The Weekly Gravy #16

So this is the week I get to* (*have to) stay home with my books and my movies. I’m not going to try and break any personal records for media consumption, not when there are reviews to write, but I might just hit double digits in terms of films seen. And I’m starting auspiciously, with…

That’s Entertainment, Part II (1976) – ***½

(The poster uses the Arabic numerals but the film itself uses the Roman. Go figure.)

Right from the beginning, Part II has a certain style which the first film frankly lacked. The wonderful opening credits, designed by Saul Bass, start with a series of photographs of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly from infancy to adulthood, then list the various stars who appear thereafter in various elaborate ways: written in the sand on a beach, inked on a scroll, as words on the tills of a cash register, and so on. And the film is almost entirely hosted by Astaire and Kelly, and not on MGM’s crumbling backlot but on colorful, playful sets designed by John DeCuir which allow for portraits of the featured stars and plenty of room for Astaire and Kelly to strut their stuff. And the new material was directed by Kelly, an accomplished director in his own right, where the first film was directed by Jack Haley Jr., who simply didn’t have the same kind of vision. (Kelly also finds an excuse to take a working vacation to Paris as a way to frame a montage of MGM scenes set in or about the City of Lights. Can’t fault him for that.)

So while Part II was less critically and popularly acclaimed than the first film, I honestly think it’s the better one. It’s not perfect, of course, as it too feels like something of a grab-bag at times (and at over two hours, it can feel overstuffed), but it’s a lot of fun and features a lot of fine moments, not just musical but comic and dramatic as well. Notably, we get the great stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera, several moments of vintage banter from Tracy and Hepburn, a pie-in-the-face montage, and an Abbott & Costello routine involving cotton in their ears. We also get Lassie coming home, “Tarzan, Jane,” “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and Greta Garbo wanting to be alone.

On the musical front, we get such classic moments as Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” Kelly’s roller-skate dance from It’s Always Fair Weather, “There’s No Business Like Show Business” from Annie Get Your Gun, and “Triplets” from The Band Wagon. And we get less famous but comparably memorable numbers like Bobby Van’s hopping dance in Small Town Girl, Frank Sinatra singing “Ol’ Man River” in white tie and tails (I said “memorable,” not “sensible”), Kelly dancing with cartoon characters in the underrated Invitation to the Dance, and Bing Crosby teaming with Louis Armstrong in High Society’s “Now You Has Jazz.”

There’s a lot more, of course, and any film buff will find it a worthy compilation. In writing about the first film, I asked if there was a place for such films in the era of home video. I’d argue Part II, with its greater scope and original material featuring two of the greatest screen dancers of all time in partnership, makes the better case for it. Again, a lot of the films we see clips from ought to be seen in full, but this film provides them with a most agreeable package.

Score: 83

The Maltese Falcon (1941) – ****

If ever a film spoke for itself, it’s this one. Everyone knows “The stuff that dreams are made of,” but don’t overlook “I like talking to a man who likes to talk,” “Well, if you lose a son, it’s possible to get another. There’s only one Maltese Falcon,” “What do you want me to do, learn to stutter?”, “We didn’t exactly believe your story, Miss Wonderly. We believed your 200 dollars,” “It’s bad business to let the killer get away with it, bad all around, bad for every detective everywhere,” “That means if you’re a good girl, you’ll be out in 20 years. I’ll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I’ll always remember you,” “No doubt he was careless with matches,” “You’re good. Chiefly your eyes, I think, and that throb you get in your voice,” and many, many more. But doubtless many of those great lines came right out of Dashiell Hammett’s novel, which John Huston adapted for his directorial debut. Part of the trick was in the adaptation. But a bigger part was in how Huston directed it—and how he cast it.

If he’d just gotten Bogart to play Sam Spade, it would have been enough. It’s hard to call this the definite Bogart performance, but he’s so perfect here, so clever, so cunning, so unsentimental (I love how quickly he has Archer’s name taken off the door), and yet, at his core, doggedly moral. He mocks the authorities, he sleeps with his partner’s wife, he can tell a lie with the best of them, but his partner was killed and he’s not going to let the killer get away, even if he loves her. But he wasn’t the only apt bit of casting. If Mary Astor isn’t quite as brilliant as that killer, Brigid O’Shaughnessy (or is it Ruth Wonderly?), she’s still quite good as the woman who can’t seem to tell the truth for all the trembling in her voice and tears in her eyes.

Of course, there’s the film’s great discovery of stage actor Sydney Greenstreet, making his debut here and doing so well that he got an Oscar nomination for Supporting Actor (and probably should’ve won). As Kasper Gutman, he’s as witty, shrewd, cold-blooded, and eccentric as you could want. He can talk brilliantly, and does, but when he needs to act, he’s coldly capable. And when he faces the most devastating of setbacks at the end, what does he do? Pull himself together and plan to return to Istanbul with Cairo in tow. Spade wisely declines to join, and Gutman is arrested shortly thereafter, but one can dream about a sequel where the lot of them make the journey, and maybe even get the bird—if it exists. And as Cairo, while I wish Peter Lorre had a little more screen-time, he’s so perfectly wormy when he does appear, with his effeminate gestures and peevish manner (“Our private conversations have not been such that I am anxious to continue them. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but it is the truth”), that you won’t forget him any sooner than you’ll forget Spade or Gutman.

Add in Elisha Cook as the tough-talking but fatally inept Wilmer, Lee Patrick as the devoted Effie, Ward Bond as the folksy Polhaus and Barton MacLane as the smug Dundy, and you’ve got a first-rate ensemble. And that’s before mentioning Gladys George as Iva Archer, whom Spade wants kept away from him (because he can’t help himself around her), Jerome Cowan as the piggish Miles Archer, and Walter Huston in the tiny role of the ill-fated Captain Jacoby. Huston could’ve hardly surrounded himself with a better cast.

But he also does pretty damn well with Arthur Edeson’s cinematography, Thomas Richards’ editing (which combine to make one of my favorite moments in the film, when Wilmer comes to and sees everyone glaring at him, and realizes he’s going to be set up), and Adolph Deutsch’s music, with that memorable main theme which repeats throughout the film in various arrangements, suggesting the complexity of the case as it deepens—and it gets very deep indeed, but with a man like Sam Spade, you know he’ll figure it all out by the time the credits roll. And he does, without any fudged logic or out-of-character behavior. What more can I say for such a satisfying and entertaining film?

Score: 95

Le Plaisir (1952) – ***½

Max Ophüls was famous for long takes which allowed for fluid, even acrobatic camera movements; he died decades before the invention of the Steadicam, and one can only imagine what he’d have done if he could’ve gotten his hands on one. But what he did with the equipment he had was marvelous, and the camera movements in Le Plaisir are magnificently accomplished, whether they’re surveying the frantic energy of a dance hall on a busy night, lurking around the outside of a brothel, peering through the windows like a voyeur, or following a couple through their home as they argue violently. Ophüls earned an Oscar nomination for the film’s art direction (even though the film credits Jean d’Eaubonne as the production designer), and the sets are wonderful throughout, capturing the flavor of 1880s France from the glamour of Paris to the simple charm of a rural village, but it’s the amazing camerawork by Christian Matras and Philippe Agostini—but reflecting Ophüls’ vision—that really makes the film a feast for the eyes.

