One of the best things about watching these films chronologically is that we really get to see trends emerging. During a long stretch of the 30's, I remarked about how Best Picture winners tend to be films about ambitious, powerful, larger-than-life men. During other periods, we've been treated to the rise of the epic, the gritty New York drama, the stage-to-screen musical, and with the dawn of the 70's, New Hollywood and the reimagining of the complex American psyche. This is what makes The Sting such a blast to watch -- amid a sea of self-important films, propelled or hampered by their bloated ambitions, here's a film that doesn't give a damn if it's the Great American Film or just another silly studio backlot period caper. That it's a really great film, funny and clever and warm, is like some happy accident.
Of course, reuniting the two boy geniuses from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid has something to do with it. Sometimes, it seems like "chemistry" was a term invented to describe what Paul Newman and Robert Redford share; every sly look, every thumb of the nose, every boyish cackle and shared moment of too-clever planning is executed flawlessly by these guys. It's a shame they only made two films together. Nowadays, we're used to con man or crime movies where everyone is playing everyone, and the whole film is nothing but a shambolic web of blink-and-you-miss-it lies and deception -- yeah, we get it... the audience gets the biggest con. Here though, mostly because Newman and Redford are too good together, we assume that the film isn't playing nasty tricks on us. It's their show, and we're along for the ride.
The film looks and sounds great too. While The Godfather uses dark browns and beiges to capture the slippery morals and dark machinations of the crime world, The Sting uses the very same color palette to create a playful and engaging world. The back alleys, the sham storefronts, the poker room on the train, and the "FBI lair" are drained of their color so we can pay attention to the richness of the performances and the decidedly non-showy cleverness of the screenplay. (It does take a lot of work to craft a screenplay this quick and witty and have it not descend into smug, self-referential gooeyness.) This is a film that wisely asks the audience to view its inner world as a comedy, even as most of the actors are playing it straight. There are no cheap-o gags and no yuks. Every laugh, especially the ones after a long buildup, such as in the pitch-perfect Newman vs. Shaw poker scene, is well-earned.
I'll admit I'm a sucker for a good heist/con caper. Even the pompous and self-important Oceans Eleven has stayed with me over the years. There's something magical about watching a long con unfold. I love sitting back and seeing how every little element -- the bogus sets, the fake accents and mustaches, the slick sleights of hand, every little prop required to make "The Wire" con work so simply and so well -- comes together to form something too sinister and well-thought-out to dismiss as just a prank. And it helps the film, rather than hinders, that George Roy Hill and author David Ward lay out the film within the simple narrative framework of showing each part of the con ("The Set-Up," "The Hook," "The Sting," etc.) as it plays out.
The Sting is really just a lovely film, and one of the only Best Picture winners that allows itself to be nothing more than pure, smart entertainment. It's far from perfect, and it definitely drags at the end, but it's tough to give it demerits when it all congeals so perfectly. 9/10.
Showing posts with label eitan 9. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eitan 9. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Patton (1970): Eitan's Take
I'm a huge fan of the Call of Duty series of video games; I think anyone who grew up with fighter jet posters on their walls and a lump in their throat every time they visited the Air and Space Museum finds themselves magnetically drawn to those first-person WWII epics. The one problem with Call of Duty 2, my favorite in the series, is that you have to play the North African campaign in order to beat the game. To those who skim the pages of history, the campaign in Tunisia remains something of a mystery. Why were we there? What did Hitler want from those sun-stroked deserts? If the whole campaign was basically fought with tanks, couldn't those resources have gone elsewhere? These questions, and the general grimness of the Tunisian desert, are the reasons why Patton is not as flawless a film as I remember it being. The real meat of the war was the majestic fights among snow-capped French trees and in the rolling hillsides of Belgium. We certainly can't change history and take the Africa story out of Patton's career, but the mundane slog of the first half of the film has failed to hold up over the years.
This is not to say that Patton is a disappointment or a bore. It's very far from that. And while it is perhaps one of the most straight-laced Best Picture winners ever -- it certainly lacks the colorful flamboyance and rhetorical flourishes of Lawrence of Arabia -- it is clearly a film as gritty, odd, tough, and passionate as its subject. General Patton was many things: a rebel, a genius, a raving psycho, a grandstander, a shameless self-promoter, a brave man with few hesitations. George C. Scott's thunderous, performance captures all that and more. He stomps through scenes, cackles, plots and speechifies, and generally acts like the brilliant wart on the US Army's butt that he really was. Comparing it to his performance as Gen. Buck Turgidson in Dr. Strangelove, it's hard not to feel like Scott was more or less typecast; then again, maybe this is the role he was always supposed to play. In Lawrence of Arabia, David Lean captures the simmering intellect and the proud weirdness of the poet warrior at the center of the story through outlandish visuals. Patton provides a daring look at the other grand creature of the desert, and it is the film's overall matter-of-factness (while still allowing Patton's lunatic humor to shine through) that shows us how and why this larger than life human being came about.
The second half of the film is undoubtedly better than the first. Moving to familiar territory -- I hate to be Euro-centric, but most of what I care about in WWII was the post-D-Day campaigns in Italy, France, and Germany -- the film picks up the pace and gives us a look at a man desperately trying to regain (or maybe gain for the first time) a sense of glory and power that his higher-ups took away from him. From his funny and warm speech at the Doughnut Club to powerful and evocative moments on the snow-filled battlefields of Bastogne, we get a glimpse of the kind of man Patton was when he was trying to prove something -- as opposed to the first half, when we get the man who thinks he's already proved everything. It's a more humanizing act in the story, and the beautiful cinematography and elegant pacing serve to highlight the robustness of Patton's one-of-a-kind personality within the context of the larger European war.
