Notorious (rewatch)

Hitchcock had a number of excellent films in the noir style (or genre or movement or whatever you want to call it).  Some are rather easily identifiable as noir, including greats like Shadow of a Doubt and The Wrong Man.  With others, one tends to think of them as “Hitchcock films” before thinking of them as “noir films.”  Notorious belongs to this latter category.  Perhaps because of its elegance, its Selznick sheen.  Or perhaps because most of the more blatant noir elements are reserved for the third act.  But it’s got enough of those elements to qualify.  The suspense and tension, the deception, battles of will, espionage, dark psychological edge, ethical decisions and scenes of deep chiaroscuro lighting.

But maybe even more than a great noir, it’s a great romance.  Devlin and Alicia are tragically stifled by their defense mechanisms.  Their love becomes the victim of a game of emotional chicken, with neither party willing to yield at the crucial moment.  Bergman’s performance is one of her best, perhaps even surpassing Casablanca.  With subtle expressions we see her guard raised and lowered, the veneer of strength as false but well-crafted as the hairpiece she wears.  She also does some of the finest “drunk acting” I’ve seen, glassy-eyed with just enough stumble to sell it.  We also sense that Grant’s practiced skepticism and mistrust is a put-on, but he refuses to budge, stubbornly testing Alicia every step of the way.  When he finally crumbles, it’s a wonderfully cathartic moment, inside one of the film’s most suspenseful scenes.

And let’s not forget Claude Rains.  You almost feel sorry for our villain, caught between a woman who has thoroughly hoodwinked him and a domineering mother (a Hitchcock staple).  By this point however, we’re too much on Alicia’s side to support his vengeful scheme.

Ben Hecht’s script is letter-perfect, not a single line feels clunky or misplaced.  The exposition feels organic, not forced, and there are a number of beautifully crafted lines.  The cinematography, as stated above, is elegant, and the framing emphasizes the power structures in place.  And of course that magnificent crane in to Alicia’s palm, or those telling close-ups of coffee cups.  So what’s holding me back from the “Masterpiece” rating?  It’s really, really close.  It just lacks that je ne sais quoi to push it over the top.  Maybe it needs a couple more really impressive scenes as opposed to really effective ones.  Or something.  Whatever the case, it’s still one of my favorite Hitchcocks and one of my favorite noirs.  Rating: Great

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Belle de Jour (rewatch)

I had hoped that on purchasing and revisiting Belle de Jour on Blu-Ray I would gain more appreciation for it.  Since my first viewing I’ve seen almost everything else of Bunuel’s and consider myself to be a pretty big fan.  It’s one of his most highly-regarded works, and by many accounts his finest.  And it’s got a lot of good qualities.  The fantasy sequences, the humor, the feminist implications, the class commentary.  And yet, it’s still middling Bunuel to me.  This may seem strange to say about a film so rich with kinky masochism, but it doesn’t seem to me nearly as subversive as films like Viridiana or Exterminating Angel or El.  It always feel a bit watered down, despite sly touches like the mysterious buzzing box or the necrophilia routine.

It also lacks the surrealist bent I enjoy.  Some seem to find all sorts of ambiguities in it, but I think except for the ending it’s all rather straightforward with clear divisions between fantasy and reality.  I read one review that suggests all of the brothel scenes are fantasy, which might be a fun interpretation to play with, but is pretty indefensible.  And for what it’s worth, Bunuel completely shuts down that theory in the interview printed in Criterion’s booklet.  While the fantasies are delightfully twisted, they’re less fun when you know they’re just plays on the imagination and not some sort of warped reality.

Bunuel’s preference for very plain photography also seems to be rather extreme here.  While the film doesn’t call for flashy shots, it’s usually so visually uninteresting that the material doesn’t make up for it.  And what a waste of Sacha Vierny!

This all sounds like a lot of bitching but of course I don’t think it’s a bad film.  It’s just that there are about ten Bunuel movies I enjoy more.  Perhaps if I was more interested in the sexual subject matter it would be more compelling for me.  But it seems like a rather conventional outing for him that doesn’t tickle the imagination or the funny bone enough.  Rating: Good

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Le beau Serge

I consider myself fairly well versed in the French New Wave.  I’ve seen everything by Truffaut (my favorite) and the most of major and some of the minor works by Godard, Rohmer, and Rivette, as well as Left Bank directors like Varda, Resnais and Demy.  And yet except for L’Enfer (which I actually watched accidentally) and Le Boucher Chabrol has eluded me.  Perhaps it’s because his name rarely pops up on the canonical lists.  He’s considered a major figure and this film, his first, is generally regarded as the birth of the nouvelle vague.  He just doesn’t seem to have a lot of supporters.