The stories it tells aren’t too bad, either; it tells three Guy de Maupassant stories, two fairly short ones flanking a lengthy one. The first, “The Mask,” has a young man fainting on the dance floor, only to be revealed as an aging man in a mask, trying to recapture the glories of his youth. It’s a great little slice of poignant absurdity, like the best short stories feeling like a glimpse of a larger, wholly alive world. The third, “The Model,” has a young painter fall in love with his model, but after a period of idyllic happiness things sour, and when she threatens suicide he responds callously. She jumps from an upstairs window, but only breaks her legs, and he marries her; the story is framed by the narrator seeing them decades later, and noting that “there’s no joy in happiness.” It’s the weakest of the three (it feels somewhat truncated), but it’s still solid, and ends on a wonderfully cynical note.

But it’s the second, longest story (longer than the other two combined) that makes the film. “The Tellier House” tells of a beloved brothel in a port town which unexpectedly closes up one Saturday night, leaving the men of the town baffled and frustrated. We learn that the madame and her ladies have gone into the country, where the madame’s niece is having her first Communion, and we follow their journey there, their sleepless night in the silence of the country, the galvanizing effect they have on the residents of the small town as they promenade to church and as they move everyone attending services to weep with them at a hymn, their interlude in a meadow picking flowers as they make to catch their train home, and the celebration at the brothel when they return, as if they’d been gone for weeks or months rather than a single day. It’s a funny, sweet, wonderfully atmospheric tale, again with a gentle skewering of the characters’ foibles and a superb sense of time and place. It also has the best performance in the film, from Jean Gabin as the madame’s brother, who’s friendly to a fault and clearly infatuated with Madame Rosa (Danielle Darrieux), whom he might just pay a visit to at a later date.

Also worth noting is the narration in the voice of de Maupassant, delivered by Jean Servais in the original version (and by Peter Ustinov in the English version and Anton Walbrook in the German version!). It’s witty, sonorous, and adds just the right amount of meta-theatrics, especially in the lovely opening speech:

I’ve always loved the night and darkness. I’m delighted to speak to you in the dark, as if seated right beside you—and perhaps I am.

Le Plaisir tends to be overlooked among Ophüls’ last four films, but it’s absolutely worth remembering. It’s a film of great charm and delicacy, a film which reminds you how fragile life and happiness are, and of what we’ll do to try and recapture what we’ve lost, and how hard it is to appreciate what we’ve got.

Score: 86

The Tin Drum/Die Blechtrommel (1979) – ***½

It’s easier for me to say why I rate The Tin Drum as I do than to say why I don’t rate it higher. It’s an extremely well-done film in nearly every respect: Volker Schlöndorff’s direction is smart and sympathetic, never flinching from the erotic and vulgar aspects of the story, but never wallowing in them eithe. Igor Luther’s cinematography is superb, with its lovely panoramas of Danzig’s skyline, its subtly comic compositions, and moments of pure invention like the scene in the womb or the silent-film quality given to certain scenes by speeding up the film ever so slightly. Maurice Jarre’s score is suitably strange and sweeping, befitting the scope of this unusual epic. The period detail, sets and costumes alike, is impeccable.

And the acting is uniformly strong; 11-year-old David Bennent (who, as an adult, only stands 5’1”) has the difficult task of playing Oskar from birth to age 20—if you didn’t know, he stops growing at age 3 by choice—while keeping his constant drumming and glass-shattering screams from becoming too annoying for the viewer. He does quite well throughout, never straining for effect, and his narration is delivered with the right childlike vigor; he almost seems to be hissing at times. Angela Winkler is very fine as Oskar’s tragically sensuous mother, torn between her Polish cousin Jan (Daniel Olbrychski, quite solid), who pays a heavy price for his loyalty to Poland, and her German husband Alfred (Mario Adorf, properly blustery without becoming a caricature), who pays a heavy price for his decision to join the Nazi Party, cheering when the Free City of Danzig (where most of the film takes place) came under German control but weeping when the war devastated it. And there are solid performances by Charles Aznavour as the Jewish toy-seller, Katharina Thalbach as Oskar’s great love, Maria, and Fritz Hakl as Bebra, leader of a troupe of dwarves who befriends Oskar.

And it tells an interesting story, covering about 45 years in all, mainly following Oskar from his reluctant birth through his decision to stop growing, to his struggles with growing up as he learns all too much about the frailties of adults, to his first romantic experiences (which are handled fairly tastefully, but were enough to get the film temporarily banned in Oklahoma), to his playing witness to the rise of Nazism and the devastation of World War II, and his time with Bebra’s troupe as they entertain the Wehrmacht, to his decision to grow again and his departure from Danzig with Maria and their (probable) son to an uncertain future. It’s hard to find much to fault about the film.

So why don’t I consider it quite a great film, as the Academy did (giving it the Oscar for Best Foreign Film) or as the Cannes jury did (co-awarding it the Palme d’Or with Apocalypse Now)? Maybe it’s the writing, which compresses a long novel into 142 minutes (I watched the theatrical version, not the longer director’s cut), and in fact omits the last third of the novel (which would’ve probably required at least another hour of running time). There’s just no way the story and characters wouldn’t be simplified to some degree, and certainly there are times when the film seems to assume familiarity with the source material.

And more than that, the film has that odd, vaguely impersonal feeling that comes with a lot of films of major novels. Their allegiance to the material comes at the expense of a certain measure of…personality? Identity? Something like that. It’s a strange story in which strange things happen, but it feels like a very mainstream strangeness. You never quite feel like you’re watching a true vision at work. And maybe that’s why Schlöndorff has never quite been considered a truly great director (although I’ve heard good things about some of his other films, especially The Ogre); he does well with the material at every turn, but he never quite makes it his own.

Score: 82

It Happened One Night (1934) – ****

When a film’s a major Oscar player, I like to frame my review as an overview of its nominations and/or wins. It Happened One Night is a special case; it’s one of just three films to win what are called “the Big Five” Oscars, which alone would give it a lot to live up to. But it’s also widely regarded as one of the greatest romantic comedies, the film which cemented its director as one of the heavy-hitters of Hollywood and delivered its studio from its second-tier status. That’s a lot to put on one film’s shoulders. But I’m glad to say it bears the weight gracefully.

First, you’ve got the Oscar-winning script by Robert Riskin, based on the story “Night Bus” by Samuel Hopkins Adams. It’s a delightful script, taking two archetypes, the road trip and the odd couple, and fusing them with joyous results. You’ve got the sheltered heiress, butting heads with her domineering father over her choice of husband, who goes on the run to be reunited with her celebrity husband. You’ve got the worldly newspaperman, brash and always at odds with his editor, seemingly adrift professionally until he encounters said heiress on a bus and has the scoop of a lifetime on his hands. As they make their way up the East Coast, is there any doubt they’ll fall in love? The only question is how they’ll manage their happy ending.

