A Day in the Country (Une Partie de Campagne) 1937 **

Well, maybe not an entire day—more like 40 minutes—but time, like age, is a matter of attitude anyway.

This 1936 French short film was directed by Jean Renoir about a year before his The Rules of the Game made him a top tier director. This was supposed to be a full-length film, but Renoir encountered some sort of mental block that led him to leave the film unfinished for ten years. In 1946, he turned the surviving footage into a short film. Full-length or short, as per usual, Renoir employs poetic realism to tell a simple but poignant tale (based on a Guy de Maupassant story) about illicit love and lust.

Again picking on the bourgeoisie, Renoir has a Parisian industrialist (Andre Gabriello) take his family to the country for a Sunday afternoon of mingling with provincial types and communing with nature. Evidently this happens a lot, because two male adventurers, Rodolphe (Jacques Borel) and Henri (Georges D’Arnoux) eagerly await the acquaintance of the industrialist’s daughter Henriette (Sylvia Bataille) and his wife Juliette (Jeanne Marken). What transpires is an interesting study of age and class.

On the one hand, you have Juliette and Rodolphe. He is witty and outright blatant about his intentions, while she is keenly aware of the situation and quite happy to be the object of his affection for this one afternoon. To her, it is a nice day in the country with a man who is the total opposite of her husband. Plus, she can have her lustful afternoon adventure and return to her Parisian lifestyle without any regret. On the opposite hand, you have Henriette and Henri.  She is betrothed to the idiotic Anatole (Paul Temps), but has a romantic streak that leads her into the arms of a poor man. While Juliette and Rodolphe are quite content with their fun ending at the end of the day, Henriette and Henri have the soul-crushing knowledge that what could have been a deep, abiding love for the rest of their lives must come to an end with the setting sun.

When I watched this film I remembered what I had read in the 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die book about the ending. Adrian Martin writes, “So what started, in Henriette’s words, as ‘a sort of vague desire’ that calls forth both the beauty and harshness of nature, ends badly, as the ‘years pass, with Sundays as melancholy as Monday.’” While it is a short film, it conveys a powerful message about class expectations and the stupidity of youth. Renoir knowingly uses a beautiful setting to tell us a very a harsh-ending story. 

Just 40 minutes long, and usually found on YouTube, A Day in the Country (Une Partie de Campagne) is a good introduction of Renoir’s style and manner of storytelling.

Read More

L’Atalante (1934) **

Consult countless lists of the greatest films of all time and you will find this 1934 French classic. Considered to be director Jean Vigo’s masterpiece, L’Atalante is a surrealist love story for the ages. It is also a testament to Vigo’s artistic passion—he was deathly ill as he made it, often directing from a stretcher. He died shortly after filming was completed and could not edit the film himself. Instead, the editing task fell to some overenthusiastic Gaumont editors who cut the film from 89 to 65 minutes; somewhat damaging the film’s overall artistic composition. Thankfully, it was restored in 1990 and now truly resembles Vigo’s vision.

The beginning of the film finds handsome barge captain Jean (Jean Daste) marrying his proper girlfriend Juliette (Dita Parlo). Whoever said the honeymoon can’t last forever must have been thinking of poor Juliette, because she doesn’t get one. Instead, she and her new husband immediately board their humble floating abode, the L’Atalante, where they also share quarters with the rough Jules (Michel Simon) and his assortment of cats, as well as a cabin boy. Basically, this is a story about a simple man who wants simple things and a fanciful young woman who dreams of seeing Paris.  The story takes a dramatic turn when the barge docks in Paris and Juliette goes ashore without telling her husband. When he finds her gone he doesn’t wait for her return; instead, he angrily take the L’Atalante out of port—leaving his provincial wife to fend for herself in the big city.

There are many things to enjoy about this film. Using his signature style of poetic realism, Vigo captures both the sensual, tender relationship between Jean and Juliette in an almost ethereal sense, as well as capturing the grunginess of a cramped barge and the squalor of Depression-era Paris in a direct, unflinching manner. The love that the couple share is Vigo’s conception of beauty, while most of the outside world represents his vision of all that is crude. When they are together on the barge, even when they are fighting about soiled sheets and unkempt, crude Jules, they are truly happy. It is only when they are both physically and emotionally separated that the couple truly feels anguish and pain.

The most striking sequence in the film comes about due to this separation. Remembering that Juliette had once told him that she had opened her eyes under water to find her true love and had seen his face before she had ever met him, Jean jumps into freezing water and finds a smiling Juliette below the surface. When he returns to the boat he holds tight to a block of ice as if it were Juliette. It is a touching, spectacular scene to watch.  This is one of many great images that cinematographer Boris Kaufman captures. Truly, the film is a visual marvel, especially for 1934.

While both Parlo and Daste are more than memorable in this film, the one standout performer is Michel Simon as Jules. A master crafter of character, Simon always makes you believe he is his character. Still a relatively young man when he took on this role, Simon embodies the image of a sea-worn, old sailor who has seen and done everything.  In addition, his strange relationship with Juliette is something to behold. He is at once crass and lecherous, and in the next moment sweet and thoughtful. Capturing Jules’ dual nature, Vigo created a spectacular image of Simon, through the use of dissolved exposures, when Jules wrestles himself on deck, which comes across as two ghosts fighting over his body.

