Sons of the Desert (1933) **

To some the comedic antics of Laurel and Hardy is an acquired taste.  Slapstick comedy is not highbrow and reveals nothing about the true meaning of the human condition—but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t good. Take me, for example. Some of my all-time favorite films are The English Patient, Smiles of a Summer Night, The Lovers (Louis Malle’s), The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and The Lives of Others, just to name a few—all pretty much categorized by today’s standards as highbrow. Yet, I still enjoy watching a really good slapstick or “crude” comedy. For example, if someone asked me what the 2 best films of 2009 were (can’t do 2010 because I’m poor and can’t afford to pay $10 to see a film in a theater) I’d say The Secret in Their Eyes and The Hangover. Now, if you’ve seen these two films you know that they are in totally different class categories. Still, I cried at both: one from raw emotion (guess which one) and the other from laughing so hard. So, what am I trying to say with this exceedingly long introductory paragraph? Basically this: just because a film doesn’t delve into the human psyche or reveal some inner truth about humankind, that doesn’t mean that it lacks value. That said, let us move on to Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy’s clever 1933 film, Sons of the Desert.

This was a remake of the duo’s 1930 film Be Big and was their fourth feature length film.  In it, they are members of an all-male club called the Sons of the Desert (also the later name of the duo’s fan club) who are told by their Exalted Leader (really, that’s what he’s called) that everyone in the club must swear by oath to attend the annual convention in Chicago. Ah, but Stan and Ollie have wives who aren’t the type to allow their husbands to go off on a trip like this. Of course, Ollie thinks he’s “the king of his own castle” and Stan thinks he has to do everything his wife tells him to do. However, Ollie’s wife, Sugar, no, I mean Lottie (the always funny Mae Busch), is the true ruler of the Hardy household and she wants her husband to go to the mountains with her. Her accuracy with vases, especially towards Ollie’s head, is sharp—just like her words. When Stan's duck-hunting wife Betty (Dorothy Christy) gives Stan permission to go to the convention the boys  have to come up with a plan to get Ollie there too.

The duo hatch a plan that is fool-proof—or so these two fools believe-- with the help of an idiotic veterinarian (Lucien Littlefield) posing as a medical doctor, Ollie is diagnosed as having “canus delirous” (AKA, a nervous breakdown) and prescribed a cruise to Hawaii as a cure. Mrs. Hardy can’t go on the trip with Ollie because she suffers from sea sickness, and so that means that Stan will have to go instead.

In Chicago we see the boys having a frolicking good time—along with Charley Chase, who has many laughs at their expense with the aid of a paddle and a water-squirting flower. There are scantily clad hula dancers, so in a way Ollie has seen Hawaii in some form. It turns out that Charley is Ollie’s long-lost brother-in-law and they engage in a hilariously risqué long-distance conversation with “Sugar". I especially enjoyed when Charley calls her a great organ pumper.

Thinking their ruse has worked, the boys head back to Los Angeles unaware that the cruise ship they were supposed to be on has sunk. This sets up two very entertaining scenes. The first is with a taxi driver that is pure slapstick—Stan was always the best physical comedian of the two in my opinion, and this scene showcases this, as well as his wonderful deadpan delivery. The second scene is when the boys return home and learn of the cruise ship disaster and hide from their wives in Stan’s attic. Their plan is to hide out until the rescued cruise passengers are brought to shore and then pretend they are amongst the survivors. The problem is the wives go to the cinema to get their minds off the plight of their husbands and see a newsreel of the Sons of the Desert convention in Chicago.

At one point the boys come crashing through the ceiling and find themselves hiding on the roof during a thunderstorm. They end up being apprehended by a policeman who wants to know their addresses…wait for it…to this Ollie remarks to Stan: “Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.” Presented to their wives, they unknowingly continue to weave some fantastic lie about how they ship-hiked after the typhoon. Basically, it is pure Laurel and Hardy.

