie. I've always been a big fan of the look and feel of Ford's similarly depressing/uplifting The Grapes of Wrath (even though it doesn't hold a candle to the book), and it's clear that he knew he had hit the right note with that film one year prior and wanted to stay on a roll. My favorite John Ford movies are still Stagecoach and The Quiet Man, but this one is definitely up there -- maybe even better than The Searchers if I'm even allowed to say that publicly.

I said last night that I was impressed with the unpreachy, totally creepy and awesome Rebecca and how its win broke the trend of "important message movies," and How Green Was My Valley is definitely a sort of return to that mold. Nevertheless, I don't fault it, and I definitely don't fault it for beating out Kane. Orson Welles' masterpiece seems to have won in the end, so I'll tip my hat to Ford's film and award it a solid 8/10.

How Green Was My Valley (1941): Shira's Take

When I haven't gotten enough sleep and a movie can't keep me awake, I of course don't blame the movie. But when I got exactly the amount of sleep I needed and didn't have a very stressful day, and still a movie can't keep me awake, I think the movie is at fault. How Green Was My Valley opened with dreamy narration, beautiful shots of a small Welsch village, and emotion-invoking music. And throughout the movie, those aspects of it never faltered. It was just the interchangable characters and lack of interesting plot that made my eyes droop for parts of it. As is often the case so far with best picture winners, this was a very lovely-made movie, but I just couldn't care too much about the story.

One notable thing about How Green Was My Valley is that almost all of the movie had background music. I think this was very effective in making the viewers feel attached to the valley. It almost felt like home to me by the end--especially in scenes where Huw Morgan, played by Roddy McDowall, goes off to school outside the valley and the viewer gets to compare the atmosphere of the city to that of the valley. 6/10, though it scores higher for prettiness.

Rebecca (1940): Shira's Take

Ahh, yes. Finally a best picture winner that I really, really loved. Rebecca was very slow, almost unnervingly so. Its gradually unveiling twists, characteristic of any great Hitchcock film, were matched by its subtle, skilled actors. What else can be expected with Laurence Olivier (Maxim de Winter) and Joan Fontaine (the second Mrs. de Winter) as the stars? And with an incredible supporting cast as well, featuring Judith Anderson as the creepy-as-hell Mrs. Danvers, this film left absolutely nothing to be desired. The most amazing thing, I think, that the film accomplished was to make Rebecca's essence the most powerful force in the film. In the scene in the cottage, where Maxim reveals his secrets to his wife for the first time, it seems as though Rebecca is more a concept to him than just his former wife. I think this was Hitchcock's greatest power--to make something small and unimportant seem the most terrifying thing in the world (note: I still can't ever look at birds the same way). Truly a remarkable movie. 10/10

Rebecca (1940): Eitan's Take

I can't tell you how completely pleased I am -- if you could see the wide smirk across my face, you'd know -- that Alfred Hitchcock's utterly perverse, demented, and sickeningly awesome Rebecca won Best Picture. As impressed as I was by the sweep and perfectly executed drama of Gone With the Wind, it was a pretty obvious shoo-in for the award. Rebecca is the anti-GWTW, romantic in all the wrong ways, disquieting and raw, maddening, and suspenseful. It's far from a perfect film, and at some points I was waiting for Hitchcock to go all-out-Hitchcock on the sordid plot, but I realize he was slightly limited by the source material. Du Maurier's story is wonderful and chilling, and definitely worthy of his adaptation (as was her similarly creepy story "The Birds"), but I've always thought that Hitchcock did better with his own story ideas than with the ideas of others.