But we know the journey will involve a lot of snappy dialogue and amusing situations, from the whole affair with the obnoxious Shapeley (Roscoe Karns) to the “walls of Jericho” to our heroes trying to hitch a ride. It’s funny, it’s sweet, it’s romantic, it’s believable (within the parameters of romantic comedy, of course), it’s informative (if you don’t know how to dunk a doughnut), it’s smartly constructed and neatly resolved. The only issue I have with it (the only major issue I have with the film at all) is the dated gender politics, especially in lines like “What she needs is a guy that’d take a sock at her once a day, whether it’s coming to her or not.” It’s the only thing which sours a film which has otherwise aged incredibly well.

Then you’ve got the Oscars for Best Actor and Best Actress. As the newspaperman, Peter Warne, Clark Gable is wonderful. He’s tough and wise to the ways of the world, but just full of himself enough to where we can get a good chuckle or two at his expense. He pulls off the snappy patter perfectly, and slips into the romantic mode of the role so deftly you can see how it’s a surprise to Peter that he actually is in love. From the opening scene where he bluffs telling off his editor to impress his colleagues to the final telegram he sends to his new father-in-law (which we can hear in his voice), he handles every moment perfectly. It’s not the kind of role which always wins Oscars, especially now, but watch and you’ll see just how beautifully crafted a piece of work it really is.

And as the heiress, Ellie Andrews, Claudette Colbert has to go from being simply rebellious, marrying a man mostly because he’s famous and dashing and her father can’t stand him, to going after the man she truly loves, the man she’s actually gotten to know. She also has to learn a thing or two about living outside of the comforts of wealth, while showing us that she’s not so completely naive as all that (she knows the value of flashing a shapely gam). And she does it all with charm and sympathy, showing us Ellie’s inexperience without making her look foolish. She pulls off the snarky moments perfectly (“Believe you me, you bore me to distraction.”) as she does the scene where she and Gable pretend to be a feuding couple. She embraces Ellie’s natural wit along with her struggle to find true happiness, and earns her own Oscar in the process.

And then you’ve got the Oscar for Frank Capra’s direction, the first of three he’d earn in five years. You might not think a romantic comedy would be notably directed, but I was continually delighted by Capra’s deft pacing, the way he captures the excitement of the journey, the sense of camaraderie which can form among strangers on a long trip together, the delicious suspense of a developing news story, and the special atmosphere of a travelers’ motel in the morning. He even gets to indulge his sentimental side a bit in the scene with the penniless boy and his mother on the bus. It’s a fantastic job of direction Capra does here, and I can’t argue with the Oscar at all; he shows how much a strong directorial voice can elevate archetypal material.

I should take a moment to mention the elements which weren’t recognized by the Academy: the supporting performances by Walter Connolly as Ellie’s blustering but loving father, Karns as the wormy Shapeley, Alan Hale as the song-prone Danker, and the smaller roles by Bess Flowers as the smartly dependable Agnes and Ward Bond as the lunkish first bus driver; Gene Havlick’s brisk editing, keeping the story rattling along without rushing the moments that need to be savored; and Joseph Walker’s cinematography, which isn’t seamless but adds greatly to the film’s sense of energy and atmosphere.

All of these elements add up to that fifth Oscar, for Best Picture. I haven’t seen all of the 1934 nominees (some are quite hard to find), and of those I’ve seen, one of them, The Thin Man, certainly gives It Happened One Night a run for its money as the best film of the year. But it’s so good, and all in all holds up so well, that you can’t say it shouldn’t have won, and so charming all the way through that even if you don’t elect it the film of the year, you can’t help but be won over by it, right down to that last moment my mother always praised, when the “walls of Jericho” finally topple.

Score: 91

The Big Sleep (1946) – ****

It’s hard not to compare this film to The Maltese Falcon. That film was set in San Francisco; this one is set in Los Angeles. That one was Dashiell Hammett; this one is Raymond Chandler. That one is, ultimately, quite linear and logical, with very little extraneous material; everything plays into the ultimate solution of the mystery. This one is famously complicated, taking any number of detours to allow for more atmosphere, more romance, more seedy and colorful characters; the resolution is less important than the journey. And speaking of romance, The Maltese Falcon ends with the lovers—who may or may not truly be in love—separated, possibly forever, as the leading lady goes to face the music for murder. The Big Sleep ends with the lovers together (on screen and off), with the leading lady cleared of the one murder she tried to take credit for, with no doubt of their mutual fascination, and with that great exchange: “What’s wrong with you?” “Nothing you can’t fix.”

I think The Maltese Falcon is the better film, and I doubt many will argue with that; it’s tighter and more focused, the acting is stronger overall, the ending is more dramatically satisfying, and it’s probably just a bit better as a piece of filmmaking. But that doesn’t mean The Big Sleep isn’t great, because it is. It’s a film full of atmosphere, sensuality, twists and turns, snappy patter and quick thinking. The Maltese Falcon was a perfectly crafted whole; The Big Sleep is a collection of smartly crafted scenes.

Take the opening sequence, where Philip Marlowe (Bogart) meets all three members of the Sternwood family: first the incredibly flirtatious younger daughter Carmen (Martha Vickers), who calls him “cute” and throws herself into his arms, then the invalid father, General Sternwood (Charles Waldron), who sits in a hothouse full of flowers and urges Marlowe to drink and smoke—things he can no longer do himself—while he gives him an assignment, and finally the older daughter, Vivian Rutledge (Bacall), whom he respectfully calls “Mrs. Rutledge” but with whom he has a bantering relationship from the first, as she attempts to tease out her father’s reasons for hiring him and he attempts to learn a thing or two of his own. It’s a sequence which combines sexuality, innuendo, eccentricity, humor, mystery, tragedy, and more into an opening that sets the perfect tone for the film.

We have Marlowe scoring with women left and right, most memorably with a bookstore clerk (Dorothy Malone) whom he shares an idle hour and a bottle of whiskey with. We have him and Vivian circling one another, in a classic scene describing each other in racehorse terms, sizing up each other’s character and sexuality. We have the tragedy of Harry Jones (Elisha Cook Jr., playing a very different role from Wilmer in Falcon), who tries to find his own happy ending but is hopelessly outmatched in this sinister world. We have the repeated visits to the Geiger house, with its Buddha head concealing a camera for taking the most salacious pictures, its beaded curtain and Chinese chair, and Geiger’s body, which keeps disappearing and reappearing. And we get the trip to the casino of Eddie Mars (John Ridgely), where Vivian can sing and gamble and pretend to be held up so she can look more innocent than she is—so Marlowe can tell her he isn’t fooled. It’s just a great entertainment all around.

Bogart is great as Marlowe, witty and resourceful, never desperate or despairing even when thugs work him over or a gun is pulled on him. It’s not as complex and layered a performance as his Sam Spade, but it’s the kind of performance that reminds you, if you needed reminding, that he was one of the all-time great movie stars. And while her screen time is actually somewhat limited (and beefed up thanks to reshoots), Bacall is pure glamour as Vivian, incredibly sexy and clever, the perfect match for Marlowe, never losing sight of the human element as she tries to protect her sister and father, tries to sate her own appetite for gambling (literally and figuratively), and yearns for love from the private dick who fascinates her so. Waldron is a memorably tragic figure in his one scene, Vickers a wonderfully intense force of sensual nature, and Cook the perfect tragic sap.