It's somewhat odd that the Academy picked this film, which is really not an anti-war film by any stretch of the imagination, for Best Picture during the waning days of the Vietnam War. Every other war film to win the award -- All Quiet on the Western Front, The Bridge on the River Kwai, The Deer Hunter, and Platoon -- is loaded to the brim with cynicism about the art and execution of battle, and yet this war-glorifying film came in the midst of the most hated military operation in our nation's history. It's just curious.
I always prefer films about soldiers to films about commanding officers. It's simply more interesting to watch the day to day struggles of "regular guys" than it is to watch grown men sit around a table and count the nameless, faceless casualties. But Patton is a powerful film that has always stuck with me and probably always will, regardless of the distance it keeps from the real horrors of the battlefield. I give it a 9/10.
This is not to say that Patton is a disappointment or a bore. It's very far from that. And while it is perhaps one of the most straight-laced Best Picture winners ever -- it certainly lacks the colorful flamboyance and rhetorical flourishes of Lawrence of Arabia -- it is clearly a film as gritty, odd, tough, and passionate as its subject. General Patton was many things: a rebel, a genius, a raving psycho, a grandstander, a shameless self-promoter, a brave man with few hesitations. George C. Scott's thunderous, performance captures all that and more. He stomps through scenes, cackles, plots and speechifies, and generally acts like the brilliant wart on the US Army's butt that he really was. Comparing it to his performance as Gen. Buck Turgidson in Dr. Strangelove, it's hard not to feel like Scott was more or less typecast; then again, maybe this is the role he was always supposed to play. In Lawrence of Arabia, David Lean captures the simmering intellect and the proud weirdness of the poet warrior at the center of the story through outlandish visuals. Patton provides a daring look at the other grand creature of the desert, and it is the film's overall matter-of-factness (while still allowing Patton's lunatic humor to shine through) that shows us how and why this larger than life human being came about.
The second half of the film is undoubtedly better than the first. Moving to familiar territory -- I hate to be Euro-centric, but most of what I care about in WWII was the post-D-Day campaigns in Italy, France, and Germany -- the film picks up the pace and gives us a look at a man desperately trying to regain (or maybe gain for the first time) a sense of glory and power that his higher-ups took away from him. From his funny and warm speech at the Doughnut Club to powerful and evocative moments on the snow-filled battlefields of Bastogne, we get a glimpse of the kind of man Patton was when he was trying to prove something -- as opposed to the first half, when we get the man who thinks he's already proved everything. It's a more humanizing act in the story, and the beautiful cinematography and elegant pacing serve to highlight the robustness of Patton's one-of-a-kind personality within the context of the larger European war.
It's somewhat odd that the Academy picked this film, which is really not an anti-war film by any stretch of the imagination, for Best Picture during the waning days of the Vietnam War. Every other war film to win the award -- All Quiet on the Western Front, The Bridge on the River Kwai, The Deer Hunter, and Platoon -- is loaded to the brim with cynicism about the art and execution of battle, and yet this war-glorifying film came in the midst of the most hated military operation in our nation's history. It's just curious.
I always prefer films about soldiers to films about commanding officers. It's simply more interesting to watch the day to day struggles of "regular guys" than it is to watch grown men sit around a table and count the nameless, faceless casualties. But Patton is a powerful film that has always stuck with me and probably always will, regardless of the distance it keeps from the real horrors of the battlefield. I give it a 9/10.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Oliver! (1968): Eitan's Take
I sometimes forget how dark and visionary the work of Charles Dickens can be. I read most of his great books (Great Expectations, Bleak House, David Copperfield) and loved them, but time has dulled them in my memory. Seeing Oliver tonight brought back a lot of recollections about the grim choreography of his greatest narratives. I've never read Oliver Twist, and before I saw this musical adaptation I was wary; would it be a trifling children's musical, along the lines of Mary Poppins? Would it be a bland British snoozefest a la Tom Jones? I was surprised and pleased to find out that it is neither. Oliver is a flawed musical, carried end to end by some cliche moments and quite few unmemorable songs, but aside from some basic quibbles with the narrative, I was enthralled with Carol Reed's insightful and bold handling of the story, as well as the guts it took to address what is essentially a children's story with such an unapologetically dark tone.
Carol Reed is the mastermind behind The Third Man, so I shouldn't have been surprised that this film was elegantly and inventively shot to the point of breathlessness. Some of the musical sequences, especially "Consider Yourself," are filmed with such agility, precision, and warmth, that I may very well consider them to be among the finest moments in cinematographic history. There are no iconic shots, per se (as opposed to the many such moments in The Third Man), but as with the best sequences in the great movie musicals we've watched -- the opening shots of The Sound of Music, the garage dance in West Side Story, basically all of An American in Paris -- the whole scene feels indelible from start to finish. Besides the obviousness of the period sets, there is absolutely nothing in the artistic design, costuming, camerawork, or choreography that feels the slightest bit contrived. The film has no manners. It is unconcerned with making us happy or delighting us with saccharine imagery. Each song and each dance reveals another layer of Dickens' story -- its bleakness, its whimsy, its sharp approach to the hideousness and beauty of crime, its unrelenting aura of violence and fear. Adapting Dickens' formal prose into a musical might seem like a daunting or ridiculous idea, but the fact that the film preserves the author's narrative ingenuity while translating it into a production so elaborately conceived and executed is a testament to the gamble it took for Reed to take on the project to begin with.