Either way, this movie confirms why Alfred Hitchcock is one of the most beloved directors of all time. In every scene, we feel his confident hand guide moment after moment of dread and queasiness. Every closeup of Laurence Olivier's tortured face, every shot of clandestinely lesbian Mrs. Danvers sullenly insist on the world's eternal love for the recently dead Rebecca, every moment we watch Joan Fontaine live a terrifying lie for her strange and wayward husband we are reminded of Hitchcock's total mastery of the camera. He mixes in elements of voyeurism (the creepy old man by the docks), murder (Rebecca's mysterious disappearance that goes unexplained until the very end), and the twists and turns we expect from him. While Rebecca doesn't quite measure up to the director's absolute masterpieces (Psycho, North by Northwest, Vertigo, Strangers on a Train), it shows the same penchant for smart, dark weirdness and the complete ugliness of humanity; after nearly a decade of middlebrow "important message films," I'm utterly pleased that the Academy took such a left turn and picked something rather unconventional for their award. I have no doubt that this choice set the precedent for many other winners in the same demented vein: Midnight Cowboy, Silence of the Lambs, and American Beauty. I give it an 8/10.

Gone With the Wind (1939): Shira's Take

I resent this movie. I resent that it is so well-made. If it wasn’t, I could hate it as much as I want to. Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh) is quite possibly the most obnoxious leading lady of all time. Now, I could get past an obnoxious leading lady if the movie had an interesting plot. Or if there weren’t any other annoying characters. Clark Gable as Rhett Butler is his usual forceful arrogant jerk, but in It Happened One Night, it was charming. In Gone With the Wind, it’s just kind of depressing. Also, Prissy (Butterfly McQueen) has the voice and usefulness of Harry Potter’s Moaning Myrtle. Ashley Wilkes (Leslie Howard) is in theory a chivalrous, lovely man–but I can’t help but hate him for being so intrigued by Scarlett when he has such a good thing with Melanie (Olivia de Havilland, sister to Joan Fontaine, who is the star of Rebecca, our next movie). And Melanie, this film’s sole asset, is just endlessly kind. The fact that she not only puts up with Scarlett, but loves her all those years, is so incredible. I’d like to make a note that Vivien Leigh won best actress for this, but somehow, I feel like she probably wasn’t so much acting. Another note that bothers me about her is SHE WASN’T EVEN FROM THE SOUTH. She was born in British India. Why didn’t they cast my grandmother, the beautiful Kathryn Barlett (though I’m not sure she was a Bartlett yet then), who was ACTUALLY from Georgia? Still, no matter how much Gone With the Wind drags on and makes my brain melt, it is very fun to look at. I have a theory that the amazing dresses in cool technicolor, elaborate sets, and fantastic camera work (and not Scarlett O’Hara) are what made this movie legendary. Oh, and if they had ended the movie at Rhett walking away after delivering his famous line, it would have been 100 times better. 6/10

Gone With the Wind (1939): Eitan's Take

Our last film of the 1930’s is also the best. I entered Gone With the Wind a rueful skeptic, and I feel utterly transformed and thoroughly impressed after having basked in its glory. Granted, I hadn’t seen it in a very long time (and I doubt that I have ever seen it in full), but I am just in complete awe at how much I was missing out on by denying myself the chance to see it all these years. If there was ever a movie that deserved to be nearly four hours long, it’s this one. Directed by Victor Fleming, who just so happened to direct this film back to back with, uh, none other than The Wizard of Oz, the film is magnificent and transfixing. The first half, swathed in red skies and silhouettes, is a great war tragedy, and the second half, adorned with ribbons and bows and an underlying sense of grief, is a magnificent (if not really that accurate) exploration of Reconstruction. Of course, I would appreciate a film that focused on the politics of the Civil War (and hopefully there will be one soon), but GWTW hits all the right notes with its completely engrossing depiction of the bland chivalry, outdated attitudes, and self-obsession of the Confederate South. Scene after scene of drumbeating, rushed pre-war romance, and the casualties of battle suck you in completely and refuse to let go. Elegant, swooping camera shots, pained closeups, and technically perfect wide shots of train-stations-turned-hospitals rival anything revolutionary in Citizen Kane, which most people view as the all-powerful origin of modern filmmaking techniques. Show me a great modern movie that didn’t cop a shot or a delivery from Gone With the Wind and I’ll show you a movie lacking heart and reverence toward cinema history.

