Hard to believe it’s already February. I haven’t actually seen that many movies this month; between work and my awards season coverage I haven’t had as much time or energy. But I’m not going to worry about that; there’s no deadline here but those I place on myself. I do hope to get the 2023 Gravy Awards up before the Oscars, but if they aren’t ready, I won’t sweat it. I don’t ever want maintaining this blog to become a chore.
I only crossed one film off my Oscar watchlist this week, but I’ve only got three more films to watch outside of the specialty categories (and I’m only missing one nominee for Animated Feature). I’m in a decent position.
And now, on to the reviews.
The Three Faces of Eve (1957) – ***
The introduction and narration by Alistair Cooke do their utmost to convince us that The Three Faces of Eve is substantially accurate, and there was indeed a real woman, Christine Costner Sizemore, whose treatment by Drs. Corbett Thigpen and Hervey Cleckley was turned into the book the film is based on. (She’d later go to considerable lengths to regain control over the rights to her own life’s story, which might well make a compelling film in its own right.) But even without wading into the debate over whether or not dissociative identity disorder truly exists, it’s hard to take the film seriously as psychology – the lines between the three “faces” are far too distinct to be believable.
But that’s a shortcoming of Nunnally Johnson’s script, not Joanne Woodward’s performance, which won her an Oscar (and a Globe, and the NBR award). Woodward may not convince us that Eve can switch from the weary, reserved “Eve White” to the sassy, free-wheeling “Eve Black” with the party-trick ease depicted (the third “face,” the well-adjusted “Jane,” takes quite a while to appear), but she plays each part for all it’s worth.
Really, the film works best as a showcase for Woodward. As Eve White, she’s sensitive, fearful, well-meaning, and put upon by her husband Ralph (David Wayne). As Eve Black, she’s flirtatious, witty, sings and dances, tells off Ralph, and slams Eve White mercilessly. And as Jane, whom she eventually “becomes,” she’s gracious and thoughtful, finding new love with Earl (Ken Scott) after Ralph finally divorces her. It’s an unabashedly ambitious performance, and Woodward delivers.
Wayne isn’t bad either; I was surprised to see how complex a character Ralph actually is. Given the film’s vintage, I figured he’d eventually soften his tone and stand by Eve as she comes to grips with the traumas that fractured her personality; after all, there are moments when he is sympathetic towards her. But his cruel streak and suspicion that she or her doctors are trying to fool him are too much to overcome, and he’s out of the picture, allowing the understanding Earl to step in. As it should be, of course, but I really feared the film would try and save their unhealthy marriage and was relieved when it didn’t.
As Eve’s chief psychiatrist, Dr. Luther, Lee J. Cobb plays a far gentler and more likable character than in his other big film of 1957 (12 Angry Men, in which he plays the angriest man of them all). It’s not one of his most memorable performances – there’s just not much to Luther as written – but Cobb’s sonorous voice and subtly expressive face are inherently watchable. (It’s a lot closer to his performance in The Exorcist years later.)
Beyond the performances, the film is efficiently made – not much more, not much less. Johnson’s direction is straightforward and Stanley Cortez’s cinematography keeps the focus on the actors, and especially Woodward and Cobbs’ faces. If the art direction stands out, it’s because the settings – especially the characters’ homes – feel far too posh; they never feel like homes, just sets on the 20th Century Fox lot. But anyone watching this film now is watching it for Woodward – and she’s more than good enough to overlook some iffy sets.
Score: 72
Society of the Snow/La Sociedad de la Nieve (2023) – ****
Oscar Nominations: Best Makeup and Hairstyling, Best International Film
I’d been familiar with the story for years; I’d never seen either of the earlier film versions (the poorly regarded Survive! or the decently regarded Alive), but I was well familiar with the Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashed in the Andes, whose struggle to survive led them to cannibalism, and who were finally rescued after two of them made an arduous trek to civilization. Minus the cannibalism, it’s similar to the story of The Red Tent, an old favorite of mine that I happened to mention in last week’s article.
Anyway, director J.A. Bayona had proven himself as a director of survival stories with 2012’s The Impossible, and his first feature, 2007’s The Orphanage, established his horror credentials. I haven’t seen either of those films, but I have seen 2016’s A Monster Calls (a very good fantasy drama) and 2018’s Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom (a mediocre film with only fleeting evidence of Bayona’s skills). Thankfully, Society of the Snow has the visual skill and emotional impact of Monster and only the technical accomplishment of Fallen Kingdom; it is not compromised by the demands of franchise filmmaking, and one hopes that Bayona will steer clear of that in the future.
While Society doesn’t wallow in the grisly elements of the story, it doesn’t shy away from them either. From the fleeting but unmistakable glimpses of limbs being crushed during the crash sequence, to the glistening pieces of human flesh the characters must consume, to the ravages visited upon their bodies (which well justify the nomination for Makeup and Hairstyling) the film ably conveys the 72-day ordeal.
It was also shortlisted for its special effects and score, but oddly not its sound; all are superbly done, but the sound is particularly impressive, not just at crafting the howling desolation of the crash site, but at cranking up the tension in the moments leading up to the crash, as the engines strain and whine (the crash occurred because the plane descended too early and clipped a mountain as it tried to climb) and the turbulence nearly shakes the plane to pieces before the mountain rips it in two.
But then, right before the crash, the sound fades and the sun over the mountain nearly blinds us, amplifying the horrible shock of the crash. And the effects show the plane being torn apart and its front half hurtling along as convincingly as they show the passengers being crushed when it comes to a halt. And thus far, we’ve heard little if any of Michael Giacchino’s score. Only when the struggle for survival begins does the music come in, and it’s quite a fine score, with tense strings, contemplative pianos, and mournful guitars.