The script by William Faulkner, Leigh Brackett, and Jules Furthman may be something of a mess structurally, but it’s filled with greatness in every other sense. Howard Hawks’ direction revels in the characters and the messes they make (and the way Marlowe sorts them out), Max Steiner’s score adds to the atmosphere of mystery and romance, and Sid Hickox’s cinematography is, well, atmospheric and romantic and mysterious. Maybe I could ding Christian Nyby’s editing for being a bit too slack and letting the film stretch nearly to two hours, but again, it’s all about the mood and the characters, not the pace. There’s really nothing more to say other than it’s a classic, probably the single best showcase for one of the greatest of all Hollywood couples.

Score: 90

Mon Oncle (1958) – ****

I don’t know if I just caught Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday in the wrong mood or what, but to me this is by far the better film. The film‘s central contrast, between the clumsy Hulot, his beautifully ramshackle apartment building, and his earthy, working-class world and the vain, pompous Arpels with their hyper-modern, hyper-absurd house and artificial, proto-yuppie lifestyle gives the film a comic tension comparatively lacking in Holiday. There’s much more of a human element, as Hulot’s nephew Gerard (Alain Bécourt) delights in playing with his uncle and his rowdy classmates while chafing at the pretensions of his parents, who meanwhile try to impress their equally ridiculous friends. And the use of color really sets Tati’s visual imagination free, making for a film that simply feels more vivid and fun.

There’s still not much of a plot, just a series of episodes. Hulot’s sister (Adrienne Servantie) and her husband Charles Arpel (Jean-Pierre Zola) fret over the influence Hulot has on Gerard; he tries to get Hulot a job at the plastics factory he manages, and she tries to set Hulot up with their neighbor (Dominique Marie) at a garden party. Both efforts go hilariously wrong. Gerard and his friends buy crullers from an incredibly unhygienic vendor and trick passerby into walking into lampposts or make drivers think they’ve been rear-ended. For their anniversary, Mrs. Arpel buys a new garage door with an electric eye, which backfires a bit when Charles comes home with his present, an incredibly ugly car (green and pink!), and they get stuck in the garage thanks to their dachshund. Indeed, the Arpels’ dog is part of a little pack that runs throughout the film, temporally and geographically, as a constant symbol of the irrepressible forces of nature and chaos.

The actors all do fine within the limitations of Tati’s style, but the real stars are the glorious sets by Henri Schmitt. Hulot’s apartment block is a delightful example of old-fashioned, possibly impractical but absolutely human architecture, and the scene where Hulot makes his roundabout way to his room is a highlight of the film. But even better is the Arpels’ home, which looks like what you’d get if you closed your eyes and picked random items from an IKEA catalog. There’s the boxy exterior, the upstairs windows that look like eyes when anyone appears in them, the ungainly gate, the kitchen stocked with gizmos that make more noise than sense (and a plastic pitcher which leads to one of the film’s funniest moments), the ghastly furniture, and the gaudy garden with its stepping stones, winding path, and of course, that great fish fountain. It’s so sterile and tacky you want to just run through the place with muddy shoes (and it’s hard to imagine it wasn’t an inspiration for Parasite). And there are other good settings around Hulot’s run-down neighborhood and the factory Arpel works at, with its own tacky decor and ridiculous machines.

The score, again by Alain Romans (helped by Franck Barcellini), is delightful and tuneful throughout, Jean Bourgoin’s cinematography perfectly frames the action and brings out all the beautiful colors in the production design, and Jacques Cottin’s costuming scores in the neighbor’s fantastically tacky garb. Tati’s direction is bright and inventive, building up elaborate set pieces with skill but also tossing off the little moments with the right touch, like the cigarette-lighter gag (one of my father’s favorites). It won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film, and it was a fine choice; its success was the pinnacle of Tati’s career, at least in popular terms.

Of course, he would follow it with the arguably superior, decidedly more cynical Playtime; there are hints of the darker tone to come in the scenes where we see old buildings being demolished, presumably to make way for newer, shinier ones. But we also have that wonderful moment where Charles joins Gerard in pulling the lamppost gag and we can’t help but feel that everything will be all right.

Score: 89

Hoop Dreams (1994) – ****

I will never be able to write about Hoop Dreams with the kind of passion that Roger Ebert did. Read his two reviews of the film to see how much it affected him, how much he fell in love with its subjects and the care with which their stories are told, and how much he treasured the experience of getting to see it. Everyone who loves film has their own soul-shaking experiences at the movies; this was one of his and not one of mine, which is not to diminish the greatness of this film but to say that his experience with it was simply at another level than mine. That’s just how it goes.

Make no mistake, though, this is a truly great film, a film which is long but which uses its length (just under three hours) to encompass so much life, so many dramatic reversals of fortune, so many moments of joy and heartbreak, so many truths about human nature and American society, that it sweeps you up, has you holding your breath over the outcome of high school basketball games played 30 years since (even if, like me, you’re not especially a sports fan), and keeps ahold of you right through to the end.

It’s the story of two black Chicago teenagers, William Gates and Arthur Agee Jr. They both want to play in the NBA, and are both recruited to play for the Catholic high school, St. Joseph, a far more prestigious institution than the public schools in their own neighborhoods. Arthur struggles on the court and academically, and is soon kicked out, while William seems to be a rising star. But Arthur enrolls in public school and gradually becomes the star player of the varsity squad, while William suffers a knee injury and a series of on-court disappointments. As their high school journeys come to an end, they turn their attention to college, still intending to continue playing but each with a more complex attitude towards their future, on-court and off.

And what happens off the court, to them and to their families, is just as important as what happens on it. Arthur’s father Bo struggles with drug addiction and crime. His mother Sheila struggles to provide for her family while on welfare, then earns her nurse’s assistant degree. William becomes a father, struggles with the expectations and vicarious ambitions of his brother Curtis, himself once a promising player, and his mother Emma tries to keep her own complex emotions about Curtis’s failure and William’s potential in check. And we see just what a grind the sports world is, even on the high school level, as St. Joseph coach Gene Pingatore and Arthur’s public-school coach Luther Bedford drive their players hard (to the point of abuse, some would say), while scouts and college coaches do their damnedest to woo the most promising players with promises of scholarships and NBA glory…all of which can evaporate if a player doesn’t live up to expectations.

We get a few appearances from famous people, including St. Joseph alum Isiah Thomas, Dick Vitale, and Spike Lee—who tells a number of hopeful young black athletes that the school only cares about them as far as they can win games, in contrast to the relentless inspirational messaging from other quarters. We know, based on the evidence in the film, that he’s right. But we also know that this is still the best chance young black men like William and Arthur have of going to college at all. Because real life isn’t cut-and-dried, and the epic scope of Hoop Dreams allows us to observe these lives in something like three dimensions. The real miracle of the film is that it does this and manages to be such gripping entertainment into the bargain.

