The Weekly Gravy #61

Jigoku/地獄 (1960) – ***½

Whose sins do we atone for? Our own, or those of others? Shirō Shimizu (Shigeru Amachi) seems, at least at first glance, to be less sinful than simply ill-fated; he is riding shotgun when his roommate Tamura (Yōichi Numata) runs over a drunken yakuza, and it’s Tamura who refuses to stop and help or go to the authorities when the yakuza dies of his injuries. Then, Shirō’s fiancée Yukiko (Utako Mitsuya) is killed in a car accident as they’re heading to the police station to reveal the truth – she wanted to walk, but he wanted to take a taxi, so he feels responsible even though he wasn’t behind the wheel. He’s soon marked for death by the yakuza‘s mother (Kyoko Tsuji) and lover (Akiko Oko), but is summoned to his rural hometown when his mother’s health starts to fail.

There, he finds himself sinking deeper into a vortex of guilt and death. While his mother (Kimie Tokudaiji) lies on her death-bed, his father (Hiroshi Hayashi) is occupied with his mistress (Akiko Yamashita) and his indifferent management of a nursing home, where he cuts every corner possible in league with a corrupt doctor (Tomohiko Ōtani). There’s also a corrupt cop (Hiroshi Shinguji), a muckraking reporter (Kōichi Miya), and an alcoholic painter (Jun Ōtomo) working on a portrait of Hell. His daughter, Sachiko (also Mitsuya), seems to be one of the few truly decent people in the picture, but what will that count for when the relentless Tamura and the yakuza‘s survivors arrive on the scene? I’ve forgotten to mention Yukiko’s parents, namely her father (Torahiko Nakamura), who’s haunted by his actions during World War II, which Tamura taunts him with, as he taunts everyone else with their own sins.

Everyone ends up dead, and the final movement of the film takes us into Hell, where all manner of agony awaits these characters, and where Shirō must attempt a final act of redemption, by rescuing his unborn daughter (Yukiko was pregnant when she was killed) and at least sparing her eternal damnation. Dismemberment, flames, a river of pus, a wheel of fate, and more factor into this vivid sequence, clearly the reason for the film’s relative prominence (it’s part of the Criterion Collection).

But it’s the themes of culpability and the transference of guilt that stick with me the most. It’s a film steeped in Buddhist ideas of sin and damnation, and perhaps it’s my own upbringing (Reform Jewish, Midwestern American) that leads me to focus on how Shirō isn’t guilty, rather than considering how he might be. After all, the only life he directly takes, or even tries to take, is that of Tamura, who’s coldly amoral and, at that point in the time, engaged in a violent grapple with Shirō. He’s otherwise surrounded by deaths he didn’t cause and crimes he didn’t commit, but perhaps his crime is that of passivity, of doing too little to expose or prevent the sins which transpire. From where I stand, that isn’t necessarily his responsibility, but the film seems to have other ideas.

It was the last production of the Shintoho studio, and there’s a sense of decay and finality about the film which reflects that; the dim, moody lighting, the corruption and/or helplessness of the characters, all of whom die, and their agonies in Hell all reflect, intentionally or otherwise, the death throes of the studio.

Director/co-writer Nobuo Nakagawa creates vivid imagery throughout, with a particularly fine use of color which hints at the damnation to come long before the characters have died. Cinematographer Mamoru Morita supplies some brisk camera movements which enhance the atmosphere; in particular, there’s a sequence which contrasts a revel at the nursing home with one at a local tavern, and the camera repeatedly tracks in on the increasingly drunken goings-on, until death overwhelms them both – from food poisoning at the nursing home, from poisoned liquor at the tavern. The production design and special effects are likewise accomplished; special praise must go to the “flaying” effect during the Hell sequence, which is wonderfully gruesome.

It’s not a great film by any means. The characters are fairly thin and the acting is mostly unremarkable, except for Numata, who’s chilling as the cold-blooded Tamura, haunting Shirō like a phantom well before their respective deaths, taunting him even in the bowels of Hell. And the Hell sequence is rather disjointed and confusing (it may flow better depending on your grasp of Buddhist theology), culminating in a distinctly abrupt and unsatisfying ending. But there’s enough lurid fascination and thematic intrigue to make it worth checking out.

Score: 80

Gods and Monsters (1998) – ****

Talking about this film allows to touch upon two favorite topics: the caprices of the Academy and the occasional good taste of the NBR. The Academy nominated Gods and Monsters for Best Actor (Ian McKellen), Supporting Actress (Lynn Redgrave), and Adapted Screenplay, but failed to nominate it for Picture, Director, or any technical awards; when it actually won Adapted Screenplay, it became one of only three films ever to do so without a Picture nomination. Worse, McKellen lost Best Actor to Roberto Benigni for Life is Beautiful (which did earn Picture and Director nods), a film which, as far as I can tell, is not considered a classic.