Francois Truffaut wrote that this was one of the films that shaped his own cinematic vision. It is easy to see why. Loaded with breathtaking images, as well as a tender love story, L’Atalante is a truly entertaining film.

Read More

Land Without Bread (Las Hurdes) 1933 *1/2

This 1933 documentary by Luis Bunuel is strange, but not unwatchable. Filmed in a poor region of Spain known as Las Hurdes Altas, this documentary presents the dire conditions faced by the region’s inhabitants through a surrealist lens. Hence, why I found this movie disturbingly strange at times. I just don’t know how one can effectively use surrealism to document the true hardships of a people without violating the documentarian’s unspoken code of neutrality—perhaps Michal Moore is a fan of Bunuel?

The English title of this film is Land Without Bread because bread was nowhere to be found in Las Hurdes—it had to be brought in as a luxury item. Tucked away in a mountainous region, Las Hurdes Altas has poor soil that yields very few crops. The one foodstuff they have an abundance of is honey, and even this isn’t very good—unless, of course, you want to smear a sickly jackass with it and watch bees swarm.

Like in most Bunuel films, the Catholic Church is portrayed as decadent and unmoved by the plight of the poor. Using one of his favorite cinematic tools, juxtaposition, Bunuel goes from depicting malnourished, impoverished people to showcasing the lushness of an abandoned convent.

As a completely isolated region, Las Hurdes Altas suffers from not only bodily starvation but intellectual starvation as well. There are no arts to speak of, and the people practice inbreeding, which in turn contributes to a number of mentally challenged and handicapped people. As I watched Bunuel’s portrayal of these people, I kept asking myself if he could find them why hadn’t the 20th century somehow nudged itself into this horrible place? I suppose that was Bunuel’s point: no one cared if they lived in almost medieval conditions.

I often find it difficult to believe that Bunuel came from a wealthy background. He has an almost searing hatred of everything bourgeois and traditional. In addition, his depiction of his homeland (Spain) is often extremely vitriolic. This, no doubt, contributed to his expatriation under Franco.

Under a half an hour long, Las Hurdes is a disturbing look at a people and region that time forgot. Through shocking images, such as decapitated chickens and countless shots of filth and disease, Bunuel forces his viewer to see, in his words, “hell on earth”.

Read More

Zero for Conduct (Zero De Conduite) 1933 *1/2

I am not a big fan of surrealism and this 1933 French film is pretty darn surreal.

Under 45-minutes long, this Jean Vigo film was based on his own childhood experiences in a French boarding school. Vigo examines the struggle between freedom and authority. He uses his own unique style of poetic realism to create an allegory about the way the lower rungs of society view those who hold all the power. It must have been a thinly veiled allegory, because it was quickly banned in France.

The storyline of this film about school children revolting against their teachers plays a secondary role to the visual elements presented by Vigo. At times it can be difficult to determine what is truly taking place. The children have a number of internal thoughts that are presented as happening in the external. It sometimes takes a moment to realize that what has happened is a farce. For example, when the children have their big “revolution” on the school roof and throw garbage and cans at alumnae at an alumni ceremony, it takes you a second to realize that the alumnae are just dressed up dummies—literally.

The most famous image from Zero De Conduite is the slow-motion pillow fight. With feathers slowly floating through the air, the children eerily march as though they are an army caught in a snowstorm. I must admit, this innovative shot makes this film almost bearable—almost.

Not nearly as bad as other surreal “classics”, such as Bunuel’s An Andalusian Dog and The Age of Gold(1930), Zero De Conduite just isn’t the type of film I enjoy. However, Vigo did make one surrealist film that I do like, L’Atalante (1934). Although Vigo only completed four short films before he died from blood poisoning at age 29, his work was highly influential on the French New Wave. Some critics believe that Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows was a direct descendant of Zero De Conduite.

Read More

The Bitch (La chienne) 1931 **

This controversial 1931 French drama was director Jean Renoir’s first sound film. Filmed primarily on location in Renoir’s hometown of Montmartre, this film finally brought Renoir the recognition he was denied as a silent film director. Stark and unrelenting (and, oh, so French), this film showcases both Renoir’s visual and spatial acuity, as well as his ability to avoid oversentimentality while unflinchingly staring at human baseness. This film was the beginning of the style that is most associated with Renoir: poetic realism.

Legendary French actor Michel Simon (in his first starring role) plays a henpecked bank clerk named Legrand who falls in love with Lulu (Janie Mareze) after rescuing her from a man beating her on the street. What Lulu neglects to tell Legrand is that she’s a prostitute and that the man who was beating her, Dede (Georges Flamant), is her boyfriend/pimp. Married to a complete harpy (Magdeleine Berubet) who controls their finances and won’t allow him to paint in the house, Legrand finds comfort in Lulu’s “innocence” and sweet nature. He sets her up in an apartment that he finances by stealing from both his wife and his work. When this money doesn’t suffice, Dede begins selling Legrand’s paintings under the name Clara Wood to finance his own café and gambling habits. Unaware that the sales of his artwork are financing Lulu’s pimp, Legrand is not angry when he learns that she’s selling his paintings. It is not until Legrand disentangles himself from his wife and shows up unexpectedly to tell Lulu that he’s going to be all hers that he discovers her deceit. In the end, Lulu meets with a tragic end and Dede gets his comeuppance at the hands of an executioner.