Steve James’ superbly judged direction is a big part of this, but so is the magnificent editing by James, Frederick Marx, and William Hughes, so good that it got an Oscar nomination even though the film was snubbed for Best Documentary Feature in one of the most infamous oversights in Oscar history—but, sadly, one with plenty of competition in the following years, including the snub of James’ loving portrait of Ebert, Life Itself. No matter. A film like this doesn’t need the validation of awards. The fact that these young men and their families had their stories told in a way which allowed their experiences to reach farther and wider than they could ever have dreamed is validation enough. That it’s so good of a film is just gravy.

Score: 93

The Driver (1978) – ***½

Consider the two posters I’ve included for this film (scroll down a bit for the other). They reflect two different ways in which the studios tried to sell this tricky little film, and surprisingly, the first one, the American poster, is more honest about the kind of film it is: a restrained, determinedly enigmatic film about the titular driver and the very dirty cop trying to catch him. It promises action, which the film delivers, but with its cool colors, use of white space, the stoic expressions on the actors’ faces, and the straightforward tag line, it hints that this isn’t going to be so much a thrill ride as a game of cat and mouse. The film was a box-office letdown in the States, as it happened, perhaps because viewers looking for action weren’t looking for a film with these stars (O’Neal being better known as a star of romances and comedies) or this tone.

The other poster is for the British release, and it goes the opposite direction, with a blaze of fire across the top, Bruce Dern furiously firing his gun, multiple action scenes, a hyperbolic tagline (especially if you’ve seen the film), and the title, missing the definite article for some damned reason, in towering letters. There’s an even an ad for the novelization, though it’s hard to imagine a proper adaptation of this film being longer than a novella. The film did better overseas (although I’m not sure just how well it did in the UK), and it would later develop a solid cult.

It would also prove influential, especially on Drive, which shares a few key elements: an enigmatic, unnamed lead character, a tragic, devoted handler-mentor, a possible love interest kept at arm’s length, the L.A. setting, and the first-rate driving scenes. But Drive is easily the better film in my book; Ryan Gosling brings depths to his performance than Ryan O’Neal doesn’t achieve with his, and indeed, aside from Bruce Dern, the later film has considerably stronger acting, in part because it isn’t so determinedly enigmatic. That’s not to write off The Driver by any means, but it’s very solid while Drive is arguably great.

I think of writer-director Walter Hill about the same way I think of directors like Brian De Palma and John Milius. He’s very talented, and you can tell that even in his lesser work, but he gets too hung up on homage and fixations which just don’t quite fascinate me to the same degree. If De Palma wanted to be Hitchcock, Hill wanted to be working at AIP in the 50s and 60s, when he could’ve made the films he did for a fraction of the budget. And, in the case of a notable money-loser like Streets of Fire, possibly to greater profit (and for my money, greater effect).

The Driver, an original screenplay on Hill’s part, is self-consciously lean and spare, to the point where none of the characters’ names are given, and next to nothing about their offscreen lives; what we do get comes in the form of guarded references to past events. The driver (O’Neal) works as a getaway driver for criminals. The cop (Dern) wants to catch him, but can never get the necessary evidence. The Player (Isabelle Adjani) works in league with the driver, covering for him when she sees him on the job, and keeping the cop at bay despite his threats. The cop hatches a plan; strong-arm a robber (Joseph Walsh) into holding up a bank, using the driver as his ride so the cop can mail him. The driver doesn’t bite when approached by his connection (Ronee Blakley), but when the cop confronts him personally, agrees to the job for more lucrative terms…then, when he’s about to be made the fall guy, takes matters into his own hands.

It’s a little tricky to say what happens after that, save that the script is flipped more than once, and the final resolution is…well, it’s very 70s, let’s say that much, and in the way I’ve never really taken to. I get why it would work for others, but it’s too self-consciously ironic (or something like that) for me.

Up until then, though, it’s a pretty nifty little movie most of the time. There’s no question the car scenes are all extremely well done, from the amazing opening chase where O’Neal systematically outfoxes every cop pursuing him, to the hilarious scene in a garage where he systematically totals a car without injuring himself or his passengers to prove his skills, to the great chase between him in a boxy pick-up and his opponents in a sports car, culminating in a fantastic cat-and-mouse sequence in a warehouse. Philip Lathrop’s cinematography is excellent, making the lonely urban backdrops (Edward Hopper was an acknowledged influence) look very cool indeed and capturing the action vividly. And Michael Small’s unusual, jazzy score is just right for this slickly idiosyncratic enterprise.

There’s not much to be said about the performances except Dern’s. O’Neal is okay, but you never quite buy him as this kind of character. (It doesn’t help that he always looks like he’s about to cry.) Adjani is also okay, but you can’t shake the feeling that her character is vaguely superfluous. Dern, however, is awesome; he’s conniving, calculating, slimy, scarily intense, hilariously obnoxious, and in every way the heart and soul of the film. He’s a shameless bastard and we revel in it. In between his scenes and the chase scenes, the film never quite soars as high. But those are scenes are quite good enough to carry you through.

Score: 81

White Mane/Crin Blanc (1953) – ****

The Red Balloon/Le Ballon Rouge (1956) – ****

Albert Lamorisse’s two classic children’s films are often shown together, and I watched them back-to-back (oddly, I don’t think I’d ever seen either film before), a wise choice because the two films are quite similar in theme, even as they diverge greatly in tone and style. And I rate them about equal, but in a sense they complement one another; White Mane is a bit better as a piece of pure filmmaking, but The Red Balloon is a bit stronger as a piece of storytelling. Of course, at 30 (with 31 just days away), I see them with very different eyes than I would have had I come to them as a boy, but even now I can respect the craft, the heart, and the fancy on display; they haven’t been so acclaimed for so long for nothing.

Both films deal with a young boy, who forms a friendship with a non-human entity, an entity that respects them alone, and resists the efforts of others to control it. One ends on a note of melancholy ambiguity; the other on a note of joyous total fantasy. In White Mane, the friend is a wild white stallion, the boy is a fisherman named Polco (Alain Emery), and they live in the desert-like Camargue region of southern France, where wild horses run free…at least until the local wranglers try to round them up. They try and fail with White Mane, but Polco perseveres and succeeds—which is not enough to stop the wranglers from covering him, and they chase Polco and White Mane until, cornered, they leap into the ocean and White Mane swims out to sea; the narrator tells us they went to a land “where men and horses lived together as friends.”

In The Red Balloon, the boy is Pascal (Pascal Lamorisse, the director’s son), the friend is a magical red balloon he finds one day, and they live in the Menilmontant neighborhood of Paris, where he roams freely when not in school, and takes his balloon wherever he can—and wherever he cannot, the balloon waits patiently or follows him at a distance. The antagonists are mainly the other children of the neighborhood, who want the balloon for themselves or just want to be little brats (maybe both). There’s also an obnoxious teacher who puts Pascal in detention for some reason, and the balloon follows him as he goes around town, freaking him out. In the end, one of the other children strikes the balloon with a slingshot and it slowly deflated before another kid delivers the killing blow. So all the other balloons in Paris go rogue and float over to where Pascal sits, devastated; he gathers them up and sails over the Paris skyline.