The performances are similarly refined, and no review of this film would be complete without a complete and utter appraisal of the dark, deranged performance of Oliver Reed. It might just be that he looks a lot like Javier Bardem, but I sensed a lot of Anton Chighurh in his portrayal of the vicious Bill Sikes. (Why was this rated G?) His absolutely terrifying eyes peering through the mail slot at Oliver, his jacket filled with crowbars, and those weapon-like muttonchops all account for something, but Oliver Reed's performance is way more than the sum of his parts. Of course, the character is written as a remorseless thug, but few actors other than the frightening-in-real-life Reed could have pulled off this brave and intense a performance.
Oliver is, quite simply, one of the two or three biggest surprises for me in this project so far. I dreaded it for a long time as the G-rated-gagfest that stood in the way of watching Midnight Cowboy. But having seen it, I can almost say that this is far darker, far more sophisticated, and far more deranged (you only need to see the shot of Sikes dangling, stone dead, over the Tim Burtonesque setpiece near the end of the film to believe me) than the X-rated, death-and-despair Best Picture winner that followed. The haunting retelling of a familiar story, the brilliant art design, the crisp and inventive late-60's cinematography, and the incendiary direction of Carol Reed earn this film a 9/10.
Carol Reed is the mastermind behind The Third Man, so I shouldn't have been surprised that this film was elegantly and inventively shot to the point of breathlessness. Some of the musical sequences, especially "Consider Yourself," are filmed with such agility, precision, and warmth, that I may very well consider them to be among the finest moments in cinematographic history. There are no iconic shots, per se (as opposed to the many such moments in The Third Man), but as with the best sequences in the great movie musicals we've watched -- the opening shots of The Sound of Music, the garage dance in West Side Story, basically all of An American in Paris -- the whole scene feels indelible from start to finish. Besides the obviousness of the period sets, there is absolutely nothing in the artistic design, costuming, camerawork, or choreography that feels the slightest bit contrived. The film has no manners. It is unconcerned with making us happy or delighting us with saccharine imagery. Each song and each dance reveals another layer of Dickens' story -- its bleakness, its whimsy, its sharp approach to the hideousness and beauty of crime, its unrelenting aura of violence and fear. Adapting Dickens' formal prose into a musical might seem like a daunting or ridiculous idea, but the fact that the film preserves the author's narrative ingenuity while translating it into a production so elaborately conceived and executed is a testament to the gamble it took for Reed to take on the project to begin with.
The performances are similarly refined, and no review of this film would be complete without a complete and utter appraisal of the dark, deranged performance of Oliver Reed. It might just be that he looks a lot like Javier Bardem, but I sensed a lot of Anton Chighurh in his portrayal of the vicious Bill Sikes. (Why was this rated G?) His absolutely terrifying eyes peering through the mail slot at Oliver, his jacket filled with crowbars, and those weapon-like muttonchops all account for something, but Oliver Reed's performance is way more than the sum of his parts. Of course, the character is written as a remorseless thug, but few actors other than the frightening-in-real-life Reed could have pulled off this brave and intense a performance.
Oliver is, quite simply, one of the two or three biggest surprises for me in this project so far. I dreaded it for a long time as the G-rated-gagfest that stood in the way of watching Midnight Cowboy. But having seen it, I can almost say that this is far darker, far more sophisticated, and far more deranged (you only need to see the shot of Sikes dangling, stone dead, over the Tim Burtonesque setpiece near the end of the film to believe me) than the X-rated, death-and-despair Best Picture winner that followed. The haunting retelling of a familiar story, the brilliant art design, the crisp and inventive late-60's cinematography, and the incendiary direction of Carol Reed earn this film a 9/10.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
My Fair Lady (1964): Eitan's Take
I had forgotten how damned annoying Audrey Hepburn is for the first 45 minutes of My Fair Lady. Stomping, shrieking, growling, and yelping, she almost threatens to derail the entirely gorgeous affair. The fact that this film is, in spite of that early performance, so utterly charming, fulfilling, and likable is a testament to the working-overtime magnificence of it all. The shimmering costume design and orchestration, the soulful performance by Rex Harrison, and the meticulous design and direction make for a really wonderful affair. Technically, the film is a complete masterpiece; one only needs to watch the truly awesome "day at the races" sequence to get a feel for how much director George Cukor cares about every detail of the production. It's certainly the best musical about linguistics ever made.
I know that the film is an adaptation of a musical, which in turn was an adaptation of George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, so I can't exactly comment on the film's plot and content -- almost none of it is original. But I noticed some things tonight that I had never paid attention to before. First, coming just a few years after West Side Story (which, as you may recall, I pooh-poohed with glee), it's truly great to watch a musical that has deeply flawed and complicated characters. The relationship between Higgins and Doolittle starts as you might expect, and we watch with admiration as the eloquent but abrasive professor works wonders on the dirty street scoundrel. But over time, as Higgins' true nature (possessive as all hell, putting the "My" in "My Fair Lady") emerges, the film takes on rather tragic tones, as complex personalities collide. The simplicity of the subplots (Freddy's voyeurism, Eliza's father's tongue-in-cheek transformation) serves as a contrast to the epic clash between Eliza's growing sense of maturity and independence and Higgins' overpowering chauvinism and control-freak approach. When the film aims for some proto-feminist themes, it comes off slightly awkward, but more often than not we get what social ideas are at stake in Eliza's makeover.
