The Weekly Gravy #4

The End of August at the Hotel Ozone/Konec srpna v Hotelu Ozon (1967) – ***

Also known as Late August at the Hotel Ozone.

I might not have ever heard of this film if it weren’t for my friend Ethan, who tipped me off after he discovered it himself. I was lucky enough to find a copy in the wild not long after, but didn’t get around to watching it until last night (as I write this); I was reminded of it by, of all things, a mention of the band Ozone, even though they’re a Romanian band (they did the “Numa Numa” song) and this is a Czech film. But that’s just how these things work.

Years after an apocalyptic event, eight young women, all born after the collapse of the old world, traverse the landscape under the leadership of an older woman (Beta Ponicanová), seeking other remnants of humanity, especially men who might help the young women have children and thus preserve the human race (well, at least for a short time). They find very little except ruins; at one point the old woman finds some evidence of recent human activity, and grows both excited and tense, but it turns out to have been a prank by one of the girls.

And, indeed, the girls have a propensity for near-feral behavior, with acts of wanton violence, especially against animals, and a generally survivalist attitude prevailing among them. Eventually they find an elderly man (Ondrej Jariabek), living in relative luxury at the Hotel Ozone, an abandoned resort, and he quickly forms a bond with the older woman based on their shared memories of the before times. But when she falls ill and dies, the girls prepare to resume their journey over the old man’s protests, and when he refuses to give them his gramophone, one of them shoots him dead.

The film is deliberately ambiguous as to how much remains of humanity; in a happier moment the old man is optimistic about who or what might be out there, but near the end he turns pessimistic and claims there’s nothing left. And that leads to another layer of ambiguity: is the film suggesting that humanity (or what’s left of it) is doomed thanks to the brutish behavior of the newest generation? Or is it suggesting that the older generation is hung up on their memories of the past and must step aside (not necessarily in death, mind you) to make way for the future? The film doesn’t pretend to offer answers, which is wise.

What wasn’t wise, for my money, was the decision to make it a feature, albeit a short one (78 minutes). There’s just not enough to the story or characters—especially the girls, who aren’t really individualized—to sustain it, and the first half in particular meanders; when they encounter the old man, it does pick up, but it never quite catches fire. There’s a definite poignancy to the bond between the elders, and the girls’ bewilderment in the face of the artifacts of a dead world bears some thematic fruit, but the film eventually drops that for the sake of its possibly-nihilistic ending.

It doesn’t help that it’s a fairly standard piece of filmmaking. There are some nice touches, like the opening series of nuclear countdowns in different languages followed by the image fading to white—a neatly understated depiction of a nuclear holocaust—but all in all Jan Schmidt’s direction and Jirí Macák’s cinematography are nothing special (the production design is rather good, however). And outside of Ponicanová, who does a fine job conveying the old woman’s firm resolve and the melancholy underneath, the acting isn’t much to talk about.

Meanwhile, Pavel Jurácek’s script provides too little in terms of character and theme to really sustain the film’s length. Again, it really should’ve been a short (he and Schmidt had much success with their earlier short, Joseph Kilian), as we probably would’ve lost little beyond a lot of walking through the wilderness (and a fairly gratuitous scene where the girls butcher a cow). There’s a good speech in which the old woman reflects on their mission and its objective:

Everything is different now. Rivers, mountains, the valley. In the last three years I have lost track of where we are, and where we are going. Places have no name. But you don’t mind, do you? It rained all the summers . There were bubbles on the water. Once my ball floated away, they told me it may drift to the sea. I stopped crying. I’ve never been back since, until now. But it might be somewhere else.

It’s a fine summation of the sad, broken world the film seeks to depict. Turn it into a poem and you’ve honestly got something. But the film as a whole doesn’t quite live up to it. If this review makes it sound like I disliked the film, I want to make it clear that I didn’t; it’s still a solid film, a mid-high ***, decently well done in all departments, consistently watchable (if rather unpleasant at times). It just doesn’t live up to the promise of the nifty title or the hope, based on its obscurity, that it might be a hidden gem. But if you can find it, you might as well give it a shot.