(Oh, and before he made either film, he made Bim, about a poor boy, his beloved donkey, and the rich kid who covets the donkey. I’m sensing a pattern here. He also invented the board game Risk, if you didn’t know.)

Both films deal with what it means to have something very special in your life and how others will try to take it for themselves. In these films it’s a horse and a magical toy, but the principle could apply to any toy, pet, or even friend. Notably (despite a cynical review that claims otherwise), Polco and Pascal do not buy their friends or get them as gifts; Polco tames White Mane with great patience—after being lassoed, White Mane drags him for quite some distance before allowing Polco to take him home—and Pascal finds the balloon caught on a lamppost. That others desire the horse or the balloon despite the boys’ seeming right of ownership is a potent example of human greed, and in The Red Balloon especially the balloon suffers for others’ shunning it or wanting to destroy it, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of malice. People can be really awful, and the injustice of it doesn’t stop stinging when you grow up. You just deal with it differently.

Notably, neither film really tries to provide a lesson as such; you definitely shouldn’t ride a horse out to sea or go on a balloon ride without proper equipment and adult supervision, but Lamorisse isn’t really suggesting you do either. These are fables, the latter a fantasy, and they are not constrained by considerations of message, but anyone showing these films to children could get a good discussion going to resolve some of the ambiguities in their stories or the lapses therein. Certainly White Mane has a couple; Polco’s taming White Mane to the point where he can actually mount him is glossed over, and the extent of the wranglers’ greed for the horse (which has caused them an awful lot of trouble) strains credulity. But maybe that’s the adult in me talking.

There’s no question these are beautifully made films. White Mane has gorgeous black-and-white cinematography of the stark landscape, the horses in motion, and the climactic chase to the sea. The Red Balloon has fine color imagery of 50s Paris, with the bright color of the balloon standing out against the gray buildings (which have a beauty of their own), some fine dramatic framing in the scenes where Pascal is chased by the bullies, and a whole rainbow of colors in the final scene. Maurice Le Roux’s scores for both are wonderful, with the folkloric sweep of White Mane’s music and the lush fantasy of The Red Balloon.

And the special effects in Red Balloon are frankly miraculous. The balloons must have been manipulated by some means (probably hidden wires), but damned if I could find them. Aside from the “death” of the red balloon, which plays out in one lengthy, rather awkward shot, it’s a seamless piece of cinematic magic.

But you probably knew that, because chances are, if you’re reading this, then you’ve seen one or both of these films. If you haven’t, you certainly should, as they’re both wonderful. It’s amazing to realize that The Red Balloon won the Oscar for Best Original Sceeenplay, despite being a short film, a children’s film, a French film, and a film with with very little dialogue. And it beat out La Strada and The Ladykillers! (White Mane, for its part, got a Best Documentary nomination from the BAFTAs, the implications of which ar) It’s the kind of anomalous triumph which I treasure. And they’re the kind of films everyone should treasure.

Score: 87 (for both)

Until the End of the World/Bis ans Ende der Welt (1991) – ***

Although I’d scored a VHS copy of the 2½-hour theatrical version of Wim Wenders’ attempt at the “ultimate road movie,” I never got around to watching it before learning that Criterion would be releasing his intended 4-3/4-hour cut, and scoring a copy of the Blu-Ray during one of Barnes & Noble’s half-off-all-Criterions sales. (The second I can, I’m getting there to take advantage of the sale that’s going on as I write this.) Of course, it took a while until I got around to watching it, because of the time investment required, and even having the day free, I took a lengthy break between Parts I and II. But I’ve seen it now, and while I’m not sure if or when I’ll watch the shorter version, I have to admit that this probably would be better with some tightening.

No, a tight pace isn’t the point of a road movie. But this is really only a road movie for about the first half. What it really is is a science-fiction film about the machine which the story centers around, a device which can record brainwaves and play them back. And while the first half of the film hopscotches the globe, from Venice to Paris to Berlin to Lisbon to Moscow to Tokyo to San Francisco (not to mention the places in between), the second half is almost entirely set in Australia, and much of that at a secluded research facility. Ironically, the film works better when it settles down and focuses on the story; as a travelogue, it’s okay, and as a journey, it’s not bad, but as a piece of futuristic sci-fi it’s pretty solid.

Of course, when I say “futuristic,” I mean 1999, and the film means a world of digital technology (right on), personalized GPS and electronics (yes), video pay-phones (not quite), and haute couture which is about one degree less extravagant than the clothes in The Fifth Element (so close). It holds up pretty well in most respects, though, and some of the programming we see is much more enjoyable than what we ended up getting; the Russian tracking program, with its roaming, deep-voiced anthropomorphic bear, is a real delight. And the film makes us of early high-definition imagery to depict recorded dreams and memories about as effectively as subsequent effects work has.

The second half of the film also has Max von Sydow as the inventor of the technology, and Jeanne Moreau as his wife, a blind anthropologist who wants to literally see what she’s been missing, including the faces of her own children. The film doesn’t take the presence of these legends for granted, and their scenes are the best in the film; they have the bantering sweetness of a genuine old couple, with Moreau’s warmth and empathy set against von Sydow’s crusty pomposity.

But the film isn’t their story. It’s the story of Claire (Solveig Dommartin), her ex-boyfriend and the film’s narrator Gene (Sam Neill), and the man she’s pursuing across the globe, von Sydow and Moreau’s son Sam (William Hurt), the private investigator who wants the bounty on Sam’s head (Rüdiger Vogler), the bank robbers Claire falls in with (Eddy Mitchell and Chick Ortega), the hit man who manages to tail Sam everywhere he goes (Ernie Dingo), the members of the Mbantua Aboriginal tribe whose homeland von Sydow’s facility is located in, and not a few others. Oh, and did I mention there’s a satellite which poses a threat to human safety, and there’s a global debate over whether to nuke it or not?

I won’t attempt to detail the plot, since it takes nearly five hours to unspool. I will say that, even if it’s too long, it’s rarely boring; with a cast this solid, Robby Müller’s excellent cinematography, the beautiful scenery, the fascinating special effects, the eye-filling sets, the colorful futuristic costumes, and the famous music, both the symphonic score by Graeme Revell and the original songs by U2, Talking Heads, R.E.M., Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Patti and Fred Smith, Depeche Mode, Elvis Costello, T-Bone Burnett, Jane Siberry and k.d. lang, Lou Reed, and others, there’s more than enough to maintain one’s interest throughout.

But it never quite becomes more than the sum of its parts. For my part, it’s hard to get past the fact that we’re seeing the world and its people through the eyes of a few white people with essentially unlimited resources, and the fact that most of the non-white characters assume a subservient position in one sense or another; take the Japanese innkeeper (Chishû Ryû) who heals Hurt’s fatigued eyes with herbal medicine, or the Aboriginal healers who restore his mental health after he becomes addicted to his own dreams. Worse are scenes like the one in which Claire runs around a male-only section of a Tokyo hotel, the Japanese men in the hotel trying to get her to leave whilst she stumbles about as if they hardly existed. (She also does an eye-pull bit as a joke, which is just outright tacky.) It gives the film an air of entitled tourism (for lack of a better phrase) which ages worse than the outmoded technology.