One more thing: despite some truly inventive artistic direction, there are many parts of this film that simply do not escape their roots on the stage. For example, "gritty" downtown London is a victim of preposterous design. Tom Jones was a bleak and muddy affair, but at least its peasant London actually looked dirty.
I saw My Fair Lady for the last time nearly half my life ago, and it remains a stunning, unusually complicated piece of work. It's not my favorite musical to ever win Best Picture (Chicago, of course...) but it comes close. I remembered it being a 10-level masterpiece, but my early anger with Hepburn's screechy, ear-splitting performance brought it down to -- gasp! -- a 9. Lovely film.
I know that the film is an adaptation of a musical, which in turn was an adaptation of George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, so I can't exactly comment on the film's plot and content -- almost none of it is original. But I noticed some things tonight that I had never paid attention to before. First, coming just a few years after West Side Story (which, as you may recall, I pooh-poohed with glee), it's truly great to watch a musical that has deeply flawed and complicated characters. The relationship between Higgins and Doolittle starts as you might expect, and we watch with admiration as the eloquent but abrasive professor works wonders on the dirty street scoundrel. But over time, as Higgins' true nature (possessive as all hell, putting the "My" in "My Fair Lady") emerges, the film takes on rather tragic tones, as complex personalities collide. The simplicity of the subplots (Freddy's voyeurism, Eliza's father's tongue-in-cheek transformation) serves as a contrast to the epic clash between Eliza's growing sense of maturity and independence and Higgins' overpowering chauvinism and control-freak approach. When the film aims for some proto-feminist themes, it comes off slightly awkward, but more often than not we get what social ideas are at stake in Eliza's makeover.
One more thing: despite some truly inventive artistic direction, there are many parts of this film that simply do not escape their roots on the stage. For example, "gritty" downtown London is a victim of preposterous design. Tom Jones was a bleak and muddy affair, but at least its peasant London actually looked dirty.
I saw My Fair Lady for the last time nearly half my life ago, and it remains a stunning, unusually complicated piece of work. It's not my favorite musical to ever win Best Picture (Chicago, of course...) but it comes close. I remembered it being a 10-level masterpiece, but my early anger with Hepburn's screechy, ear-splitting performance brought it down to -- gasp! -- a 9. Lovely film.
Friday, March 21, 2008
The Apartment (1960): Eitan's Take
The 30's and 40's gave us rich and dark films about masculine ambition, but in the 50's and now 60's, we're being treated to stories of human kindness and decency -- no surprise, considering that these were the years of quaint domesticity, Ozzie and Harriet, and white picket fences. But beneath the nice-guy veneer of The Apartment lies an incredible meditation on sadness, human communication, and the kind of loneliness so big and so overwhelming that it fills up a whole home. Billy Wilder directed this movie right after Some Like It Hot, which, for all of its traipsing joy, has a hint of sadness to it as well. And we first witnessed his skillful arrangement of sad human drama in The Lost Weekend, which remains one of my favorite Best Picture winners so far.
In Jack Lemmon, Wilder finds an incredible, tragic everyman -- the kind of guy it's possible to both sympathize for and empathize with. The way he carries himself, the neuroses, the runny noses, the expression on his face when he opens up the box with his new bowler hat, the sad way flips through his rolodex trying to manage the appointments for all the corporate thugs who commandeer his apartment for their adulterous charades... Woody Allen spent years trying to recreate this sort of pathos, but Jack Lemmon does it so much better because he looks like, talks like, acts like, and could be anyone. Jaded by years of watching romance fail, Lemmon's C.C. Baxter is a portrait of resignation. He's sweet and chivalrous, but he also has deep flaws and deep emotional scars. When he tells Ms. Kubilek (the radiant and smart Shirley MacLaine, who we saw previously as an imprisoned Indian princess in Around the World in Eighty Days) about his suicide attempt, he adds a punchline so as not to disturb her -- or us -- too deeply, but it's impossible to escape the tragedy of the moment. Luckily, he reaches out to her and her famous reciprocation, "Shut up and deal," is all the more rewarding for it. The whole time, I kept thinking, "This is like Marty... but sophisticated."
Pinned up next to the lives of his colleagues, Baxter's own life has a strange twist of lemon to it. Though he's continually "sexiled" from his own home, the love he finds is so much deeper and more resonant than anything they could ever hope to experience. Halfway through the film, during the Christmas party, Kubilek learns from her lover Sheldrake's secretary that she's not the first -- and won't be the last -- of his illicit affairs. As an audience, it's natural for our heart to sink with her, and in her case that moment of despair seems to last forever, as she recedes into herself and begins to rethink the value of love. But then we're reminded of the graciousness and generosity of Baxter and the endless emotional support he lends (often at his own expense), and everything feels aligned again. The world can be a great place when the right people find each other and make love and life and hope work. Over and over, the movie breaks your heart, but then bends down next to you to help pick up the pieces. That's why the ending of The Apartment is so brilliant. There's nothing cliche about it. There's no cutesy kiss or wedding bells or grandiose speech. There's just the recognition -- on the characters' parts, as well as our own -- that after the reel flips up and the theater lights come up, life goes on. There's just optimism and uncertainty and honesty, laid out on the table like gin rummy cards. It's rarely so important for me that my friends and family see the Best Picture winners that Shira and I watch, but this one is a must-see. It crumbles to a 9/10, cookie-wise of course.