Score: 73

Fantasia (1940) – ****

It’s probably telling that Fantasia was my favorite classic Disney film when I was younger (or so I recall); it’s the most experimental, the most esoteric, the least emotionally rewarding, at least by traditional metrics. But to me, the beauty of the music, the incredible variety and artistry of the animation, and the sense of sheer imagination and enthusiasm which radiate out of virtually every frame make it a film I treasure. I often listen to music, especially classical music or modern symphonic music, and marry it to images in my own imagination. Fantasia, and the ambition behind it, are very close to my heart.

You probably have a favorite segment—maybe it’s the pure Disney magic of “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” the delightful anthropomorphic ballet of the “Dance of the Hours,” or the Satanic horrors of “Night on Bald Mountain.” I think, if I had to pick, I’d go with “The Nutcracker Suite,” with its wonderful Cossack thistles, adorable Chinese mushrooms, graceful Arabian goldfish, and stunning frost fairies. But there’s also the eerie abstractions of “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” (my favorite being the lumbering emerald-thing), the prehistoric grandeur of “The Rite of Spring” (especially the dinosaurs’ haunting death march), and the charming Greco-Roman capers of the “Pastoral Symphony.”

Even “Meet the Soundtrack,” probably my least favorite part of the film, serves a nice little illustration of how optical sound works. And Deems Taylor’s introductions throughout the film, while not as informative as they could be (and his assertion that “nobody performs” The Nutcracker hasn’t exactly aged well), add a bit of gravitas and structure to a film which was, especially for its time, so boldly experimental. I’m glad they were restored to their full length for the DVD release.

Indeed, this time around I appreciated the live-action segments a fair amount more than before, especially the striking, expressionistic Technicolor cinematography, courtesy of James Wong Howe, whose use of silhouettes and colored light still dazzles the eye, especially in concert with the graceful, subtle editing, which makes for a film which feels fresh and vivid nearly 80 years after it first appeared. (If I only could see it in full Fantasound.)

I do have my issues with the film. “Night on Bald Mountain” is a favorite classical piece of mine, and Stokowski rushes the tempo far too often, and truncates the piece (I was surprised at just how brief it actually is) to make more room for “Ave Maria”…which quite honestly ends the film on a slightly flat note. And “The Rite of Spring” fizzles out a bit at the end, mostly because the original plan was to progress through to the evolution of modern Homo sapiens, but pressures from creationist groups led Disney to end it with a solar eclipse over the Earth which has just buried all immediate trace of the dinosaurs. Stravinsky wasn’t too happy either.

But those are quibbles, because Fantasia is the rare film where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Any individual segment would be quite solid on its own, but together, linked by Taylor’s narration and the smartly-crafted live-action footage, they become an incredible testament to the powers of music and animation, a film which might not have achieved precisely what Disney hoped for (being in a state of constant release with segments being added and removed over time), but which has its own unity, its own stunning scope, its own considerable greatness.

At the start of the film, Taylor refers to it as a “new form of entertainment.” It may not have inspired many imitators, but it needs none. It might well be the finest Disney film ever made.

Score: 96

Yolanda and the Thief (1945) – **½

This was a major flop in 1945, and it hasn’t improved much with time; it’s the kind of breezy entertainment which should seem effortless, but here the effort to charm and amuse shows at almost every turn, and the effect is rather leaden. Add in a lack of memorable songs and you’ve got a musical comedy which isn’t very tuneful or funny—a pretty poor prospect for the viewer.

The story is part of the problem. In the South American country of Patria, Yolanda Aquaviva (Lucille Bremer) is heir to an enormous fortune, but having spent her whole life in a convent (the film begins on her 18th birthday), she is quite unprepared to assume control of it, and her flighty aunt Amarilla (Mildred Natwick) isn’t much help. Enter two American conmen, Johnny Riggs (Fred Astaire) and Victor Trout (Frank Morgan), who’ve come to Patria to make their fortune. Learning about the Aquaviva fortune, Johnny decides to relieve her of it, but how?