On the other hand, the NBR named Monsters Best Film, giving McKellen Best Actor as well; it was the first NBR winner in 11 years to miss at the Oscars. The Globes also showed relatively good taste, nominating it for Drama Picture and Actor and giving Redgrave Supporting Actress. I’m not sure what my own #1 of 1998 would be – I’d have to watch and rewatch a lot of films before I had a solid idea – but Monsters is certainly an excellent film, one which uses real figures and events in film history to tell a largely fictional story, doing so with fantastic acting, sensitive writing, and superb filmmaking.

Hollywood, 1957. James Whale (McKellen), best known for directing Frankenstein, The Invisible Man, and Bride of Frankenstein, has been retired for some years and is recovering from a stroke which has impaired his mental faculties; he finds it difficult to concentrate or sleep, as his memories intrude upon his waking moments with painful vividness. His gardener, Clayon Boone (Brendan Fraser), was kept out of Korea for medical reasons and now lives a fairly dead-end life, spending his free time drinking and chasing women. One afternoon, Whale notices the handsome young man and takes an interest, asking him to pose for sketches while they talk about their respective lives.

We get glimpses of Whale’s difficult childhood in industrial northern England, his service in the trenches of World War I, including his attraction to a young man in his command, and his time in Hollywood, namely the production of Bride, whose themes and humor reflect Whale’s character. But mainly, we simply follow the bond that develops between them, and the bond between Whale and his longtime housekeeper Hanna (Redgrave), who act more like an old married couple than a master and servant. As Boone overcomes his unease about Whale’s sexuality and comes to appreciate his art. Whale faces the continuing decline of his own health and the limited scope of his legacy.

One may compare Monsters to Mr. Holmes, which reunited writer-director Bill Condon and McKellen 17 years later, and which also depicts McKellen struggling with dementia and his place in history, with supporting roles for his housekeeper (Laura Linney) and her son (Milo Parker), whom McKellen comes to mentor. One may also compare it to those films which use a fictional or fictionalized character as an audience surrogate to approach their ostensible subjects, but Monsters wisely introduces us to Whale before he and Boone actually meet, and throughout the film we see Whale through his own eyes.

Although there are some faint similarities between Whale and Boone’s relationship and the real-life relationship between Whale and Pierre Foegel, it’s more fiction than fact, and the burden is on the film (and its source material, Christopher Bram’s novel Father of Frankenstein) to justify the invention. It does, because their bond is not only moving, but convincing. Boone cannot save Whale from his declining health, and Whale doesn’t dramatically change the course of Boone’s life. They’re just two men, a bit lonely and lost in their lives, who find some reward in reaching out to one another. When Whale commits a transgression late in the film, it’s the more painful to watch because we understand what’s being betrayed, and when we learn Whale’s horrifying reason for committing it, it rings tragically true because his suffering has been made so clear.

It’s made clear by McKellen’s fantastic performance, which evokes both the sharp intelligence and flamboyant wit which made Whale’s reputation, and the agony he endures as his mind and body fail him, and his most painful memories overwhelm him. Fraser is extremely good in his own right, gradually revealing the empathy and intelligence which Boone has so rarely been encouraged to display. And Redgrave is wonderfully funny as the doting Hanna, who might tut at Whale’s proclivities and believe him damned for them, but whose love and devotion shine through her deadpan quips.

It’s also made clear through Condon’s fine script, by turns witty and heartfelt, which keeps the characters and their relationships front and center. I might’ve liked a little more exploration of Whale’s creative process, but ultimately the film is about a specific period in his life – namely the end of it – and Condon doesn’t dilute the depth of the present-day scenes for the sake of pleasing cinephiles. As a director, he does a first-rate job balancing past and present, and even throws in a couple of delightful sequences which directly evoke the Frankenstein films, one in which Boone removes Whale’s damaged brain and inserts a new one, and one in which Boone, as the Monster, guides Whale across a body-strewn battlefield, leading him to a proper resting place.

Kudos is also due the editing, the cinematography, the sets and costumes, and Carter Burwell’s beautiful score, all of which combine to help the film touch its chosen bases, culminating in a scene apparently not in the book, the lovely final scene where Boone, some years hence, shows Bride to his son and reveals his connection to Whale. He then takes out the trash as rain begins to fall, and stomps off into the night in imitation of the Monster, his imagination fired by the man he once called “friend.”

(Side note: I was tickled when Boone revealed his hometown of Joplin, Missouri, having grown up half an hour away and having spent a great deal of time there over the years.)