And I can see why.  My reactions to what I’ve seen can be best characterized as “lukewarm.”  He doesn’t appear to have much of a distinctive style or voice.  Although there is a certain freedom and ambivalence to what he’s doing here, and it doesn’t seem as “produced” as classical film, there’s not much about it that says “New Wave.”  My review of Boucher was two brief lines, and although I think I’ve improved my reviewing skills since then, I’m struggling to come up with more than that to say now.  It definitely looks great for a first film, especially with Reichardt’s somewhat sloppy debut still fresh in my memory.  Some of the scenes are quite beautiful, particularly during the climax.  The characters feel genuine, with the naive but well-meaning Francois (Jean-Claude Brialy) and the angry, bitter drunk Serge (Gerard Blain) at the center.  But I dunno… it’s all just kind of dull.  It left me feeling not much of anything about it.

I really can’t think of anything else to say.  I’ll probably just avoid Chabrol from now on… he’s not bad, but he’s not my cup of tea.  Rating: Fair

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River of Grass

Kelly Reichardt’s debut feature seems at first a far cry from her later films (Old Joy, Wendy and Lucy, Meek’s Cutoff).  For one thing, it’s set in the opposite corner of the country, Florida as opposed to Oregon.  For another, it’s more comic and playful with the form.  There’s dark humor and voiceover and title cards breaking up the “chapters.”  But like the other films (particularly the latter two) it concerns epic drama on a small scale.  Godard famously said “All you need for a movie is a girl and a gun.”  Perhaps inspired by that, Reichardt’s film concerns Cozy, a young mother who through a set of poetically coincidental circumstances ends up with the revolver that her detective father has lost, and accidentally shoots at someone with it.  She and her companion Lee – a slacker type — take to the road and embark on a series of almost-crimes in their almost-flee from the law.

What I love about this film, and Reichardt’s work in general, is the smallness of it.  Nothing is overstated.  Cozy’s home life is unsatisfying but not oppressive or harmful.  She’s just feeling some sort of existential ennui, and being a fugitive gives her a sense of identity.  But even this is beautifully underplayed… we don’t see her gleefully revelling in the role or anything like that, yet we understand that this is an escape for her.  The dramatic beats of the plot are all very small, there are no grand gestures until the very end, which is all the more effective for the diminished tones of the narrative preceding it.

It takes a while to get past the amateurish nature of the film.  It looks sloppy, the narration is sometimes overwritten, and most of the secondary performances are poor.  But Lisa Bowman and Larry Fessenden are, after the initial impression wears off, quite good in the leads and have a rather sweet and shabby chemistry together.  There’s a lovely (and again, nicely understated) moment where they pass a joint with their toes.  If you can overlook the roughness of the film, it’s a subtle, engaging look at the lives and aspirations of its characters.  Rating: Good

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Manhattan (rewatch)

I drink your milkshake... and commit statutory rape

I hesitated to purchase this Blu-Ray, and I see now that I shouldn’t have.  Oh, it’s a good movie (go ahead and peek at my score, it’s “Good”).  But it keeps slipping further down my Woody Allen list.  The cinematography by Gordon Willis is unassailable, no complaints there.  I don’t think there’s much competition for Woody’s best-looking film.  And the Gershwin music makes a terrific romantic counterpart.  The script is certainly witty, there’s a number of great lines.  But I wouldn’t rank it among his funniest.  That’s fine, not every one has to be wall-to-wall laughs.  There are some nice insights into the irrationality and confusion of relationships, especially neurotic ones.  Allen and Keaton are both wonderful, in fact it may be one of Allen’s best performances.  I love some of his expressions and mannerisms when Keaton breaks it off with him.  But Michael Murphy doesn’t do much for me, and Mariel Hemingway is a zero.  Her vacant stare and dead line readings do nothing to convey the maturity and intelligence she’s supposed to project.

And that brings us to the Ick Factor.  I mean… ick.  I’m a couple years younger than Allen’s character, and the thought of dating of a 17 year-old is repulsive to me.  It’s just… ICK!  And I don’t mean just sexually.  I don’t care what hoity-toity schools you went to or how clever you are, there’s a world of difference between the maturity of 17 and 42.  And yet no one in the film treats it like a big deal.  There are some mild protestations from his friends, but they’re mostly playful.  Allen has some reservations about it, but pedophilia triumphs in the end.  Okay, she’s 18 then, but it’s still creepy and weird how casually it’s dealt with.  Where are this girl’s parents?  I suppose they’re sophisticated New Yorkers so they don’t mind.