Based on a novel by Fouchardiere, this film was banned in the United States for forty years due to its sexual theme, crude language, and unpunished crime. After watching the scene where Lulu’s true nature is revealed to Legrand, I can see why some people were shocked by the film’s content. As Legrand is proclaiming his love for her and forgiving her indiscretions, Lulu sadistically belittles and laughs at him. This sets up the moment where you figure out why the film’s title is La Chienne. Having had enough of her deceit, it declares: “You’re no woman—you’re a bitch!” And, then some unpleasant things happen with a letter opener. It was 1931, so you have to admit that’s pretty daring. While this film wasn’t shown in the United States until 1975, American audiences did get to see a remake of it, Scarlet Street (1945). Directed by Fritz Lang and starring Edward G. Robinson and Joan Bennett, this film was a MUCH more toned down version.

Overall, the story is interesting to watch. Michel Simon does a nice job of playing an unhappy man who comes to life after falling for a much younger woman and then mentally cracks after he realizes it was all an illusion of happiness. Not my favorite Renoir film, but it serves as good example of how his style developed and allowed him to go on to make masterpieces like Grand Illusion and The Rules of the Game.

Read More

The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933) **1/2

Although hailed by many film critics as director Frank Capra’s masterpiece , The Bitter Tea of General Yen is not his most popular film—that would be It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). As a matter of fact, most people wouldn’t believe this was a Capra film if they happened upon it after the opening credits. I read somewhere that Variety said this was the best von Sternberg movie von Sternberg never made and was unlike any other Capra film due to its sexuality. Quite simply, this is the most artistic film of Capra’s career. There’s a reason for this: Capra wanted an Academy Award. He believed the only way he could win one was by creating a work of art, and that’s exactly what he intended to create with The Bitter Tea of General Yen. However, Capra forgot it was 1932/33 and made a controversial picture about a taboo relationship between a Chinese warlord and a virginal, white American missionary. Alas, there was no Academy Award (not even one single nomination for the entire film). Still, he only had to wait one more year for his Oscar dream to be realized by It Happened One Night, so don’t be too sad for him.

Far from a commercial success, this film was chosen to open Radio City Music Hall in 1933. Quite a few people were disturbed as they watched Barbara Stanwyck’s character, Megan Davis, fall out of love with her missionary fiancée ( Gavin Gordon) and into love with the tyrannical, Chinese General Yen (Nils Ather). Women’s clubs across the country denounced the film and wanted it pulled from theatres. In typical Stanwyck fashion, Babs thought these people needed to get “over it”.

Adapted from a story by Grace Zaring Stone, the film takes place in the midst of a civil war in Shanghai. This is an inopportune time to have a destination wedding, but that’s why missionary Megan Davis (Stanwyck) has come to China: to marry her childhood sweetheart and fellow missionary Dr. Robert Strike (Gordon). Whilst trying to rescue orphans, the couple are separated and Megan is knocked unconscious. When she awakens she is the “guest” of General Yen (Ather) on his train car bound for his remote summer palace. General Yen suffers from a multiple personality disorder. He is a complete ruthless bastard to his underlings and enemies, and then a charming gentleman to Megan. The problem for Yen is that Megan sees both sides, which, of course, both terrifies and confuses her. Like all great Stanwyck characters, Megan is spirited and has no reservations about telling Yen he’s a psychopath. This only amuses him and he keeps her around to occasionally distract him from the fact that his own people are trying to destroy him.

The most intriguing elements of the film are Megan’s dream sequence and the poignant final scene between Megan and Yen. In the dream sequence, Megan dreams that a Chinaman/monster breaks into her bedroom (Freud, anyone?). When a masked man wearing Western clothes comes to her rescue, she unmasks him to reveal that it is Yen (who also happens to be at her bedside when she awakens from the dream). Are those 1933 gasps still being heard?

However, I think it was the final scenes between Megan and Yen that caused the most 1933 outrage. Earlier in the film Megan makes a deal with Yen to vouch for his conniving, two-timing mistress Mah-Li (Toshia Mori). If the mistress betrays him again Megan promises to give up her own life. Well, as luck would have it Mah-Li is a total slut and sells Yen out to his enemies, so Megan has to pay the piper his due. But the piper thinks her life is too high a price to pay, especially since he loves her, and he can’t have her shot. Realizing the mistake she has made, Megan gives into her feelings for Yen and decides she must now take Mah-Li’s place. Adorned in full Chinese-styled garb, Megan returns to Yen to wait on him and proclaims that she will never leave him. Ah, but what is the title of this film? The Bitter Tea of General Yen? That’s right 1933 audiences, he has poisoned his own tea, so you don’t have to worry about the white woman living happily ever after with the yellow man. Surely that was some solace to those who were repelled by Megan kissing his hand.