In Jack Lemmon, Wilder finds an incredible, tragic everyman -- the kind of guy it's possible to both sympathize for and empathize with. The way he carries himself, the neuroses, the runny noses, the expression on his face when he opens up the box with his new bowler hat, the sad way flips through his rolodex trying to manage the appointments for all the corporate thugs who commandeer his apartment for their adulterous charades... Woody Allen spent years trying to recreate this sort of pathos, but Jack Lemmon does it so much better because he looks like, talks like, acts like, and could be anyone. Jaded by years of watching romance fail, Lemmon's C.C. Baxter is a portrait of resignation. He's sweet and chivalrous, but he also has deep flaws and deep emotional scars. When he tells Ms. Kubilek (the radiant and smart Shirley MacLaine, who we saw previously as an imprisoned Indian princess in Around the World in Eighty Days) about his suicide attempt, he adds a punchline so as not to disturb her -- or us -- too deeply, but it's impossible to escape the tragedy of the moment. Luckily, he reaches out to her and her famous reciprocation, "Shut up and deal," is all the more rewarding for it. The whole time, I kept thinking, "This is like Marty... but sophisticated."
Pinned up next to the lives of his colleagues, Baxter's own life has a strange twist of lemon to it. Though he's continually "sexiled" from his own home, the love he finds is so much deeper and more resonant than anything they could ever hope to experience. Halfway through the film, during the Christmas party, Kubilek learns from her lover Sheldrake's secretary that she's not the first -- and won't be the last -- of his illicit affairs. As an audience, it's natural for our heart to sink with her, and in her case that moment of despair seems to last forever, as she recedes into herself and begins to rethink the value of love. But then we're reminded of the graciousness and generosity of Baxter and the endless emotional support he lends (often at his own expense), and everything feels aligned again. The world can be a great place when the right people find each other and make love and life and hope work. Over and over, the movie breaks your heart, but then bends down next to you to help pick up the pieces. That's why the ending of The Apartment is so brilliant. There's nothing cliche about it. There's no cutesy kiss or wedding bells or grandiose speech. There's just the recognition -- on the characters' parts, as well as our own -- that after the reel flips up and the theater lights come up, life goes on. There's just optimism and uncertainty and honesty, laid out on the table like gin rummy cards. It's rarely so important for me that my friends and family see the Best Picture winners that Shira and I watch, but this one is a must-see. It crumbles to a 9/10, cookie-wise of course.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957): Eitan's Take
Like On the Waterfront, the Bridge on the River Kwai is about making tough decisions and standing up for justice, no matter how imperfect it may be. And, like On the Waterfront, it is a genuine masterpiece. Early in the film, we witness Maj. Nicholson's (Alec Guinness) stubbornness and petulance in the face of Japanese commander Saito. In refusing to let the officers in his unit participate in the POW camp's manual labor tasks, he appears to be foolhardy and selfish... putting his own life and the lives of his colleagues at risk. Over what? But as he loosens the nerves from Saito and grabs hold of the reins of the bridge project, we watch as his gambit pays off tenfold.
Nicholson displays a unique kind of leadership in this film; to use an analogy I've heard a lot during the 2008 presidential campaign, his managerial philosophy is more like chess and less like boxing. In looking ahead and keeping tabs on the men most important to the cohesiveness of the POWs, he boosts morale down the road, inspires creativity and workmanship, and pushes the hundreds of gaunt prisoners above and beyond to successfully craft a beautiful bridge for their Japanese captors. When Nicholson nails the final plank to the bridge -- bearing the date and the names of the honorable British soldiers who built the gigantic structure -- we feel an immense pride in him.
The film could just be a typical "overcoming the odds" story, but it's much more crafty than that. It's cliche to say so, but the narrative is quite a bit like the bridge itself -- in the wrong hands, it would have been a haphazard project, but under the guidance of maestro and director David Lean, it's dense, grandiose, and highly detailed. Each storyline, from the bridge construction to Shears' (William Holden) ingenious commando operation to destroy the bridge, is held together with brilliant acting and a keen sense of purpose. Never stepping into the realm of the political or even the allegorical, we watch as the intensity thickens, as the bridge and all the craftsmanship that went into it become a reality, as the British and American mission to destroy it becomes a consuming passion for those involved, and as a catharsis nears that pits these two forces against one another. Sometimes, as we also learned in All Quiet on the Western Front, man is his own worst enemy, and the Bridge on the River Kwai pulls no punches and omits no human flaw to show that incredible truth. For its inspiration, for its portrayal of the undefeatable beat of the human spirit, and for its epic conclusion, 9/10
I have deep admiration for every war movie to ever win Best Picture. Remind me again why Saving Private Ryan isn't one of them?
Nicholson displays a unique kind of leadership in this film; to use an analogy I've heard a lot during the 2008 presidential campaign, his managerial philosophy is more like chess and less like boxing. In looking ahead and keeping tabs on the men most important to the cohesiveness of the POWs, he boosts morale down the road, inspires creativity and workmanship, and pushes the hundreds of gaunt prisoners above and beyond to successfully craft a beautiful bridge for their Japanese captors. When Nicholson nails the final plank to the bridge -- bearing the date and the names of the honorable British soldiers who built the gigantic structure -- we feel an immense pride in him.