He gets a lucky break when he overhears her praying to her guardian angel for guidance, and decides to pose as said angel having assumed human form, going under the name “Mr. Brown.” Yolanda is immediately taken in and signs a document giving Johnny power of attorney, before giving him a huge amount in bonds (which he now has the means to cash). He and Victor plan to make their escape, but of course complications develop; Johnny begins to fall for Yolanda, and there’s the matter of the mysterious Mr. Candle (Leon Ames), who seems to know just what Johnny and Victor are up to.

I know that musical comedies aren’t known for their airtight plotting, but the film asks us to believe that the Aquaviva family is incredibly wealthy and practically owns Patria (they own an airline, which was a much bigger deal in 1945), yet has no lawyers, advisors, or anyone who might have given Yolanda the rundown on just what she was inheriting and how to make use of it before dumping the whole thing in her lap on her 18th birthday. There doesn’t even seem to be any other Aquavivas besides Amarilla, who doesn’t have the business skill to run a hot dog stand, let alone a corporation.

You expect there to be a twist: either the family isn’t really rich, or Yolanda and/or Amarilla are sharper than they look. But no, Johnny pulls off his con so easily that his ultimate change of heart (come on, is that a spoiler?) seems rooted more in pity than love. It’s all too ridiculous to take seriously, and if that doesn’t sound like a huge problem, it does fatally undermine the romance which should be at the heart of the film.

The performances also don’t help. Astaire was only about a year away from his first temporary retirement, and he really seems to be phoning it in here; he’s halfhearted as a conman and has very little chemistry with Bremer in the romantic scenes. He dances about as well as he ever did, but for the most part his performance is decidedly unenthused, and it’s no surprise to learn he didn’t think much of the film. As for Bremer, the film was meant to be a major boost to her career, but its failure hastened her departure from Hollywood. It’s not her fault that Yolanda is a pretty weak role, one that she was clearly too old and worldly to play (you never believe that she could be so totally naive), but she doesn’t do much to compensate for her miscasting; she’s competent without being convincing.

Morgan is better, if a long way from his best work (you wish he had a larger role to play in the actual con), but it’s Natwick who really steals the film; she doesn’t get significantly better material, but her spirited dottiness is more fun to watch than what just about anyone else is doing. And Ames, around whom the film’s final (fairly silly) twist centers, is a solid figure of sly mystery and prickly calculation. Irving Brecher’s script just doesn’t give them much to work with; in addition to the thin story (spread over an oddly elongated 108 minutes), the jokes are mostly too telegraphed, or just too hacky, to be particularly funny.

The songs by Harry Warren and producer Arthur Freed aren’t much help. There are shockingly few of them; there are really only five musical numbers, two of which are mostly dance-driven. That just leaves three songs: “This is a Day for Love,” the generic Patrian national anthem; “Angel,” a forgettable number sung by Yolanda as she prepares to meet “Mr. Brown”; and “Yolanda,” which Johnny sings to her (accompanying himself on the harp!) while waiting for some ink so she can sign over her fortune. It’s a pleasant ditty, but not too memorable either.

That leaves the two dance numbers, which are easily the film’s high points. The latter is the “Coffee Time” routine, where Johnny and Yolanda do a jazzy dance at a carnival ball; it’s fun. But the former is the 14-minute “Dream Ballet,” which begins with the rhythmic sounds of washerwomen and ends with Johnny’s dream of marrying Yolanda, including the lyrics “Let the band begin/Playing Lohengrin”—not a reference you’d expect to find in a musical comedy of that era!—and also includes highly stylized settings, a human horse race, and all the flowing fabric you could want. It’s hard to say it has much of anything to do with anything, but it’s pretty striking to watch.

It’s in this sequence and in the use of color throughout that the hand of director Vincente Minnelli is most apparent. It was a relatively early effort for him—his first film, Cabin in the Sky, opened just two and a half years before Yolanda—but at the very least he’s able to craft a handsome-looking film, as befitting the large budget MGM gave the film. The production design is consistently lush, and the costumes, if garish (Astaire’s pajamas are especially absurd) are likewise lavish. But pretty colors don’t make a film; Fantasia has more colors than just about any film ever made, but it damn well uses them.