Overall, this is a good film. Shot primarily through filters, Joseph Walker’s cinematography creates a subdued, mystical atmosphere. In addition, both Stanwyck and Ather do superb work with their characters. Ather, especially, does a remarkable job playing the multi-layered Yen. And, Stanwyck is her usual excellent self. Her Megan has just the right mixture of spunk and innocence. Combined, they create one of the oddest and unlikely couples in Hollywood history.

Read More

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Les Parapluies De Cherbourg) 1964 ****

Before her role in director Jacques Demy’s 1964 classic musical, Les Parapluies De Cherbourg, Catherine Deneuve was best known for giving birth to Roger Vadim’s illegitimate son. In a way, this was good preparation for her portrayal of an unmarried, 17-year-old who finds herself pregnant by a boyfriend serving in the Algerian War. Just twenty-years old when this film made her an international star, Deneuve’s melancholic performance was greatly enhanced by an unforgettable Michel Legrand musical score. Nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Foreign Language Film, Best Screenplay, and Best Musical Score, this film won the Golden Palm and the OCIC.

Les Parapluies De Cherbourg is my all-time favorite film. I was in graduate school, studying French history, when a colleague asked what I thought of the French New Wave. This discussion naturally included the French’s love of jazz and films with unhappy endings. This, of course, was a perfect time for my colleague to mention that there was a film that encompassed both of these elements: Les Parapluies De Cherbourg. A lover of musicals since childhood, I jumped at the chance to watch this film once a copy could be procured. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

I suspect I was just as shocked as the audience at the 1964 Cannes Film Festival when I realized that the ENTIRE film is sung (in French, of course)—there is no “traditional” dialogue. Instead, it is a modern day (popular) opera, set primarily to a jazz score. This tends to create a problem for American audiences who overwhelmingly dislike reading subtitles at “normal” speed, let alone at song-lyric speed. About fifteen minutes into watching I turned the subtitles off. My French was passable at the time, so I could mostly keep up with what was being sung.

Legendary French songwriter Michel Legrand, with the aid of Demy and others, wrote a musical soundtrack/script that is at times playful, romantic, and haunting. The most famous song is the title song, “Les Parapluies De Cherbourg” (more commonly known in English as “I Will Wait for You”). The instrumental version, which closes the film in heart-wrenching fashion (you will never forget it once you experience it), is brilliant all by itself. Then, when you set effortless lyrics to the score, it is a phenomenal love song. The closing pass of the song (finished off with a rousing violin-drenched crescendo) is:

Ils se sont séparés sur le quai d'un gare

Ils se sont éloignés dans un dernier regard

Oh je t'aim' ne me quitte pas

Loosely translated, from French to English:

They separated on the platform of a station

They moved away in one last look

Oh I love you does not leave me

The best recorded version of this song is by the Greek diva-extraordinaire Nana Mouskouri. Often imitated but never surpassed by countless covers (by such artists as Tony Bennett and Carlo Berardinucci), it is a timeless song that even after 45+ years doesn’t sound dated. In addition to this gem there are other seamless songs that carry the film along to its eventual devastating conclusion.

Another startling element of the film is the way Demy uses color to carry the story. Cherbourg is an often rainy and dreary port city in Normandy, so the bright blues, oranges, pinks, reds, and yellows that Demy uses in the clothing and overall set design is far from a realistic portrait of the title city. Yet, the virtual Technicolor world that he creates, with bright swatches of color, serves as a co-conspirator in the film. For example, in the beginning of the film everything jumps with color, which corresponds to the happy state of young lovers Genevieve (Deneuve) and Guy (Nino Castelnuovo). In a way the bright pastels serve as blinders—the young, impetuous lovers are surrounded by bright, clear color, but they can’t truly see what lies ahead. However, by the end of the film, when the now irrevocably parted lovers meet by chance one snowy night, there is a notable absence of color. Agnes Varda, Demy’s wife (and a director in her own right) has said that Demy’s use of color was aimed at portraying the violence and the cruelty of the story.

For those who like to see happy endings, there is no crueler ending than what you are given in this film. I have often contemplated why the ending is so emotionally jarring. I think it has a lot to do with the youthful exuberance shown by Genevieve and Guy, who are so much in love at the start of the film. It is a pure and innocent love, which in any other film would have come off as sickeningly saccharin. Then, your heart absolutely breaks at the famous train scene where Guy goes off to Algeria with a teary-eyed Genevieve on the train platform. But that’s okay, because the movie is only half over and you know they are going to get married and have a child named Francoise as soon as he returns—right? After all, she did sing she would wait for him! Oh, but she finds out she’s pregnant and Guy doesn’t write and the next thing you know she’s marrying that wealthy jewel smuggler (Marc Michel) from Lola (another Demy musical, from 1961) who you felt so bad for when his romantic hopes were crushed by that slut Anouk Aimee! Yet, still somewhere in your mind is the thought that Guy will come home and save Genevieve from a loveless marriage and all will be right in Cherbourg. But, alas, that’s not what happens.