Much has been said in the past 70 years about the masterful elements of this movie, and I won’t rehash them all here. I won’t even go into the sordid details of the love quadrangle of Rhett, Scarlett, Ashley, and Melanie. All I can touch on here is my utter fascination with how extravagant and successful the sweep of the story is, on a larger socio-historical level, and on a personal level. Gable and Leigh are simply phenomenal, bringing to their roles experience, big egos, and a hint of both inner anguish and sexual one-upmanship. Hattie McDaniel deservedly won an Oscar for a role that could have gone thankless and unnoticed; every time she appeared on screen, I was bowled over by the vigor and consistency of her performance. She doesn’t bring anything particularly exciting to the role. She just does it really, really well.

Most of all, though, I’m impressed by Fleming (as well as some stand-in directors who did some work when he collapsed from exhaustion), who surprisingly remains pretty obscure to this day. His eye for detail amidst extravagance is intimidating, and unmatched by any modern director. Shots of Atlanta burning, of Rhett carrying Scarlett up the giant red staircase, of Scarlett standing against a blood-red sky proclaiming her vow to never go hungry again… these truly stand the test of time, and completely earn the movie its license to immortality. I stubbornly expected a soap-opera, but I got a masterpiece instead. I will be re-examining this film — a four hour film I could easily see myself delving into again — in the years to come. 10/10

You Can't Take it With You (1938): Eitan's Take

You gotta hand it to a film that ends with a rousing hoedown of "Polly Wolly Doodle" on two harmonicas and a xylophone... no one does it quite like Capra. The great sentimentalist director was known for his iconic scenes of suburban whimsy -- the title of his late movie "Pocketful of Miracles" pretty much sums up his approach to filmmaking -- and "You Can't Take it With You" is no different. However, I was surprised and pleased by the subtlety of these scenes. I still knew exactly what they were, and I could still sense the hand of Capra moving these scenes along (such as when reliably aw-shucks Jimmy Stewart and Jean Arthur learn how to dance the Big Apple and when old Grandpa Vanderhof's countless friends unite in a courtroom near the end of the film to pay a $100 fine he receives for the illegal manufacturing of fireworks), but they were strangely charming and uplifting, rather than being cloying and pseudo-religious. Regardless, people who hate Capra will still hate this film, but I think it has some unique elements that relieve it from possibly pandering and being obnoxiously over the top.

Lionel Barrymore was one of the best parts of Grand Hotel, and he is absolutely wonderful here as Vanderhof, the patriarch of a predictably wacky family, populated by goofy black maids, Russian wrestlers/ballet teachers, typesetters for the coming Communist revolution, and a frustratingly bland younger daughter. Seriously, how in the world did mopey, boring Alice Sycamore end up in such a nutty family? Regardless, Barrymore's performance is one of the most captivating I have ever seen in a Capra film, and every scene he is in is truly joyous. When he tells the stuffy, fat, Baldwin-esque Anthony P. Kirby that no one can "take it with him," I felt in awe of both the important lesson at hand (see, there's Capra, yanking at my heartstrings again) and the naturalistic eloquence with which Barrymore delivered the line.

Magic, whimsy, and solid screenwriting aside, I'm actually quite surprised that this movie won Best Picture. It doesn't appear that 1938 was a particularly strong year for movies -- it was definitely the calm before the storm of 1939, still considered the greatest year in cinema history -- but You Can't Take it With You doesn't seem to fit the arc of winners so far. It isn't epic, important, beautifully shot, or all that consequential in the scheme of things. It's just a character-driven story, well acted, nicely developed and modestly fleshed out from a nice little stage play (which we did at my school in 9th grade, when I was really into technical theater) with a neat little "everyone learned their lesson" ending. As movies go, it's watchable, charming, and fun. As Best Picture winners go, it's not exactly a natural part of the club. 8/10.