Score: 90

Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983) – **½

I’ve never read Ray Bradbury’s nostalgic fantasy, but after listening to Words About Books’ two-part discussion, I decided it would make for suitable late-October viewing. It might have, had Disney not panicked after poor test screenings and subjected the film to extensive re-working, cutting expensive scenes and shooting expensive new ones, changing the score and adding a bookending voiceover, all to no avail as the film failed to make back even half of its reshoot-swollen budget. The result is a singularly unsatisfying film, and I really have to wonder if any film has benefited from that level of studio interference. It always seems to result in a flop.

To be sure, Something Wicked had its defenders at the time (Ebert liked it), and it does seem to have a bit of a cult following, but to me, it plays like a film whose soul was torn out, with a story that doesn’t flow, themes that don’t pan out, character arcs cut short, and pacing that never feels right. The story, set in Green Town, Illinois in the 1930s, follows the adventures of young Will Halloway (Vidal Peterson) and his best friend Jim Nightshade (Shawn Carson) as they react to the arrival in town of Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival, run by the sinister Mr. Dark (Jonathan Pryce), which offers the townsfolk their heart’s desire…but at a high price. The boys, in league with Will’s librarian father Charles (Jason Robards), must take a stand against Dark and his minions.

Having not actually read the book, I’m not sure if the magic system Dark employs makes more sense in it, but in the film, we get precious little idea of what Dark is actually capable of or how he, his minions, and the carnival work. We’re told that the “autumn people,” as they’re called, are drawn by and feed off the negative energies of unhappy people, and we see how they can rob people of their sight, age and de-age them with a magic carousel, and enslave them to the carnival’s service. But when it comes to tracking down Will and Jim – who are not at all magically endowed – they’re not terribly efficient, and at least in the film, they’re so easily defeated it’s almost laughable.

I can’t help but think the post-production meddling is at play here. As noted, the film just doesn’t flow well at all; there’s no real shape to the narrative, and it doesn’t so much end as stop. According to the podcast, the book deals with themes of maturity and the loss of childhood innocence, but none of that comes through here; Will and Jim seem little changed by the end. And while we still get a sense of Will’s shy reticence (he’s a stick-in-the-mud, all right), Jim is a comparative cipher, a bit mischievous but never greatly swayed by Dark’s temptations.

The opening voiceover suggests that this is really Charles’ story, and Robards certainly does his best to anchor the film; his performance is easily the best part of it, conveying Charles’ warmth and kindness as well as his senses of regret and unfulfillment. Probably the best scene in the film comes when he and Dark face off in the library, with Robards’ and Pryce’s performances proving more effective at conveying the struggle between good and evil than any of the expensive special effects. Pryce is solid enough, but the writing (or the re-editing) prevents him from really becoming a formidable villain; his sinister appearance and courtly diction can only compensate for so much.

The rest of the cast is okay but mostly unimpressive. Peterson and Carson aren’t all that strong (we never believe that they’re blood brothers), while Diane Ladd is totally wasted as Jim’s mother; Pam Grier is a solid presence as the Dust Witch, but it’s Royal Dano as the eccentric Tom Fury (the lightning-rod salesman) who’s really able to bring some humanity to his role, even if he too is poorly served by the film we have.

Technically, the film is surprisingly varied. The period detail is nicely handled, and Stephen H. Burum’s cinematography is good, but the special effects are shockingly uneven, with solid scenes like the destruction of the carnival juxtaposed with rather obvious optical-printing effects and a de-aging sequence on the carousel that’s almost unwatchably blurry. Worst of all might be the tarantula sequence, a product of the re-shoots, which plays as if sped-up and is neither very scary nor very relevant. It replaced a sequence involving an ostensibly unconvincing giant hand, but I can’t imagine it was worse than what we get.

Something Wicked isn’t a bad film (another aspect of the re-edits, James Horner’s score, is actually quite good), but again, the word is “unsatisfying.” I’d really love to see director Jack Clayton’s original cut, but I’d really love to see what we might have had if Bradbury’s original script (the property began as a script before he turned it into a novel) had been filmed, as originally intended, as a vehicle for Gene Kelly – I could easily see him either as Dark or Charles. But that must remain a wish, and wishes, as this story shows, can be very dangerous indeed.

Score: 58

Orca (1977) – *½

CW: Animal cruelty, child loss.

That Orca is schlock should come as no surprise; it’s a blatant attempt by Dino de Laurentiis to cash in on the success of Jaws. But compared to his King Kong the previous year, which was expensive, prestigious schlock, Orca is rather puny, with a messy story, generic characters, and muddled messaging. It’s too absurd to take seriously, but it’s a shade too grim and sad to reach its full camp potential. It has its moments, but on the whole it’s the kind of film to leave you shaking your head.