Of course, the film is really an exemplar of the “global cinema” genre that was especially big in the late 80s and early 90s; the same year, Jim Jarmusch put out Night on Earth, set in Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Rome, and Helsinki. The intentions are good, I’m sure, but Wenders and his characters can’t help but feel like tourists. One only wonder what might’ve happened had they expanded the film’s scope to Africa and South America. As it is, they don’t get much deeper into the cultures they encounter than did the characters in Around the World in 80 Days 35 years earlier.

The rest of the acting is solid, though it doesn’t necessarily elevate the film. Dommartin struggles at times with the English dialogue and Claire’s self-absorption, but she does pretty well overall. Hurt has a tendency to chew the scenery at times. Neill outshines both of them, even despite the potentially pretentious device of having Gene narrate the film in the form of the novel he starts writing partway through. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I found myself sympathizing with him. Among the rest of the large cast, Vogler and Dingo are especially enjoyable.

And so Until the End of the World is mostly enjoyable, even as it’s too self-indulgent, too set on trying to be two distinct types of narratives in one, and too privileged in its perspective to really live up to its own ambitions. I might not have actually bought it had I seen it first, but having it, I won’t say I’m sorry; there’s a lot here worth returning to.

Score: 75

The Silent Flute/Circle of Iron (1978) – ***

(Although the film is widely known as Circle of Iron, The Silent Flute was the original title and the title on the version I watched, so I will refer to the film as such.)

I should probably rate The Silent Flute lower than I do, but it’s so much fun in its relentless strangeness, and has just enough elements of objective quality, that it just makes to ***. Honestly, were it not for one rather sour plot point, I’d rate it a point or two higher, because otherwise I throughly enjoyed the whole absurd enterprise. Bruce Lee might not have approved of what they ultimately did to his story, and it doesn’t really make a serious case for the philosophy it tries to communicate, but what it does achieve is, in its own weird way, continually compelling.

In an unnamed land, martial artists compete for the right to seek the mysterious Zetan, who guards a book containing all the knowledge of the world. Cord (Jeff Cooper) is determined to win, but after being fouled in the final round is disqualified by the competition’s judge (Roddy McDowall), and decides to follow the winner on his own. The winner, Morthond (Anthony de Longis) is soon killed facing his first trial, and Cord takes up the quest. Along the way he will have many strange encounters, including the temptations of love, vengeance, and peace, before meeting Zetan (Christopher Lee) and uncovering the mystery of the book.

Along the way, he repeatedly encounters David Carradine, mostly in the form of a blind wanderer who plays a flute, speaks in philosophical riddles and is a master martial artist. But he also appears as a “monkey-man,” as the cruel, hedonistic nomadic king Chang-Sha, and as Death itself. He also encounters Eli Wallach, sitting in a huge pot of oil, trying to dissolve the lower half of his body in order to permanently rid himself of his libido. (“A merest pimple” is how the unnerved Cord describes his member.) I would say it’s that kind of a movie, but it might be the only one of its kind.

If the story isn’t bizarre enough, the film’s aesthetics are a total mish-mash, encompassing elements of the Arabian Nights, medieval China, medieval Europe, and prehistory, especially Cord’s own garb. The opening text scroll tells us the film is set in “a land that never was—and always is,” and the designers, especially costume designer Lilly Fenichel, seem to have taken this prompt and run with it. The results aren’t necessarily convincing, but they were clearly a lot of fun to achieve, and are a lot of fun to behold. (The film was shot in Israel, whose landscapes and ruins provide a suitable backdrop for the action.) The same goes for most of the film.

The exception is the tragic fate of Tara (Erica Creer), the ninth wife of Chang-Sha who is sent to Cord and spends a passionate evening with him, inducing him to break his vow of chastity and envision a whole future with her. In the morning, there’s no sign of her or Chang-Sha, but after a search Cord finds that Chang-Sha had Tara crucified. But when he does find Chang-Sha and fight him, he says that not Chang-Sha but himself was responsible for her death. It’s the one part of the film that just leaves a sour taste in my mouth; it would’ve been just as effective had Tara simply vanished entirely.

Then again, the reality of the whole scenario, and of much of the film, is deliberately ambiguous. The film was originally designed to be a vehicle for Lee’s zen philosophy, with him playing Carradine’s multiple roles (all of whom may be the same person, or at least the same spirit), and James Coburn, who co-developed the story, playing Cord. This version was reputedly more violent and sexually graphic than the finished film; we’ll never know if it would’ve been better.

Coburn might’ve been a better Cord than Cooper, who’s okay when he’s playing cocky arrogance, but unconvincing at playing any real emotion. But the role really seems to call for a younger actor, and you can’t forget that Cord was around 40 when the film was made. As for Carradine, he’s a lot of fun in his various roles, but the suggestion of yellow-face (though the film never quite goes there) is uncomfortable. Wallach, Lee, and McDowall are enjoyable in their small roles, Wallach especially; he was always good value as an earthy eccentric.

Richard Moore’s direction is okay; he was mainly a cinematographer, and the film generally looks good (although it was clearly shot on a low budget), but it doesn’t quite have the style that would’ve made it more than a goofy cult item. The real imagination comes from the story itself and the script by Stirling Silliphant (who developed the story with Lee and Coburn) and Stanley Mann. There’s also a very good score by Bruce Smeaton, which mostly avoids Orientalist clichés in favor of a generalized exoticism; the main theme in particular is lushly sweeping. It gives the film a weight the campy elements deny it.

Ultimately, some will just write The Silent Flute off as goofy nonsense, and I can’t say they’re so wrong. But I enjoyed it a lot, and will do what I can to show it to like-minded film buffs; the fairly elaborate DVD and Blu-Ray releases suggest there is an audience for it, and so much the better. I’ll take this kind of wacky sincerity over bland professionalism any day.

Score: 65

To Be or Not to Be (1942) – ****

The Great Dictator was praised for standing up to Hitler, received major Oscar nominations, including Picture, Screenplay, and Actor, and was a big hit. To Be or Not to Be was criticized for ostensibly making light of Hitler and the Nazi conquest of Poland, received only one Oscar nomination (for its Score), and wasn’t a major success. But, while I need to see The Great Dictator again (it’s been well over a decade), my hunch is that this is the better film, likely the funnier one, and almost certainly the more daring one.

As a story of comic deception in the lion’s den, it’s extremely funny, but it’s also shot through with righteous anger; in one sense it anticipates the lampooning of Hitler a quarter-century later in The Producers, but in several others it anticipates the vicarious vengeance of Inglourious Basterds nearly 70 years after. It doesn’t go as far as either film, but that wasn’t Ernst Lubitsch’s style; he preferred the innuendo, the sly implication, the word that, to the wise, is sufficient.

That also goes for the plot of this film, which I never fully comprehended before seeing it, and which is frankly a bit too convoluted to do justice in a summary; the constant series of reversals and revelations which make up the plot are better experienced as they come. Suffice to say, there’s a rather vain stage actor playing Hamlet in 1939 Warsaw, Josef Tura (Jack Benny). His actress wife, Maria (Carole Lombard), is making time with a dashing young pilot, Sobinski (Robert Stack), specifically having him sneak out of the auditorium right as Josef starts the “To be or not to be” monologue. Josef notices, but only thinks of it as a slight against his acting. And then the Nazis invade.