It also has brilliant music and a bold vision behind it, and Yolanda has neither; whatever the intentions were behind it, it’s a pretty thin bit of fluff, with a premise that now seems more creepy than whimsical and far too little charm or wit to make up for it. It’s not a bad film, really, and although I considered lowering my score repeatedly, I had to remind myself that, all in all, it was watchable enough not to sink further. But unless you’re an Astaire or Golden Age musical completist, you can pass on Yolanda.

Score: 60

An Almost Perfect Affair (1979) – ***

I remember exactly where I first heard of this film, and I think I remember exactly when as well; it was at The Exchange on Belmont Avenue in Chicago, and I think it was right around Thanksgiving 2013. I know because I’d never heard of the film and was rather intrigued, in part because it was a major studio release that I’d never heard of, and presumably in part because it’s a romantic comedy set around the Cannes Film Festival. I also know that I didn’t get it on DVD until after I moved to Kansas City in the late summer of 2014, because I got it at a suburban pawn shop that wouldn’t necessarily be the place I’d expect to find this particular film on DVD. But find it I did, and when I woke an hour and half earlier than I meant to this morning, watch it I did.

While I’m a bit surprised it’s as thoroughly obscure as it is—I couldn’t even find a proper poster for it, so I used the cover of the soundtrack album—having seen it, I can’t really say it deserves to be much better known. American filmmaker Hal Raymond (Keith Carradine) has come to Cannes to hawk his Gary Gilmore docudrama, Choice of Ending. Unfortunately, his print gets caught up in red tape, and all seems lost until he befriends Maria Barone (Monica Vitti), the wife of producer Federico Barone (Raf Vallone), who’s premiering his own new film in competition. Maria introduces Hal to Federico, who’s able to straighten everything out with a snap of his fingers.

A grateful Hal invites them to a party hosted by Andrew Jackson (Dick Anthony Williams), an enterprising auteur who’s anxious to take Hal under his wing, and Federico encourages Maria to attend. They do, and afterward they go back to his hotel and commence an affair. The rest of the film follows the ups and downs of their relationship, the latter especially after Maria sees Hal’s film (which Andrew has taken it upon himself to rename Shoot Me Before I Kill Again) and admits that she doesn’t much like it. Ultimately they must part ways, but Hal’s career is off and running and there are no hard feelings.

For a film set at Cannes with a number of split-second cameos by notable industry figures (including Sergio Leone, George Peppard, Paul Mazursky, Brooke Shields, and Farrah Fawcett), there’s not all that much for the film buff to chew on; we never actually see any of Hal’s film, and aside from some occasional name-dropping (“You’re looking at the next Terry Malick.” “Who?” “Exactly.”), the film focuses more on selling films than making or seeing them. As Andrew says near the end, “It’s not the movie that counts, it’s the deal.” It’s a relatively cynical view the film has of the industry.

That extends to Hal’s brattiness, and it’s a bit hard to see what Maria sees in him, other than a fling with a handsome young man after 14 years of monogamy. It’s not even like her marriage to Federico is in a bad place (he seems perfectly likable and supportive), but maybe he’s just been too preoccupied with his movie to give her much time. Once Hal starts pulling shit like sulking because she didn’t love his movie, or throwing the only 35mm print of his film into the Mediterranean to “prove” she means more to him (which she sees right through because he’s still got a 16mm print back home), it’s not only obvious that it won’t last, but you don’t really want it to.

Of course, Hal’s immaturity is part of the point, and to that end, Carradine is quite well cast. But he’s still a little drip who’s hard to root for, while Maria is far more likable, infinitely more charming and mature, and Vitti gives a convincing portrait of a woman who’s very good at turning on the charm socially, but has been her husband’s wife, so to speak, for so long that she needs to remember what it’s like to really be herself. You can certainly see what Hal sees in her, even if you wonder how he ever thought it could last longer than the festival. But the script doesn’t give us enough insight into our protagonists to help us answer any of these questions.

And that’s the problem with An Almost Perfect Affair; it doesn’t satisfy either as a romance or a satire of the industry. There are bright spots, especially courtesy of Vallone (who’s quite good) and Williams, who mugs a bit but whose relentless salesmanship and snark (I’d like to see the film he’s planning to make next, whose title I can’t print here) are fairly fun to watch. It’s also cool to see Anna Maria Horsford, years before Friday, as a leggy starlet from Harlem who pretends to be Algerian and ends up marrying a Japanese nobleman.