Some might say I’m nitpicking, some might even say I’m missing the point.  They might be right.  I can’t get past it, though.  It bugs me more each time.  I doubt I’ll watch it again, but it’s already been 4 or 5 times anyway.  Rating: Good

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The Warped Ones

Akira is a young petty criminal, just out of jail for pickpocketing.  With his two friends (a wannabe yakuza and his hooker girlfriend) in tow, he sets about terrorizing square society at large, and specifically the fiancée of the man who set him up.  I’m not very familiar with the Japanese “sun tribe” films of the late 50′s/early 60′s, movies that showcased restless, disillusioned youths in the vein of Marlon Brando and James Dean, but much wilder.  Several years ago I watched Crazed Fruit and although I didn’t love it at the time (maybe I would appreciate it more nowadays), I thought it had some fine elements.

The merits of this film lie largely in its attitude.  The style is as reckless and carefree as its protagonist, whose only passions in life are jazz (“real jazz” as he frequently scolds poseurs who prefer something more watered down), sun, sex (including rape) and small crimes.  While the soundtrack booms with heavy, improvisational jazz, the camera whips around untethered, often reaching up towards the sun that Akira manically basks in.  These characters are not to be pitied or sympathized with, although their rebellion is not entirely groundless.  They prostitute themselves to Americans and American culture.  At one point Akira laments, “Blacks created jazz.  Then whities stole it.  And now we copy it.  We’re the worst!”  Perhaps as a reflection of the Japanese culture as a whole, Akira is seeking a new identity and coming up empty.  Something needs to be shaken up, but what?

Rebellious youth can make for exhilarating films that question societal norms, for example A Clockwork Orange and Quadrophenia.  Kurahara isn’t asking terribly deep questions here, but he does utilize filmic technique beautifully to capture a sense of dizzy frustration.  Rating: Very Good

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Intimidation

 

I’ve been wanting to see Criterion’s “Eclipse Series” release “The Warped World of Koreyoshi Kurahara” for some time now.  After five months of waiting for either Netflix or the library to acquire it, I decided to do a rare thing and make a blind buy.  Although I got it for a decent price, it was a risky proposition.  My only previous experience with Kurahara was his debut film, I Am Waiting.  It was featured in another Eclipse box, “Nikkatsu Noir” which is a fantastic set but Kurahara’s was one of the lesser entries in my opinion.

If this film is any indication of the quality of Kurahara’s other work, I think I have nothing to worry about.  It’s another noir, but far more riveting, about a banking executive rising to the top (largely because of his marriage to the president’s daughter), and his old friend, a meek but bitter clerk in the same bank.  Oh, and the blackmailer who has him by the balls.  The running time is a quick 65 minutes, but nothing’s missing here.  It’s a wonderfully constructed story, loaded with surprises and tightly wound tension.  Ko Nishimura is fantastic as the clerk, torn between the obligations his social standing demands and his resentment towards Nobuo Kaneko, who is slimy and devious but not cartoonishly so.  The photography is spot on, especially during the gripping robbery scene.  The ending is a nice touch, although it may be the weak point of the movie as it defies explanation.  Really looking forward to the others in the set, though I’ll probably break them up over a few days to avoid burnout.  Rating: Very Good

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Pale Flower

A new wave yakuza flick where a recently paroled gangster becomes fascinated with a seductive young woman out for kicks.  When you hear “new wave yakuza” you might think of Seijun Suzuki, but tonally it reminded me more of Oshima’s Pleasures of the Flesh from the following year.  The film is thick with atmosphere… noir lighting, underworld locations, reckless racing through the nighttime streets.  The score is especially unusual, with a lot of avant-garde jazz, a bowling alley brawl done to muzak, and an operatic climax that feels about 10 years ahead of its time.  There’s an existentialist vibe to the movie, which traffics more in introspective moments than action.

The problem is I never really got involved with these characters.  Muraki’s voiceover gives some insight to what drives him, but I didn’t feel the same draw to Saeko that he did.  Mariko Kaga (also starring in the aforementioned Pleasures of the Flesh) has a few intriguing moments, but doesn’t strike me as the irresistible femme fatale she’s presented as.  Without a strong connection to Muraki or his motivations, it ends up feeling like a lot of pointless drifting around.  The gambling scenes in particular are too drawn out, though they may have more significance for a Japanese audience familiar with the games.