Nolan (Richard Harris) is the captain of a small ship, prowling the waters off Newfoundland for sea creatures he can capture and sell to aquariums. At first, he’s after a Great White shark, but after seeing an orca intervene to prevent the shark from killing a human in the water, he turns his attention to catching one of the whales. He’s discouraged by oceanologist Rachel Bedford (Charlotte Rampling), who asserts the intelligence and rights of the orcas, but he stubbornly goes ahead.

He and his crew harpoon a female orca, who’s swimming with her common-law husband, and in the subsequent struggle she injures herself, leading to the fetus she was carrying falling dead upon the deck of Nolan’s ship. The male orca, enraged, follows the ship, and when the guilt-stricken Nolan orders the female returned to the sea, the male kills his mate Novak (Keenan Wynn). The female dies, and the male pushes her body onto the beach near where Nolan has docked.

The male hangs around the harbor, driving away the fish, turning the local fisherman against Nolan; Bedford and local Inuit Jacob Umilak (Will Sampson) try to convince him that the orca is seeking revenge. Nolan struggles to accept this, but as the orca’s attacks become more violent, culminating in the destruction of Nolan’s beachfront home, he sets out with Bedford, Umilak, and what’s left of the crew to confront the male on his own turf.

The Jaws franchise would get back at Orca a decade later with Jaws: The Revenge, whose premise is entirely absurd, but which has no moral complexities to detract from one’s appreciation of its camp value. It’s a dreadful film, probably objectively worse than Orca, but more watchable. After all, there’s no question that the shark is malicious, and no question that we should root for its defeat. If we don’t, it’s because the human characters are so ridiculous that we wouldn’t mind if they got eaten.

Here, however, we’re clearly meant to feel for the orca and meant to believe that Nolan wronged him, and that would be fine…if this was a film with anything like the depth necessary to do justice to such a premise. But since it’s a piece of schlocky crap, scenes that might have been moving or haunting are at best laughable. Worst all of is the scene where the female has a miscarriage, the fetus dropping with a thud on the deck, the male squealing in agony. It’s too inherently tragic to be laughed at, but too silly to be heartrending; it ends up being simply nauseating.

But one can certainly laugh at the extent of the male’s revenge; he sinks other sailors’ boats, sets off a refinery explosion, and topples a house into the sea, ripping off one of Annie’s (Bo Derek) legs in the process. If he’d literally challenged Nolan to a duel it could hardly be more ridiculous. He also kills quite a few people, some of whom had nothing whatever to do with his family’s death, which makes it hard to tell if we’re meant to view him as fearsomely intelligent or a vicious force of nature.

That confusion pervades the film, as Nolan remains skeptical about the male’s intelligence and intentions far longer than necessary, while Bedford wavers in her own view of how best to handle the matter, mainly for the sake of filling screen time. We also might wonder why Nolan, who’s trying to pay off the mortgage on his boat, is trying to capture sharks and whales, a risky and expensive endeavor, when the boat itself seems quite inadequate for the task. We also might wonder why Bedford sporadically narrates the film, unless it was to cover gaps in the script.

But the script, by Luciano Vincenzoni and Sergio Donati, wasn’t any good to begin with. Nolan is a generic rogue (with a bit of a tragic past) and Bedford part generic condescending intellectual and part generic hand-wringing love interest; the other characters are ciphers except for Umilak, who’s a generic vaguely mystical native. The acting is mostly pretty flat; Harris’ star had fallen by this point and he’s here for the paycheck (though he’s always watchable), but I’m at a loss to explain what Rampling is doing here. Sampson, sadly, was clearly making the best of the limited roles available to Native American actors.

Michael Anderson’s direction is comparably uninspired, and whether he or the editors (three of them, never a great sign) are to blame for the tedious montages of orcas at play, they’re certainly a drag; it doesn’t help that much of the footage simply shows their fins poking above the water, a less than enthralling sight, especially at such length. On the other hand, Ennio Morricone’s score is typically solid (though the sappy end-credits ballad is pretty inexcusable), and the special effects are actually quite good for the most part; the production ran into some trouble because it was assumed real orcas were being harmed, but the only real orcas involved were carefully trained.

What can you really do with a film like Orca? Skip the dullest/most off-putting parts, I guess, and giggle at the sillier bits – or, if you’re an orca yourself, cheer at the mayhem the male wreaks, right up to the end, when (spoilers) he flings Nolan into an iceberg like a ragdoll, killing him. But then, if you’re an orca, how the hell are you reading this?

Score: 37