Instead, you learn the bittersweet lessons that love does not always conquer all and that not everyone (especially you the viewer) gets a happy ending. Instead, people settle. Genevieve settles for wealth and security; Guy settles for companionship and loyalty. The one small detail that the viewer can take solace in is the unforgettable final scene, where by revealing the names of their respective children, both named Francoise, the couple are somehow still connected—even if they are living different lives they need only say the name of their child and some semblance of what once was pure love remains: “Oh I love you does not leave me.”

This movie made Deneuve a star. Her Genevieve was innocence personified. Called upon to display every emotion, from love to despair, she transforms a naïve, love-struck teenager into a resigned, world-weary woman who accepts that life isn’t always fair. Of course, Roman Polanski and Luis Bunuel couldn’t wait to tarnish that innocence, but that’s a story for another day.

 

This article was nominated for a 2011 CIMBA in the category of Best Film Review (Musical or Comedy). The CIMBA is the CMBA's award for excellence in classic movie blogging.

Read More

Queen Christina (1933) ***

It is difficult to understand how this 1933 racy (this means erotic by 1930s standards) romantic drama ended up being a box-office failure. Here you have one of the most beautiful women in the world, Greta Garbo, playing an amorous 17th century Swedish queen who risks her crown for love. In addition, you have John Gilbert playing her tragic lover—the same John Gilbert she jilted at the altar in 1926. Anyone who read the film magazines back then surely knew Laurence Olivier was supposed to star opposite Garbo, and that it was only after her insistence that Gilbert was given the role. With so much backstory, who could resist this film? Evidently Americans who were too depressed about the Great Depression to watch a tragic romance.

Rouben Mamoulian directed this very loose with the facts historical drama. Screenwriters S.N. Behrman and H.M. Harwood obliviously didn’t read a Swedish history primer, because there are a number of glaring historical inaccuracies (ah, but it was for dramatic effect, so what the heck). The real Christina did not abdicate because of love (or the death of a lover), but because she wanted to practice Catholicism instead of state sanctioned Lutheranism. However, they did get it right when they hinted at Christina’s lesbian leanings in regards to Ebba (Elizabeth Young), her lady-in-waiting—see the mouth-to-mouth kiss they share in this film (obviously the censor was a man).

Christina ascends to the throne at a very young age after the death of her father, King Gustavus. Her regent, Lord Chancellor Oxenstierna (Lewis Stone), wants to marry her off to her cousin, Prince Charles (Reginald Owen). Prince Charles is a national war hero and highly revered by the Swedish people. But Christina could care less about Prince Charles and his endless desire to wage war (actually she has a problem with the warmongering). In the palace she has any number of consorts, namely Count Magnus (Ian Keith) and Countess Ebba. Hence, she knows she will not die an old maid, but as she proclaims a “bachelor”. Still, she is a bit hurt when Ebba tells her fiancee that the queen is too domineering. With too much court intrigue and a bit of a bruised ego, Christina finds herself yearning for a change of scenery. And, this brings her to her first meeting with the Spanish envoy, Don Antonio (Gilbert).

Traveling incognito with her trusted bodyguard, Aage (C. Aubrey Smith), she happens upon the Spanish envoy, whose carriage is stuck in the snow. After coming to Don Antonio’s assistance she suggests he spend the night at the nearest inn. This is where things get spicy. Don Antonio mistakenly thinks she’s a boy (she’s dressed like one and has a pageboy haircut), so he thinks nothing of sharing the only available room at the inn with her. Ah, but why is he strangely attracted to this young man? He soon learns when she undresses in front of a roaring fire. To say he was pleased would be an understatement. They spend the next several days locked in this room enjoying amorous endeavors under fur bedcovers. Where were the censors—in a breadline? Somehow in all of this, she forgets to mention she is the Queen of Sweden.

Instead, the queen thinks they should be properly introduced when he comes to court. Ah, the shocked look Gilbert displays in this scene is priceless. Though he feels slightly used and ridiculed, he eventually forgives her and they consort with one another at court. But there are problems looming: Don Antonio is a Catholic; Count Magnus is jealous; and, the Swedish people want her to marry Prince Charles. The people are so upset that they storm the palace and have to be subdued by the queen herself. Court Magnus is so jealous that he kidnaps Don Antonio and forces Christina to sign a passport for her lover’s return to Spain. This act leads her to abdicate the throne for love and to set her off on a journey to the frontier to meet Don Antonio. Too bad Don Antonio has been mortally wounded in a duel with Magnus—at least he waits to die in her arms. That’s something, right? She did give up a crown and kingdom for him after all, the least he could do is wait to bleed to death in front of her. Thus, this brings us to the climatic final shot (by cinematographer William Daniels) of Christina on a boat taking her slain lover home to Spain. A glowing, close-up of Garbo’s marvelous face looking out into nothingness. Yeah, I’d say this film could be considered a real downer for Depression-era Americans.

What I like about this film is how wickedly risqué it is. The dialogue is double entendre laced. The love scenes are daring and erotic (for the 1930s), and you have directly hinted at references to homosexuality. It is hard to believe this film was released in 1933. While Camille and Ninotchka are Garbo’s best films, this is her most daring. It is also the film that comes closest to resembling who Garbo was off-screen.