Overall I did like the film, especially its bold but restrained stylization.  But I feel it won’t stick with me for long.  Rating: Good

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The Man from London (rewatch)

A review of any of the films that made Tarr’s reputation (those from Damnation onwards) is inevitably going to draw from a certain handful of words, so let’s get those out of the way.  Hypnotic.  Texture.  Mood.  Stark.  Bleak.  Slow.  Breathtaking.  Haunting.  Stunning.  Unforgettable.

Okay, that’s done.  I wrote extensively (for me, that is) on this film in my previous review, so forgive me if I repeat myself.  Of Tarr’s last five features, this one is rated the lowest on IMDb.  I believe one factor is Tilda Swinton.  Her name undoubtedly drew in some people who didn’t know what they were in for.  Indeed, if you read the reviews, most of the negative ones sound like those who have never seen another Tarr film.  He’s not for everybody.  I realize the connotation of that phrase is that the people he is for are more special than others.  That is absolutely true.  We are more special.

But there are a couple of shortcomings in the film itself.  The most obvious problem is the dubbing.  Although the dialogue is (of course) sparse, when people do speak it’s very distracting.  Perhaps Tarr intended it to be unnatural, but for a filmmaker whose work is so intensely immersive, you don’t want to be jarred out of it.  It’s also arguably the most plot-driven movie of his later career, which means we ought to hold the story up to greater scrutiny.  And the story isn’t great.  It’s a good, noir-tinged tale, with deeply ingrained misery and dread.  But it isn’t great. 

Still, one watches Tarr more for atmosphere and humanity thrown into stark relief than for the joys of a good narrative, even when the narrative is more prominent.  And atmosphere-wise, I think it’s right up there with the best of them.  His talent for transforming one shot to another with movement rather than cuts gives the viewer of an uneasy feeling of being a silent observer.  The camera moves like the eye, but far slower and more deliberately.  You suddenly (or gradually) find yourself studying a completely different tableau from where you started.  And the rich cinematography is complemented by eerie sound design and scoring.  Shortcomings be damned, it’s a hell of an experience.

Nonetheless, in my Criticker scores I’m going to bump Damnation up a bit and this one down a bit, leaving it at the bottom of those last five films.  But that’s an amazing run of films and The Man from London is nothing to be wary of for any fan of Tarr’s work.  Rating: Great

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Broadway Melody of 1940

A case of mistaken identity rockets a small-time dancer (George Murphy) to stardom.  His more talented partner (Fred Astaire) watches from the sidelines as his buddy threatens to steal all the glory, and the leading lady (Eleanor Powell).  I guess I should start with Astaire, who I unfavorably compared to Gene Kelly in my review of Summer Stock the other day.  Although I stand by my comparison, I didn’t mean to denigrate Astaire.  His moves are beautifully fluid yet precise, as in the wonderful solo number “I’ve Got My Eyes on You.”  I just don’t like him quite as much as a leading man.  But that’s not to say he isn’t charming, because he is.

Powell, on the other hand, is a bit of a problem.  Certainly a lovely gal and a talented stepper, but (in this film, at least) short on personality.  She just sort of hovers around and looks pretty.  The chemistry between her and Astaire is practically non-existent off the dance floor… and actually not so much on the dance floor either.  They just don’t click like Rogers and Astaire.  If the romance falters, however, the friendship between Astaire and Murphy provides some compelling character moments.  It’s the most interesting part of the story, watching Murphy crumble under the weight of his undeserved success while Astaire gamely tries to boost him up.  I also have to say that while “wacky misunderstanding” plots usually annoy me, this one was handled fairly well with a minimum of implausible mix-up humor.

The songs (most penned by Cole Porter) all range from good to very good.  The grand finale is “Begin the Beguine” which alternates between elaborate Berkeley-esque productions and Astaire/Powell tap dancing.  It runs a trifle long, but it’s a dandy tune.  The comedy is largely supplied by Frank Morgan as a talent scout who woos ladies with a constantly recycled ermine cape.  A handful of vaudeville acts — a juggler, a comic musical duo and an amusingly brief appearance by a unicyclist — add some variety to the mix without feeling like everything is grinding to a halt.

Not one I’d bother to watch again, but a generally entertaining diversion.  Rating: Good

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