The film could just be a typical "overcoming the odds" story, but it's much more crafty than that. It's cliche to say so, but the narrative is quite a bit like the bridge itself -- in the wrong hands, it would have been a haphazard project, but under the guidance of maestro and director David Lean, it's dense, grandiose, and highly detailed. Each storyline, from the bridge construction to Shears' (William Holden) ingenious commando operation to destroy the bridge, is held together with brilliant acting and a keen sense of purpose. Never stepping into the realm of the political or even the allegorical, we watch as the intensity thickens, as the bridge and all the craftsmanship that went into it become a reality, as the British and American mission to destroy it becomes a consuming passion for those involved, and as a catharsis nears that pits these two forces against one another. Sometimes, as we also learned in All Quiet on the Western Front, man is his own worst enemy, and the Bridge on the River Kwai pulls no punches and omits no human flaw to show that incredible truth. For its inspiration, for its portrayal of the undefeatable beat of the human spirit, and for its epic conclusion, 9/10
I have deep admiration for every war movie to ever win Best Picture. Remind me again why Saving Private Ryan isn't one of them?
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
An American in Paris (1951): Eitan's Take
Well, it's clearly been a long time since we've watched a film and written about it, but it's no use lamenting our malfeasance... on with the good stuff!
If there is a movie that was worth all this wait, it is certainly Gene Kelly's tremendously entertaining An American in Paris, which comes after a long tradition of big-budget musical Best Picture winners, and comes before the musical explosion of the 1960's. It goes without say that Kelly is a complete and utter genius. Funny, charming, talented as a singer, and possibly the single best dancer to ever be captured on celluloid, he completely owns this movie from the very minute we hear his opening monologue. As a starving painter in Paris, he's not entirely convincing -- he's too well-kept and cheerful to be living in poverty -- but for two hours he has us completely in his grip. The grip tightens during some incredible early musical numbers, including "I've Got Rhythm," which features a wonderfully irreverent tap dance done in a colorful alley in Paris and an adorable chorus of Kelly's grade school admirers. During his duets with his starving pianist friend Adam Cook (the funny and strange Oscar Levant), you can positively shut out everything in the outside world and just be completely and utterly entertained. Many of our Best Pictures so far have been impressive or admirable, but this is the first one in a long time (yes, including All About Eve, which I thought was more fascinating than fun) that just had me smiling the whole time. It's a long way from the bleak, dull Going My Way.
Gene Kelly's color and cheer is supplemented (though not matched) by the performances of his two female admirers. Nina Foch is a nice mix of seductive wit and pathetic adulation as Milo, Gene Kelly's rich benefactor. And Leslie Caron is charming if not entirely charismatic as Lisa, Kelly's perfume-shoppe love interest. The love stories are not what makes this film great, though. It's the color, the motion, the unflappable earnestness, and the richly textured and utterly innovative dance sequences that dive deep into what makes life and love tick and transform those ideas and feelings into beautiful, inventive, and bold splashes of choreographed movement. The climactic ballet sequence -- an 18 minute dream in which Kelly inhabits and dances through inconceivably brilliant three-dimensional landscapes of his paintings brought to life -- is among the greatest sequences I have ever, ever, ever seen in a movie. It is a dazzling and bewildering feat of filmmaking that alone could have won the Oscar. The fact that it's preceded by such a delightful story -- on par with Amelie for beautifully shot Parisian romance -- and the beautiful songs of the Gershwin brothers only adds to that.
Not quite as epic, or broad, or "magical" as the definitive 1952 masterpiece, Singin' in the Rain, but still, solid, well-earned 9/10.
Added Note: The scene in which Oscar Levant conducts an orchestra of multiple Oscar Levants is one of the most unique musical scenes I have ever watched. It's not supposed to be wondrous or enchanting so much as it is indicative of the deep and unceasing pain of not being able to bring to life the music -- or any art -- that is tucked away in your head.
If there is a movie that was worth all this wait, it is certainly Gene Kelly's tremendously entertaining An American in Paris, which comes after a long tradition of big-budget musical Best Picture winners, and comes before the musical explosion of the 1960's. It goes without say that Kelly is a complete and utter genius. Funny, charming, talented as a singer, and possibly the single best dancer to ever be captured on celluloid, he completely owns this movie from the very minute we hear his opening monologue. As a starving painter in Paris, he's not entirely convincing -- he's too well-kept and cheerful to be living in poverty -- but for two hours he has us completely in his grip. The grip tightens during some incredible early musical numbers, including "I've Got Rhythm," which features a wonderfully irreverent tap dance done in a colorful alley in Paris and an adorable chorus of Kelly's grade school admirers. During his duets with his starving pianist friend Adam Cook (the funny and strange Oscar Levant), you can positively shut out everything in the outside world and just be completely and utterly entertained. Many of our Best Pictures so far have been impressive or admirable, but this is the first one in a long time (yes, including All About Eve, which I thought was more fascinating than fun) that just had me smiling the whole time. It's a long way from the bleak, dull Going My Way.