It enhances the drama throughout, but never commandeers it – the more impressive because the film, for the most part, takes a relatively restrained approach to character. One might argue that we never get to know the characters all that well, and that aside from Numa Turcatti (Enzo Vogrincic), Roberto Canessa (Matías Recalt), and Nando Parrado (Agustin Pardella), it’s easy to forget just who is who; the scenes which try the hardest to tell us more about them are some of the weakest in the film.
It’s not much of a problem, though, both because the acting is uniformly solid and because the script, based on the non-fiction book of the same name, trusts the gravity of the scenario and trusts us to care about these people, thrust into a harrowing situation, who must make hellish choices to stay alive, even as accidents and illness diminish their numbers. (If you don’t know who meets what fate, go in cold.) And we certainly do.
And thanks to Pedro Luque’s cinematography, we can marvel at the majesty of the Andes while being struck by how tiny the wreckage of the plane actually is (hence why the crash site wasn’t discovered sooner) and by how pathetically small the characters against the expanses of snow, ice, and rock which stand between them and salvation. (In other shots, Luque and Bayone use distorted imagery to enhance the sense of desperation and disorientation.) But in spite of the odds, in spite of all those who didn’t make it, 16 of them did, and their story has been told in multiple books and films. I can’t say if this is the definitive account, but it’s a damn fine place to start.
Score: 88
Bless Their Little Hearts (1983) – ***½
“Man, do you know how far you’d have to drive to kill a rabbit?”
Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep, despite or because of its long unavailability, is regarded as a landmark of Black independent cinema and a classic of American independent cinema; it was introduced into the National Film Registry in 1990, years before the rights issues which kept it out of circulation were finally resolved. It would be 23 years before Bless Their Little Hearts would join it, and Little Hearts has never reached the audience Killer has – it has just 500 IMDb votes while Killer has over 7,000.
The two films really do belong side by side. While Billy Woodberry directed Little Hearts, Burnett wrote and lensed it (in black-and-white, just like Killer); Kansas City’s own Kaycee Moore played the female lead in both, and both films deal with the struggles of working-class Black families in Watts, Los Angeles, adopting an observational, episodic style which aimed to show the characters’ lives as honestly as possible.
While Stan in Killer had a job, albeit one that ground his spirit down, Charles Banks (Nate Hardman) has no steady employment, and we first see him at the employment office, filling out applications and taking note of any reasonable opportunities; when he does work, it’s usually menial labor like clearing weeds from a field or painting a shed. His wife Andais (Moore) is the breadwinner, and much of the time their three children have to raise themselves.
Charles is embarrassed by his struggle to provide for his family, and his frustration manifests itself in actions like twisting the taps on the bathroom sink so hard his daughter must use a wrench to loosen them, or chastising his son for letting his fingernails grow too long – behavior for “girls and sissies,” he says as he irritably clips the boy’s nails.
A fling with Rose, an old acquaintance, briefly lifts his spirits, but Rose gives him the boot when he’s unwilling to make a commitment, and when he returns home Andais, who’s known about the affair for weeks, finally confronts him about it – and about his ongoing unemployment. His friends offer little help, whether they’re talking about turning to crime or trying to make it as fishermen, anxiously flagging down passing cars to interest them in the catch of the day.
Throughout the film, there are nods to the cycle of life and cycles of behavior. The Banks’ son has a mischievous streak; we wonder if he’s going to turn out like his father. A young couple happen by while Andais is talking about Charles’ affair; they’re warned about rushing into marriage. In one scene, Charles and a friend visit “Mr. Jet,” the local barber, and seek his advice; as he offers them platitudes, he cuts the hair of a young boy, and we wonder if he didn’t cut Charles’ hair when he was that age, and if he’s been dispensing advice all those years.
In the film’s final scenes, the Banks’ eldest daughter gets hurt while playing, and while she’s not badly injured, Charles breaks down out of shame at raising her in a dangerous environment, and at not being able to be a better provider. He clings to Andais as he weeps, and she comforts him. Later, seeing the lengths his friends must go to make a few dollars from their fish, he walks away, and they ask each other what could be the matter with him.
Has anything changed? Has he perhaps begun to take his responsibilities more seriously? Or is he just as lost as ever? I’d like to lean towards the former, but the film ends how it ends for a reason.
I may be in the minority, but I think I prefer Little Hearts to Killer. Both are fine films, but I think Little Hearts has the greater depth and cohesion. Like Killer, it’s more a portrait of these lives than a narrative, but I think the themes come through more clearly and the episodes feel more unified (without feeling contrived).
I will say that Hardman is probably not as good as Henry G. Sanders in Killer; as a physical actor he’s solid, but his line deliveries tend to be self-conscious and stuff. Moore is far better, convincing us by turns of Andais’ devotion (as when she gives Charles some change to give to the children for church – privately, so he looks like a provider), frustration (as when she grips a seat handle on the bus just as Charles grips the faucet handles), and gradually mounting anger, which is finally unleashed in the painful scene where she finally calls Charles out.
Despite some lapses in Burnett’s script – Rose in particular is underdeveloped for as much of a role as she plays in the story – he offers ample moments of insight and empathy, and his cinematography is quietly effective, capturing the unglamorous setting without lapsing into drabness. A fine low-key jazz score – I’m not sure what was written for the film and what already existed – enhances the mood and helps link the episodes together. Woodberry’s direction is nicely understated.
The line I quoted at the start comes in a scene where Charles and his friends are trying to figure out what to do with themselves. Charles holds the view that their struggles are a kind of spiritual test. Others suggest turning to crime. One, who seems to be fairly drunk, suggests getting a gun and wantonly killing animals – including rabbits – which prompts that response. Nothing like a friend to quash your dreams.
Score: 84
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