So what makes Laurel and Hardy work? I think it is the opposites attract thing. Stan is thin, tall, honest, and calm and Ollie is short, fat, dishonest, and anything but calm. Of course, Ollie think he’s so much smarter than Stan—the exasperated looks he gives the camera at certain points throughout their films are a trademark.  And, Stan is pretty oblivious most of the time, so Ollie might have something there. Yet, it is Stan who usually gets the last laugh, as he often proves it is better to be lucky than smart. They just work well together. It isn’t life-affirming cinema, but it is entertaining. And, even if it is closing in on being 80-years-old, it is still funny.

Read More

Wild Strawberries (Smultronstallet) 1957 **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at The Classic Film & TV Cafe.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Professor Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström), an aging physician and widower, is to receive an honorary degree from his alma mater, Lund University. After having a disconcerting dream of a lonely street, a clock with no hands, and a horse-drawn carriage (transporting a coffin with the professor’s lifeless body inside), Isak leaves for the ceremony earlier than planned, much to the dismay of his sassy but nimble housekeeper, Miss Agda (Jullan Kindahl). Traveling by car, Isak begins his journey with his daughter-in-law, Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), stopping at the summer home from his childhood and encountering a trio of youngsters, including a girl who reminds him of his first love (both named Sara and both played by Bibi Andersson). Plagued by more dreams, Isak’s trip becomes a catharsis, as he must comes to terms with his apathy towards others, his estranged son, and his despondent marriage.

Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman was known for his somber movies, such as The Virgin Spring (1960), Hour of the Wolf (1968), and Cries and Whispers (1973), many of them wrought with misery and tortured characters. Considering this, the director’s 1957 Wild Strawberries (original title: Smultronstället) is refreshingly optimistic. Isak’s dreams are unmistakable representations of his fears: loneliness, his impending death, and his days of elation to forever remain distant memories. Once on the road, Marianne ruthlessly informs the professor that his son hates him, reminding Isak of the cold manner in which he allowed his daughter-in-law to stay with him (insinuating that problems between the couple were not his concern) and a loan that his son is slowly paying back (Marianne believing that the wealthy professor does not need the money). Isak is also forced to remember that his deceased wife, Karin, was an unhappy woman, which she blames on the man’s detachment and passivity.

Notwithstanding the dismal dreams and recollections of a rueful life, Bergman’s film is encouraging, for the simple fact that Isak is acknowledging that his uncaring behavior is a character flaw. Furthermore, he is experiencing an emotion he has likely never previously felt: guilt. Perhaps for the first time, Isak is seeing how his dispassion has affected the people in his life. When Isak and Marianne visit his mother, the professor sees the coldness in his mother that he has shown to his wife, his son and his daughter-in-law. The elderly lady rummages through a box filled with items of the past, her memories nothing more than keepsakes. It’s a sad scene, but one in which Isak recognizes that he does not want souvenirs of his youth but rather the happiness associated with it. More importantly, he does not wish upon his son memories of sorrow and pain.

There are a number of uplifting moments in Wild Strawberries. The young Sara is not simply an expression of Isak’s carefree childhood, but, with her genuine enthusiasm over seeing the professor awarded his honorary degree, she likewise represents happiness that remains within reach. In one sequence, the group stops at a gas station, where the attendant (Max von Sydow) fondly recalls Isak, who once had an office nearby. The man so admires the professor that he refuses payment, and as he praises the man’s kindness to his wife, the typically doleful Marianne flashes a bright, honest smile.

Wild Strawberries was awarded the Golden Bear at the Berlin International Film Festival, won for Best Film and Best Actor at the Mar del Plata Film Festival, and won a Best Foreign Film Golden Globe (Samuel Goldwyn International Award), along with four other films that year. It was also nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay.

Thulin, Andersson and von Sydow were frequent collaborators with Bergman, appearing in a number of the Swedish director’s movies. Sjöström was a prominent film director in Sweden during the silent film era and directed a number of U.S. films (under the Americanized name of Victor Seastrom). He only made a few talkies before focusing his efforts as artistic director of the production company, Svensk Filmindustri, in the 1940s and acting in theatrical productions. This was the final film for Sjöström as either actor or director. He died a little more than two years later in 1960.