But the best part of the film is Georges Delerue’s lovely score, and it’s fitting that in lieu of a poster, I had to use the soundtrack album artwork; if you can, just listen to the score and pass the movie by, though it’s a painless enough 90 minutes. But really, if you want to see what director Michael Ritchie was really capable of, watch his delightful beauty-pageant satire Smile. Hell, I need to give that another spin.

Score: 67

Sputnik (2020) – ***½

With the theaters reopening this weekend, I decided to take my chances and go to the Screenland Armour, one of the too few independent theaters still operating in the KC metro area. I went there because what they were showing was rather more enticing than what the mainstream theaters had to offer, namely this Russian sci-fi thriller, about which I knew virtually nothing beyond a vague idea of the premise and the fact that it got rather solid reviews. And, I must say, they were fairly well deserved.

Set in the USSR in 1983, it follows the efforts of maverick psychiatrist Tatiana Klimova (Oksana Akinshina), as she attempts to figure out just what happened to cosmonaut Konstantin Veshnyakov (Pyotr Fyodorov) as he and his apparently deceased mission partner Averchenko (Aleksey Demidov) were returning from space. We soon learn that Veshnyakov has an alien parasite living inside him, which can only be kept alive at a hideous price…one that Col. Semiradov (Fedor Bondarchuk) is quite ready to pay. Klimova must figure out a way to save Veshnyakov without unleashing the parasite upon the world or getting herself—or her patient—killed.

Although there are further revelations to come, Sputnik is really about psychology, about the dread of knowing horrible truths you might not be able to do anything about, or about accepting those truths because it’s the only way you can achieve your goals. It’s set during the Soviet era, and the overwhelming paranoia of that time—the manipulation of truth, the inability to fully trust anyone, or ever feel fully at ease—heavily informs its story and tone. The parasite itself, we discover, feeds on cortisol, a hormone produced in moments of fear—and as Klimova’s rival/colleague Rigel (Anton Vasilev) notes, the Soviet people have more than enough of that.

While not a superlative work in any sense, Sputnik (the title evokes not only the first artificial satellite, but the original meaning of the word, “traveling companion”) is quite well made in all departments. Egor Abramenko’s direction is surprisingly restrained, making for more of a slow burn than a thrill ride (and, it might be argued, the result is just a bit poky at times); the script is a bit predictable, but smartly structured with solid characters; the cinematography is quite effective in its use of desolate spaces and gloomily dim lighting, the production design captures the dreary browns and creams of the era’s aesthetic perfectly, and the special effects are modestly scaled but wholly convincing, especially the depiction of the insect-like parasite.

The acting is pretty good, too. Akinshina (who looks a bit like Florence Pugh) is spot-on at showing both Klimova’s fierce determination (and lack of patience with bureaucracy) and her own fear and terror, more of the powers that be than of the parasite. Fyodorov is excellent, first at showing Veshnyakov’s smug comfort in his status as a national hero, then at displaying his own growing desolation at just what’s happening to his body, and what it might cost to stop it. Bondarchuk is a solid hard-assed antagonist, effectively sinister but not cartoonishly so. And Vasilev does a fine job at showing the wormy complexity of Rigel, who describes himself as being, in his own way, as adaptable as the parasite. (I just found out Akinshina played the lead in Lilya 4-ever, which is a pretty good, if very bleak, film in its own right.)

Sputnik isn’t a great film, nor do I expect to return to it, but it’s quite a solid little genre piece, one which delivers the creeps while also telling a solid story with solid characters. I keep using that word, but it fits the kind of modestly effective film this is. And it ends on the kind of note that can leave you perfectly satisfied if there is no sequel, while leaving ample room for a foothold should a sequel need it. Who could ask for anything more?

Score: 80

I was going to include my rewatch of Raging Bull here, but since I didn’t start that until it was technically Monday, I’ll kick that to next week’s article. Catch you then.