You Can't Take It With You (1938): Shira's Take

This is our second Frank Capra movie (after It Happened One Night), and it just doesn't compare. Don't get me wrong. I love the Capra/Jimmy Stewart team (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and It's a Wonderful Life are both amazing). But I just can't care too much about the characters. Firstly, the chemistry between Stewart (Anthony Kirby Jr.) and Jean Arthur (Alice Sycamore) was really sub-par. Aside from an adorable scene in which they are taught how to do the big apple by a bunch of kids and end up running from the cops, Tony and Alice are really a boring couple. Lionel Barrymore as Grandpa really carried the movie (as he did with earlier best picture winner Grand Hotel). I believe also that this story makes for a much better stage play than movie. I think eccentric characters feel less overdone in stage plays.

Despite everything I said above, I clearly still enjoyed the movie. It was VERY Capra; there was a scene in a court room filled with Grandpa's neighborhood friends all sticking up for him that ended in chaos as news reporters flooded in trying to get pictures. Meanwhile, Alice rebuked Tony's family and ran out, and the mass of people somehow cleared enough for her to get through, but not enough for anyone to follow her. You gotta love these charming classics. I also sort of like the message. Clearly, the Sycamore/Vanderhof family is completely insane, but I admire their dismissal of the opinions of others. In general, it could have been better, but it still had most of what I like in a movie. Note to myself: Two words: kitten paperweight. 7/10

The Life of Emile Zola (1937): Shira's Take

First I have to state my jaded 21st century opinion: this film is to the modern biopic what the Broadway Melody (1929) is to the modern musical. By today's standards, it's just not really a biopic. Emile Zola is followed more consistently than Alfred Dreyfus, but hardly so. They could have just as easily taken out the first and last five minutes (Emile Zola getting published through to Emile Zola dying) and called it The Dreyfus Affair. And there was not one second in the movie in which I cared for the character of Emile Zola. Still, it was a good movie. The acting was really great (I absolutely loved Joseph Schildkraut as Dreyfus).

Another note--where was the anti-semitism? We were made aware that Dreyfus was Jewish by a quick glance at his military record. Then it was slightly referenced again when effigies of Zola and Dreyfus were burned, with Dreyfus portrayed in religious Jewish clothing. Still, this film basically ignored the prejudices of the military and treated the Affair as though it was nothing more than the military saving face. Notes to myself: I enjoyed the Nana bit so much. This movie was "fictionized" in such a cheesy way. 6/10

The Life of Emile Zola (1937): Eitan's Take

The Life of Emile Zola, a film too long even at its running time of under 2 hours, is a rather flaccid and disappointing entry in our Best Picture lineup, especially after the innovative, impressive fun of the last three. While I feel it was appropriate to create a cinematic memorial to one of the great journalists, authors, and truth-seekers of all time, it's unfortunate that the memorial was crafted so clumsily and without purpose. An eloquent fifteen minute coda does not a movie make, and I found myself frustrated with how long it took for the film to get its footing. The first hour and a half might as well have been called "Various Unimportant, Hammy Montages of Emile Zola 'Struggling' to Become an Artist, Interspersed With The Blandly Evil Machinations of Some Indistinguishable and Stuffy Men With Capes." It's no wonder Joseph Schildkraut (Alfred Dreyfus) won an Academy Award for this film -- he's pretty much the only compelling, truly sympathetic character we meet, subtly and heartbreakingly portrayed.

Paul Muni, star of other biopics such as "The Story of Louis Pasteur," "Dr. Socrates," and "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby," does an admirable job, but overall, his performance is just a bit too hammy. Zola is an interesting figure, and we really don't get to see him composing his thoughts and truly struggling to achieve what he did. Instead, we get longwinded speeches that give us an impression of what he stood for, but nothing about his motivations and mental process. For a movie supposedly about his "LIFE," it gives us much better scenes after his death, when his greatest admirers gather at his funeral, than when he was alive and working.

Also, after the crisp extravagance of The Great Ziegfeld, I was mildly put off by the rather poor print quality and the shortsightedness of the director's vision. This muddled, mostly ineffective, albeit relevant film gets a 6/10.

Also, seriously, the guy on the poster looks NOTHING LIKE EMILE ZOLA.