Although not an official remake, Woody Allen’s film, Another Woman (1988), borrows several thematic elements from Wild Strawberries and is generally considered an homage to Bergman’s movie. Similarly, the very basic plot to Allen’s film, Deconstructing Harry (1997), resembles both Wild Strawberries and another Bergman film, Through a Glass Darkly (1961). This is typical of Allen’s movies, as he often makes what can be considered his version of an European film, including yet another Bergman movie, 1955’s Smiles of a Summer Night (Allen’s 1982 A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy), as well as films from Italian director Federico Fellini (e.g., Allen’s 1980 Stardust Memories being his take on Fellini’s 1963 8½).

It is abundantly clear by the film’s end that Isak wishes to make a change in his life and hopes that it will spark changes in other people’s lives as well. The interaction between Isak and Miss Agda is pleasantly droll, but the most rewarding relationship in the film is the one between the professor and his daughter-in-law. They are the two characters who develop the most throughout the film, both stubborn people who gradually find contentment, shared and personal alike. The title refers to the wild strawberries growing in a field near Isak’s childhood home, but it is not merely a hint of childhood and nostalgia. The strawberries are wild because they are free, unburdened by regret and not restrained by old-world ways and traditions or fearing what is to come. They find their peace in simple existence.

Read More

Kiss Me Deadly (1955) **

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Robert Aldrich's Kiss Me Deadly (1955) opens with a woman's bare feet sprinting on an apparently deserted road. The woman, Christina (Cloris Leachman, in her film debut), stands in front of an approaching vehicle. Gumshoe Mike Hammer (Ralph Meeker) swerves his car to avoid hitting her, and he reluctantly agrees to take her to the bus station. On the way, Christina tells Mike that, should they not make their destination, he needs to do one thing for her: "Remember me," she ominously states. Suddenly, they are forced off the road, and a semi-conscious Mike later sees a congregation of feet, while hearing Christina being tortured and killed. The dazed P.I. and the woman's body are put into Mike's car and pushed down a cliff.

Mike Hammer awakens in the hospital and is subsequently questioned by the police. The private eye, who specializes in divorce cases, soon has people asking about him, following him, and idly threatening him. Cops and criminals alike think that Mike is withholding pertinent information, and after having his private investigator's license and gun permit revoked, he tells his secretary and lover, Velda (Maxine Cooper), to forget the cheating spouses so that they can focus solely on "something big." And what everyone seems to be after is indeed big, bigger than Mike could ever anticipate.

Kiss Me Deadly was based on a novel of the same name by Mikey Spillane, featuring his immensely popular character. Reportedly, screenwriter A.I. Bezzerides, who adapted the book, had such aversion for the source text that the film ultimately took a dim view to Mike Hammer, turning him into a rather vile and despicable character. When initially interrogated, Mike refuses to talk, and the cops seem disgusted by him, asking him questions and patronizing him by "answering" on his behalf. When the gumshoe leaves, one of the men vindictively states, "Open a window." This is a man who knocks someone down a long flight of steps and smirks as he watches him roll down, a vicious person who clearly takes pleasure in slamming an uncooperative man's fingers in a desk drawer. He's the definitive antihero. He drowns the world out with loud classical music and screens his phone calls.

There are so many twists and turns in this film that it feels like constant movement. The first shot of Kiss Me Deadly is, appropriately, running feet. There's a distinct impression that Mike is running from place to place, hoping to be two steps ahead of everyone but more accurately having trouble keeping up. The concept of momentum is a significant component of the movie. Mike tries to identify Christina's killers by shoes, the deceased woman is equated with her roommate, Lilly (Gaby Rodgers), as she is likewise introduced with bare feet, and when Mike is taken captive, he is knocked unconscious and dragged (on a beach, as his feet leave a trail), and he is bound by feet and hands.