Read More

Freaks (1932) **

The title of this classic 1932 film is not what one might call politically correct. There are few films in all of cinema that can be classified in the horror realism genre (one might think of The Blair Witch Project or the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but they are severely flawed wannabes). Yet, director Tod Browning’s Freaks is one of those few films that blends realism with horror. The freaks in the film’s title are actual 1930s carnival and circus freaks, with all of their deformities on full display. It is said that Browning had the largest casting call of professional freaks ever, and it shows. When watching this film one can’t help but be disturbed by some of the afflictions of these “freaks.” Quite frankly, this is an odd, disturbing film. The film was so shocking that it was actually banned in a number of places. It was later rediscovered on the art house circuit and today is a common staple of TCM’s October schedule.

Browning, of course, is most known for directing Bela Lugosi in the original Dracula (1931). Yet, many film critics consider Freaks to be his masterpiece (not that there was much to choose from) because of his unflinching presentation of another strange reality unfamiliar to the common moviegoer. I tend to agree with the critics on this one. In regards to the horror genre, I find Freaks much creepier and frightening than Dracula. Now, if you want to see a truly frightening take on the vampire myth watch Nosferatu: A Symphony of Terror (1922).

The film opens with a carnival barker explaining the events that led to the beautiful “Peacock of the Air”, trapeze artist Cleopatra’s (Olga Baclanova) horrible current state. At this moment, one might prepare oneself for watching a trapeze act gone terribly bad—one would be wrong. Instead, one is treated to one of the strangest downfalls in all of cinema history. It would seem that Hans (Harry Earles), a wealthy carnival dwarf (don’t ask why he works in a carnival if he’s rich, just go with it) is smitten with Cleopatra. Her beauty and “normalness” makes Hans forget all about his dwarf fiancé Frieda (Daisy Earles). Seeing an easy way to rid themselves of the carnival life and all of the freaks they despise, Cleopatra and her strongman lover Hercules (cliché, anyone?) hatch an unsavory plot. By feigning love and admiration for Hans, Cleopatra convinces the dwarf that they should marry. This leads to one of the strangest wedding feasts ever.

The assembled guests at the wedding table consists of all freaks, sans Cleopatra and Hercules. This is a sight to behold. After consuming way too much alcohol, one of the freaks informs Cleopatra that she is now one of them. Oh, no you didn’t! This, of course, enrages Cleopatra and she launches into full bitch mode by calling her guests “dirty” and “slimy”. As if that wasn’t enough, she belittles and demeans her new husband by carrying him around on her shoulders like a child or, even worse, a pet chimp. This does not bode well for the wedding night. Which, of course, leads to the reason why Cleopatra married him in the first place: so she and Hercules could kill Hans with poison and then run off with his money.

The scene where she informs Hans that she could never love a freak like him and that their marriage is a sham is difficult to watch. The look on Han’s face is just so pitiful. I suppose Harry Earles had a lot of past insults to draw from when it came to playing this scene. Shocked and humiliated, Hans collapses—of course, the poison didn’t help either. Counting their chickens before they’ve hatched (if you’ve seen this film, you know this is a sad attempt at a pun), Hercules and Cleopatra freely discuss how many doses of poison it will take to kill Hans. When another freak overhears them, he goes for a doctor. Of course, the dose was so small that the doctor thinks it was an accident and he pronounces that Hans will make a full recovery with the aid of his medicine. Well, now you know that instead of giving Hans his medicine she’s going to substitute poison! In the end, the freaks band together and issue their own sadistic form of retribution. Hence, the grisly spectacle that the carnival barker is describing to the crowd: a legless squawking chicken-woman. What an ending… Oh, wait, yes, upon orders from MGM they had to tack on a happy ending with Hans and Frieda. Personally, the film should have ended with that shocking image of Cleopatra.

While this is not the greatest film you will ever see, it is an interesting watch. The pure shock value of some of the scenes is enough to warrant spending a mere 64 minutes watching Tod Browning’s best film.

Read More

Duck Soup (1933) **

People have many reasons why they either like or dislike the Marx Brothers. I would not classify myself as one of their biggest fans. Yet, of all their films, this 1933 classic is most probably my favorite. Perhaps it has something to do with my being a historian—the film is a political satire of fascism. Thinking the film was a personal attack on his leadership, Mussolini banned it in Italy. But if you push the historical aside for a moment, there is one other reason why this might be my favorite Marx Bros. picture: it was the last one in which Zeppo appeared. No, he wasn’t the funniest of the four—that would be Chico, in my opinion. Yet, he had one thing the other three did not possess: he was good looking. Call me shallow, but every picture needs a little man-candy and Zeppo provided it. Somehow their pictures just weren’t the same after he went straight into retirement (there’s a pun in there, you figure it out).

This was the last film the brothers made for Paramount. It was a a box-office disaster and Paramount decided not to re-sign them. And, so off they went to MGM, where they made their two most successful films: A Night at the Opera and A Day at the Races. I suppose Paramount didn’t know what it had until it was gone…or so the cliché goes.