Gene Kelly's color and cheer is supplemented (though not matched) by the performances of his two female admirers. Nina Foch is a nice mix of seductive wit and pathetic adulation as Milo, Gene Kelly's rich benefactor. And Leslie Caron is charming if not entirely charismatic as Lisa, Kelly's perfume-shoppe love interest. The love stories are not what makes this film great, though. It's the color, the motion, the unflappable earnestness, and the richly textured and utterly innovative dance sequences that dive deep into what makes life and love tick and transform those ideas and feelings into beautiful, inventive, and bold splashes of choreographed movement. The climactic ballet sequence -- an 18 minute dream in which Kelly inhabits and dances through inconceivably brilliant three-dimensional landscapes of his paintings brought to life -- is among the greatest sequences I have ever, ever, ever seen in a movie. It is a dazzling and bewildering feat of filmmaking that alone could have won the Oscar. The fact that it's preceded by such a delightful story -- on par with Amelie for beautifully shot Parisian romance -- and the beautiful songs of the Gershwin brothers only adds to that.
Not quite as epic, or broad, or "magical" as the definitive 1952 masterpiece, Singin' in the Rain, but still, solid, well-earned 9/10.
Added Note: The scene in which Oscar Levant conducts an orchestra of multiple Oscar Levants is one of the most unique musical scenes I have ever watched. It's not supposed to be wondrous or enchanting so much as it is indicative of the deep and unceasing pain of not being able to bring to life the music -- or any art -- that is tucked away in your head.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Hamlet (1948): Eitan's Take
The four adaptations of Hamlet from the 90’s – Kenneth Branagh’s, Mel Gibson’s, Ethan Hawkes’, and The Lion King – cannot hold a candle to Laurence Olivier’s, which is forever enshrined as the sovereign version of Shakespeare’s (and, probably, humanity’s) greatest tragedy. Among the chief reasons are the cinematography, the color (or the lack thereof), and the beyond belief performance of Olivier in the title role. Swathed in deep blacks, the print is a wonder to behold; each inky frame carries with it the pall of existential dread that a color version, and even a great stage version, could not capture. Scenes such as Hamlet’s first encounter with his father’s ghost and Ophelia’s elegantly twisted death are shot with such an attention to detail and the complexity of human emotion that they are almost surreal. The whole film is rather ethereal, and several of Olivier’s directorial decisions, such as his excision of most of the supporting cast (even beloved stalwarts like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are shockingly nowhere to be found) and the elimination of redundant or obvious soliloquies, do incredible justice to the overall mood and theme of the play by simplifying the whole proceeding. This serves to make it more accessible to new audiences of Hamlet, and also to make it tauter, more macabre, and more twisted and shocking. While it’s easy to watch it and, at some points, to shout out “Hey, he just edited out the ENTIRE monologue about how he will ensnare the conscience of the king,” it’s equally easy to watch it and admire the way Olivier pares down the familiar story to its most essential plot elements and move a four-hour story along at a speed fast enough to enjoy, but slow enough to allow reflection; I can even see how its camerawork, thematic explorations, and composition inspired the work of filmmakers like Bergman and Resnais.
And then, of course, there’s Olivier’s performance, which might be one of the best in cinema’s history. Having seen him in the throes of bizarre obsession just a few Oscar seasons earlier in Rebecca, it was interesting to see him assume a younger and more naïve role. He takes on Hamlet with incredible skill, and never slips into the comically-overdoing-it pit that so many Shakespearean actors fall prey to. He is simultaneously morbid, thoughtful, angered, heavy-hearted, and light on his feet. Olivier is definitely not reinventing this character from scratch; he merely plays it so true to the source material, and so thoroughly and emotionally, that you feel as though new life has been breathed into tired and overused lines (“To be or not to be,” “Alas, poor Yorick,” etc.). Modern actors revere Brando and Hepburn for their camera-ready simmer, but they should probably look further back to Olivier for a lesson in approaching complex and overwhelming roles with subtlety and ingenuity. I had seen this film once before, in an English class, but seeing it again in this more unique context has lent me an even more sincere appreciation for the dark and powerful form of this almost perfect Best Picture winner. 9/10.
And then, of course, there’s Olivier’s performance, which might be one of the best in cinema’s history. Having seen him in the throes of bizarre obsession just a few Oscar seasons earlier in Rebecca, it was interesting to see him assume a younger and more naïve role. He takes on Hamlet with incredible skill, and never slips into the comically-overdoing-it pit that so many Shakespearean actors fall prey to. He is simultaneously morbid, thoughtful, angered, heavy-hearted, and light on his feet. Olivier is definitely not reinventing this character from scratch; he merely plays it so true to the source material, and so thoroughly and emotionally, that you feel as though new life has been breathed into tired and overused lines (“To be or not to be,” “Alas, poor Yorick,” etc.). Modern actors revere Brando and Hepburn for their camera-ready simmer, but they should probably look further back to Olivier for a lesson in approaching complex and overwhelming roles with subtlety and ingenuity. I had seen this film once before, in an English class, but seeing it again in this more unique context has lent me an even more sincere appreciation for the dark and powerful form of this almost perfect Best Picture winner. 9/10.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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
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
Sunday, June 10, 2007
It Happened One Night (1934): Eitan's Take
Every once in a while, a romantic comedy comes around that completely restores my faith in the genre. Interestingly enough, that once in a while happened in 1934... Oh, Frank Capra, how you tug at my heartstrings, how you pull chuckles from my tummy like grass from a soft lawn. I was very, very much looking forward to this highly popular, eternally revered film, and wow -- I was NOT disappointed. Brimming with silly sex appeal, a sweet sense of humor, a rather edgy disposition, and truly unforgettable chemistry between Claudette Colbert as a freewheeling young socialite and Clark Gable as a smarmy, clever, and thoroughly adorable newspaper reporter sharing a seat with her on a bus, It Happened One Night truly earned every single one of its five major (Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, Screenplay) Oscars. Coming off of the wretched banality of Grand Hotel and Cavalcade, this movie was just such a charming relief. I don’t think the smile left my face for a single moment (though the film did begin to drag a bit near the end).
