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.