What soon follows is a farcical thriller, with Sobinski trying to expose a double agent, Josef and the other members of his troupe attempting to impersonate multiple high-ranking Nazis, and nearly every man who encounters Maria trying to get her into bed and/or to be a spy. And apparently, they call him “Concentration Camp” Ehrhardt. That alone might be too tasteless for you. But for me, it’s just one of many elements that are damned funny.

Edwin Justus Mayer’s script, from a story by Melchior Lengyel, is at once an impeccable farce, a trenchant mockery of the Nazis, and a loving lampoon of the theater, and especially the actor’s ego, with Josef’s insecurity about Maria’s fidelity outweighed by his insecurity about his acting and how it’s received, and the other members of the troupe, each with their own agendas: Greenberg (Felix Bressart) wants to play Shylock (and deploys his big monologue at a key moment); Bronski (Tom Dugan) wants to play Hitler and is willing to terrify people on the street to do it; Rawitch (Lionel Atwill) is a dauntless ham who’ll seize any opportunity for a big scene; and the troupe’s director, Dobosz (Charles Halton), is a fussy nitpicker who wants things one way—his way.

All of their performances are great fun, as are Sig Ruman as the bumbling Ehrhardt and Stanley Ridges as the slimy Siletski. But the film really belongs to Benny and Lombard. Benny is simply wonderful, never missing a chance to play up Josef’s ego (he can’t help but sing his own praises, even when undercover), but also deftly playing the various roles Josef must play, convincing us that he’s almost as good as he thinks he is. And Lombard is charmingly and believably overwhelmed, both by what’s happening to her country and in her private life—but she clearly keeps her exact feelings close to her chest, as she may love her husband (as much as her frustrates her), but she’s not about to turn away such a nice young man as Sobinski. Sadly, it was her final film; she was killed in a plane crash before it was released.

Lubitsch’s direction handles the farce with grace and the more dramatic elements with sensitivity (though some of the more serious scenes get just a shade preachy), the sets of war-torn Warsaw are excellent, the score is good and the makeup (rather important given the emphasis on disguise) is convincing. It’s just an incredibly enjoyable film, and while I’m sure the remake starring Mel Brooks (unsurprising, given the obvious influence on his own work) and Anne Bancroft is funny, it could never have the sheer nerve of this film, skewering the Nazis even as they made Europe burn and bleed.

Score: 89

Point Blank (1967) – ****

Is this the coolest film ever made? It’s got to be up there. It’s a film which radiates cool in every way, from Lee Marvin as the hard-boiled protagonist to John Boorman’s stylish direction to Henry Bergman’s astounding, time-splintering editing. In a lot of ways, you can compare it to The Driver, especially in its enigmatic characters, elliptical storytelling, and detached tone. But what makes this a great film where that one is just quite good? Is it that Lee Marvin is so much more effective as this kind of ice-cold antihero? Is it that the script is stronger, feeling less like a self-conscious attempt at pure archetype than a normal thriller narrative pared to the bone? Is it that John Boorman is a better director, less hung up on homage and more dedicated to an original vision?

Or maybe it was the Evan Williams I was sipping on. I don’t know.

The story is simple enough: Walker (Marvin) was roped into helping his old friend Mal Reese (John Vernon) pull off a heist—ripping off some Mob couriers who use Alcatraz as a drop point. But Reese betrayed Walker, shooting him and leaving with his wife Lynne (Sharon Acker), whom he’d been having an affair with. Only Walker doesn’t die. He survives, and with the help of a mysterious man (Keenan Wynn) who wants to take down Reese’s employer, “The Organization,” sets about getting his revenge…and his money.

It isn’t even that much money—$93,000, hardly peanuts but not especially glamorous. But Walker wants it, in cash, from the hands of Reese or The Organization, and to get it he’ll go from San Francisco to Los Angeles, from Lynne to her sister Chris (Angie Dickinson), from used-car lots to nightclubs to penthouses, leaving death and destruction in his wake, until an exasperated Brewster (Carroll O’Connor) has this exchange with him:

BREWSTER: You’re a very bad man, Walker, a very destructive man! Why do you run around doing things like this?

WALKER: I want my money. I want my $93,000.

BREWSTER: $93,000? You threaten a financial structure like this for $93,000? No, Walker, I don’t believe you. What do you really want?

WALKER: I—I really want my money.

What makes the scene is O’Connor’s peevish frustration; he might as well be scolding his teenage son for not taking out the garbage. But Marvin balances it with a perfect bit of deadpan; Walker is cold and determined, but he’s also bemused—he really does just want his money, and won’t accept any excuses as to why he won’t get it.

Like The Driver, the film ends on a strange, ambiguous note, and I won’t say I especially love it, but it works better here because any confusion isn’t the result of the characters’ convoluted schemes but because of the atmosphere of paranoia and ambiguity the film has so carefully built up, especially with the brilliant editing that mixes past and present with reality and (possible) fantasy to create a psychic landscape which Walker navigates with cold determination and single-minded focus.

There are interpretations of the film which suggest that the film is Walker’s death-dream, as much a precursor to Enter the Void as a crime thriller. The film doesn’t impose this reading on the viewer, but the slippery chronology, the abstracted imagery, and the frightening ease with which Walker cuts through his opponents provide ample support for it. But it could just be a magnificently stylish thriller about a man who’s incredibly good at what he does—a wish-fulfillment fantasy in the best cinematic tradition.

Certainly it’s brilliantly made from top to bottom. Boorman’s direction combines with Philip Lathrop’s cinematography to create a startling, often alien vision of 60s America, making especially good use of open spaces (the LAX hallway Walker strides down, the viaduct where the alleged payoff is to take place) and patterns, like the stark lines and grids on the front of office buildings—at times the imagery anticipates Koyaanisqatsi. They also make superb use of color, from the phantasmagorical (the oils in the bathroom sink, the scenes in the nightclub) to the vividly controlled (the burnt-orange tones of Brewster’s mansion, the bright blue skies).

There’s also Johnny Mandel’s spare, haunting score, the stylish production design, the superb sound design, and the moments of explosive action and black comedy—the scene where Walker interrogates Stegman (Michael Strong) by “test-driving” one of his cars is a gem. Even what might have been a technical lapse—the rather obvious special effect depicting a character falling to their death—is made to work; they seem to drift to the ground like a leaf, which is arguably more haunting than a realistic plummet would’ve been.

And while the acting isn’t the highlight, the performances are all quite solid; besides Marvin, you’ve got Acker’s haunting performance and Dickinson’s smartly human turn (they also look incredibly alike—I didn’t realize until the end that Dickinson wasn’t playing both roles), which perfectly contrasts Marvin’s intense restraint. Vernon is a fine pathetic worm, O’Connor a great capo-as-harried-banker, and Wynn an effective, faintly avuncular enigma. But it all comes back to Boorman’s startling vision, so well executed, and that overwhelming air of cool.

Score: 91