I am really surprised that I had never taken the time to watch this movie before. It has the zing of all my favorite screwball comedies -- Some Like it Hot, His Girl Friday, and Arsenic and Old Lace -- but it also has remarkable depth and believable character development. Many of the scenes in the movie are indelible parts of cinema history. I loved the donut-dunking scene and the tender night in the hay and the tremendously effective hitchhiking sequence, as well as the uproarious scene where Gable teaches Colbert how he undresses himself (“Now here’s where I mix it up a bit!”). It’s rare that I watch a film so completely lovable and so convincingly romantic, and these perfectly-executed scenes add up to a charming, silly, and near-perfect whole. I love the fact that although we never see the lovers -- brought together by madcap romantic desire and a set of incredibly adventurous circumstances -- engage in a kiss, the film ends with the suggestion of very kinky sex, with the killer combination of a roadside auto camp and a trumpet...
Clark Gable’s utter charm almost makes me look forward to Gone With the Wind. ALMOST. It Happened One Night earns a 9/10.
I am really surprised that I had never taken the time to watch this movie before. It has the zing of all my favorite screwball comedies -- Some Like it Hot, His Girl Friday, and Arsenic and Old Lace -- but it also has remarkable depth and believable character development. Many of the scenes in the movie are indelible parts of cinema history. I loved the donut-dunking scene and the tender night in the hay and the tremendously effective hitchhiking sequence, as well as the uproarious scene where Gable teaches Colbert how he undresses himself (“Now here’s where I mix it up a bit!”). It’s rare that I watch a film so completely lovable and so convincingly romantic, and these perfectly-executed scenes add up to a charming, silly, and near-perfect whole. I love the fact that although we never see the lovers -- brought together by madcap romantic desire and a set of incredibly adventurous circumstances -- engage in a kiss, the film ends with the suggestion of very kinky sex, with the killer combination of a roadside auto camp and a trumpet...
Clark Gable’s utter charm almost makes me look forward to Gone With the Wind. ALMOST. It Happened One Night earns a 9/10.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
All Quiet on the Western Front (1930): Eitan's Take
This is undoubtedly one of the best anti-war movies ever made, as well as one of the superlative war stories ever committed to film. I would contend that it is also one of the best films ever made. Tracing the lives of half a dozen German teenage boys from their bloodthirsty school days to their deaths (most of them) and their utter disillusionment in the face of horror, All Quiet on the Western Front is unflinching, brutal, disturbing, somber, and very, very powerful. Certain scenes will come back to me for a long time to come: a patient and mournful interlude where a German soldier spends the night in a muddy pit with a French soldier he has just stabbed and killed, a horrifying shot of two blown-off arms still clutching onto a barbed-wire fence, and main character Paul's weary wanderings through a life back home where he clearly does not fit.
All Quiet on the Western Front is directed with a sort of angry grace. With no attention to formal plot structure, we lose track of the time our protagonists have spent in the war -- then, we are thrown out of the trenches and pummeled with a merciless, shocking battle sequence with ambitious cinematography and an aura of true sadness that you just can't feel outside of the context of watching such a wasteful and worthless war. The movie is not hopeful, but it is thoughtful and perceptive about how to portray the gradual extermination -- both physical and emotional -- of the young men we follow. By the time Paul shows up in his old classroom, with his old warmongering teacher, the bright-eyed students he sees in the classroom look like infants... and then we remember that he was no younger when he wandered into the war. Additionally, it was interesting to note that all the actors portraying German soldiers speak with the aw-shucks affect of 20th century American boys; this was no doubt on purpose, to remind us that the Germans were human too, and no different from the Americans and Brits they fought against.
A beautiful, powerful, sobering -- and absurdly well made -- film with an anti-war message to last through the ages. It isn't perfect, but it's essential watching for anyone who wants to see war cinema at its finest. 9/10
P.S. The mastery and potency of this film makes last year's winner (The Broadway Melody) look like phony kid stuff.
All Quiet on the Western Front is directed with a sort of angry grace. With no attention to formal plot structure, we lose track of the time our protagonists have spent in the war -- then, we are thrown out of the trenches and pummeled with a merciless, shocking battle sequence with ambitious cinematography and an aura of true sadness that you just can't feel outside of the context of watching such a wasteful and worthless war. The movie is not hopeful, but it is thoughtful and perceptive about how to portray the gradual extermination -- both physical and emotional -- of the young men we follow. By the time Paul shows up in his old classroom, with his old warmongering teacher, the bright-eyed students he sees in the classroom look like infants... and then we remember that he was no younger when he wandered into the war. Additionally, it was interesting to note that all the actors portraying German soldiers speak with the aw-shucks affect of 20th century American boys; this was no doubt on purpose, to remind us that the Germans were human too, and no different from the Americans and Brits they fought against.
A beautiful, powerful, sobering -- and absurdly well made -- film with an anti-war message to last through the ages. It isn't perfect, but it's essential watching for anyone who wants to see war cinema at its finest. 9/10
P.S. The mastery and potency of this film makes last year's winner (The Broadway Melody) look like phony kid stuff.
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