Ernst Lubitsch was originally slated to direct, but in the end the task fell to Leo McCarey. Good thing, too. Yes, Lubitsch was one of the greatest directors ever (see Ninotchka and To Be or Not to Be…no, I mean really see them), but had he directed there would have never been the famous mirror pantomime, which was McCarey’s idea (not an original one, since it was from an old vaudeville act and a Chaplin film, but still…). And, of course, McCarey also came up with (or recycled if you like) the title. He’d used it in an earlier Laurel & Hardy short. Today most people don’t know what duck soup is—both the film and the expression. I have more sympathy for those who aren’t familiar with old American idioms (see Ziva on N.C.I.S…really, see her on CBS Tuesdays) than I do with people who have no idea who the Marx Bros. are. For the Ziva’s out there, it’s an unaffectionate term for a sucker---just to clarify, not the type you put in your mouth, either.

The screenplay, written by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby, incorporates three good musical numbers that fit seamlessly into the plot: “The Country’s Goin’ to War”, “When the Clock on the Wall Strikes Ten” (sung by Zeppo), and “Just Wait ‘Til I Get Through With It”. The story is simple enough: the fictional Balkan kingdom of Freedonia is bankrupt and on the verge of revolution when Mrs. Teasdale (the always wonderful Margaret Dumont) offers to support the country with a $20 million loan. The catch? The country must be placed under new leadership—namely Rufus T. Firefly (Groucho Marx). When the ruler of neighboring Sylvania (who I imagine is played by Jeanette MacDonald even though we never see her) sends Ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern) to the coronation he sets his sights on Mrs. Teasdale, hoping to gain control of Freedonia for himself. His initial weapon of choice is a sultry dancer, Vera Marcal (Raquel Torres), whom he wants to use to distract Firefly from matters of state…and Mrs. Teasdale.

Firefly’s political cabinet consists of his personal secretary du jour, Lt. Bob Rolland (Zeppo Marx); his silent chauffeur, Pinkie (Harpo Marx)—don’t worry, he wears a horn—; and, his Cabinet of War, Chicolini (Chico Marx). The problem is Chicolini and Pinkie are spies for Trentino—however, they are mostly a problem for Trentino as they are total incompetents. Trentino should have had Rolland as his spy, since he is the one who does the most damage to Freedonia by suggesting to Firefly that he insult Trentino to get him to retaliate and be thrown out of the country. After an exchange of insults between the two men ends with Trentino calling Firefly an “upstart” and Trentino being glove-slapped by the president, war is declared between the two countries. This sets up the best sequence of the film: the classic mirror pantomime scene.

Dispatched by Trentino to steal Freedonia’s war plans, Chicolini and Pinkie (disguised as Firefly) break into Mrs. Teasdale’s mansion and all hell breaks loose. When Pinkie tries to break into the safe “Stars and Stripes Forever” blasts through the house and brings Firefly in search of the culprit. Trying to escape detection by Firefly, Pinkie runs into a wall mirror and smashes it to pieces. What follows is a silent cat-and-mouse game between Firefly and Pinkie, as Pinkie attempts to mimic everything Firefly does at the precise same moment that he’s doing it. Highlights of this scene include the Charleston and white Panama hat—which Firefly returns to Pinkie when he drops his. The scene doesn’t end until Chicolini wanders into the “mirror” and Firefly captures him. Chicolini is promptly tried for treason, and amazingly enough, Firefly takes on the role of defense attorney.

There is only one thing that rivals the mirror pantomime scene, and that is when the four brothers perform (the only time all four appear in the same musical number) “The Country’s Going to War”. The song is a mixture of musical styles (negro spiritual, patriotic, and whatever genre you would put “Comin’ Round the Mountain” in). It is a hilarious parody of the absurdity of war. The war that follows it is also hilarious, but not as classic as the song that leads into it.

When the film came out in 1933 a lot of people were offended by the way the Marx brothers satirized government and its leaders. The Depression was engaged in a full-court press. And, two very different men had just become leaders of their respective nations: FDR and Hitler. To be American and mock democratic political leadership in the face of the rise of authoritarian governments in Germany and Italy seemed too disrespectful to some. I think if the economy hadn’t been in ruins and there weren’t crazy Fascists running around, the film’s reception might have been warmer. Alas, to use yet another cliché, Duck Soup was a victim of circumstance. Thirty years later, when yet another tumultuous event was transpiring (Vietnam), another, more appreciative, audience emerged on college campuses and in art houses. Today, Duck Soup is regarded by many as the greatest Marx Bros. film ever…and, alas, the last one with Zeppo.

Read More

She Done Him Wrong (1933) **1/2

“Why don’t you come up sometime and see me?” When this now-famous line fell from Mae West’s heavily lined lips in this 1933 film, she and Hollywood (specifically Paramount) had no idea what and whom they were inviting into their world. Laced with double entendres galore, and supported (both figuratively and literally) with overt sexuality (not to mention white slavery), this was the film that just went too far in the eyes of Catholics and the Hays Production Code. Widely ignored for the first years of its existence, the Production Code would start to be strictly enforced starting in 1934. This is why many film historians like to look at the films of 1933 to see just how far Hollywood pushed the envelope before the strict enforcement of the Code a year later (which lasted until 1968 with the MPAA ratings). This film in particular is the reason why this is the only film starring Mae West to be nominated for an Academy Award—at least it was for Best Picture.

A recreation of Mae West’s extremely popular (but scandalous) Broadway play, Diamond Lil, this was the film that catapulted West to Hollywood stardom and made her a household name. Credited with a screenwriting credit (along with John Bright and Harvey Thaw), West plays Lady Diamond Lou, a woman with a penchant for bling and handsome men—even if they are wearing Salvation Army uniforms. Director Lowell Sherman got one helluva leading dame in West—no one was better at dropping saucy one-liners and singing songs dripping with innuendo (“A Guy What Takes His Time”, “I Wonder Where My Easy Riders Gone”, and “Frankie and Johnny”).

The film takes place in the New York City Bowery in the 1890s—primarily in a rowdy saloon run by Gus Jordan (Noah Beery, Sr.). Lady Lou is the saloon’s top entertainer and Gus’s mistress. She gets her nickname Diamond Lou from all of the jewels he (and many others) bestows upon her. How can a saloon owner afford to bedeck his paramour in such glittering jewels? He’s a sleazy criminal, who runs a counterfeit ring and a white slavery racket. We are led to believe that Diamond Lou has no idea about these other industries.

Next door to the saloon is a city mission headed by Captain Cummings (Cary Grant). Strangely enough Captain Cummings isn’t really a missionary but an undercover FBI agent trying to get the goods on Gus. He uses his cover as a way to get inside the saloon—he’s there to help the sinners repent—especially Lou. Of course, Gus doesn’t like this because he doesn’t want the good captain to scare off any customers. In addition, Lou and Captain Cummings have a strange flirtation that Gus finds irritating.

The story gets set in motion after a young girl named Sally (Rochelle Hudson) tries to commit suicide, but is stopped and sent up to Diamond Lou’s room for a good talking to. Things had went wrong between Sally and a man, and thinking no man would want her anymore, she tried to off herself. When Lou tells Rita (Rafaela Ottiano), a criminal associate of Gus, about the situation Rita says she can help the girl. Of course, Lou has no idea this means Sally is going to be sold into white slavery in the Barbary Coast.

Meanwhile, we learn that Lou has more pressing issues than wronged young girls: her insanely jealous boyfriend who is in the clink. Chick Clark (Owen Moore) had to take a trip to Sing-Sing after being caught trying to steal diamonds for Lou. He likes to make sweet promises to Lou, like he’ll kill her if she cheats on him while he’s in jail. These promises become a little less sweet when he escapes from jail. In addition to this little problem, Lou’s next door eye-candy is about to be evicted for not paying rent. Her solution? One diamond bracelet for a building. And, finally, if she doesn’t already have enough on her plate, she learns from Dan Flynn (David Landau), another one of her admirers, that the law is about to come down on Gus and that the she might be implicated as well. Enough problems, yet?

Some things do work out in Lou’s favor, though. When Captain Cummings inquires about the whereabouts of Sally, he is pleased to learn that she has no idea what depravity Gus and Rita are involved in. This endears Lou to him even more, as it is obvious that he has feelings for the sultry singer. Too bad more bad things are on the way, though…

First, Lou is surprised to find Chick hiding out in her bedroom. Crazed with jealousy, not to mention fearful of the cops searching for him down in the saloon, Chick threatens to kill Lou if she doesn’t accompany him in his escape. She promises to meet him after her show.

Second, after receiving another diamond from yet another admirer, Rita’s boyfriend Serge (Gilbert Roland), Lou finds herself in a whole lot of trouble when Rita comes in. When the two women struggle, Lou accidentally stabs Rita to death and has to have her bodyguard get rid of the body.

When Lou doesn’t show up to go away with Chick, he returns to the saloon and kills Dan Flynn. This event leads to Gus, Serge, and Chick being arrested by Cummings. Lou is not pleased to learn that her missionary man is a G-Man. Oh, well, he has to “arrest” her, too. While riding to her awaiting “prison”, Lou has to give all of her diamonds to Cummings. In exchange, she gets a new diamond ring from her new jailer…Mr. Cummings. Her prison’s name: Matrimony. Interesting ending--not plausible, but still interesting.

No one will ever accuse Mae West of being a great actress. Yet, she is strangely entertaining as every mother’s worst nightmare for her son. Voluptuous and brassy, she delivers some great lines in this picture. For example, when a woman remarks to her son that Lou is a fine woman, Lou says, “one of the finest women who ever walked the streets.” Another favorite, said to Sally after her attempted suicide, “When women go wrong, men go right after them.” Because of the way she looked and sounded, West was never really given enough credit for just how clever she was. Yet, you cannot write lines like these (and countless others) and not be a bright person. I think this is what made West so dangerous to the morality police: she was just too sexually charged and intellectually bright for her time.

Without a doubt, West and the classic one-liners are the best things about this movie. Cary Grant does a passable job as Captain Cummings, but I would not call this a standout performance. This may have had something to do with the sheer force of West’s personality overpowering his screen presence. Still, it is always nice to see just how handsome he was in his late 20s.

Read More