Mike moves forward with the investigation, and the villains want to stop him. His first car is wrecked, and he is "given" a second car with an explosive surprise. Other people have been killed in "accidents" involving vehicles. It's fitting that one of Mike's only friends is Nick (Nick Dennis), an auto mechanic whose catchphrase is, "Va-va-voom!" He's essentially an antithesis to the villains, wanting to fix what they wish to destroy.

With this in mind, the film's title can take on multiple connotations. A superficial view would associate the "kiss" with succumbing to the affection of the opposite sex, letting down your guard and opening yourself to a lethal reciprocation. But it can also refer to what Mike himself calls "the sweet little kiss off," an acknowledgment of death or, more specifically, the very thing which kills you. This gives deeper meaning to a warning provided by Velda: "Keep away from the windows. Somebody might blow you a kiss." Most notably, however, Kiss Me Deadly is a recognition of both good and bad, that sex ultimately leads to violence, as the two go hand in hand. Perhaps the film's quintessential shot is Lilly lying in bed, adorned in a robe and pointing a gun at the door.

Aldrich's film is abundant in atmosphere and style. Furthermore it's surprisingly violent, some of it even by today's standards. The majority of the violence's impact is not from the presentation itself but rather the callous way in which Mike dishes it out. Ralph Meeker has incredible presence, making Mike Hammer the type of character who makes a viewer feel both unassailable and anxious. At one point, Mike is shadowed by a stranger. The P.I. spots him almost immediately and seems to enjoy the moments preceding the inevitable attack. When the stranger pulls a switchblade, Mike forces him to drop the knife with the greatest of ease, before knocking him around and slamming his head against a building several times. It takes an extraordinarily cruel protagonist to make an audience sympathize with a man whose intent was to literally stab someone in the back.

The thing that everyone wants -- what Velda calls "the great whatsit" -- will likely be a surprise for anyone who hasn't seen the film (and hopefully hasn't been told how the film ends). Kiss Me Deadly continues its winding plot all the way to the closing credits, creating one of the grandest and most gleefully erratic cinematic endings of all time. Interestingly, for years the film's conclusion was truncated and left a couple of characters' fates in question. More recent copies of the film (the DVD, for instance) have the original ending intact.

Kiss Me Deadly is a solid entry in the film noir genre. Mike Hammer in Mikey Spillane's novels was a driven man, taken to seeking his own brand of justice; just look at some of the titles -- I, the Jury, Vengeance is Mine, etc. But Aldrich's cinematic Hammer is much more brutally simplistic. He just wants the payoff, indifferent to the people he hurts or kills, ignoring the police's requests for information, etc. In the end, it's impossible to tell if Mike wants to solve the mystery, if he's still hoping for monetary compensation, or if he's merely going through the motions. Such an enigmatic and unlikeable character within a baffling plot makes Kiss Me Deadly a beautifully complex and highly recommended feature.

Read More

The Lady from Shanghai (1948) **1/2

(The following review is a collaboration between guest contributors Rick29 and  Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.) 

After saving a beautiful woman from three would-be attackers, Michael O'Hara (Orson Welles) is offered a job by the woman, Elsa (Rita Hayworth). Although apparently disappointed that she is married to a prominent defense attorney, Arthur Bannister (Everett Sloane), Michael agrees to pilot her husband's yacht. At sea, Michael not only witnesses the rather unusual relationship between husband and wife, he also meets Bannister's law partner, George Grisby (Glenn Anders). Grisby makes a peculiar offer: the lawyer is planning on faking his death, and he wants Michael to confess to the "murder," so that Grisby can collect the insurance reimbursement. Michael agrees, because by this time, he and Elsa have started an illicit affair, and he needs the money so that they can leave together. The stage is set for various double crossings and multiple plot twists!

The Lady from Shanghai is clearly a film about control, or the lack thereof. From the beginning, it seems, Elsa is controlling Michael. She draws him in with her beauty, and although he initially appears upset that Elsa is married, Michael still accepts the job offered by Mr. Bannister. Does he need to money? Perhaps. But the audience (and Elsa) knows why he really wanted to go sailing. Elsa controls everyone, and by extension, she controls everything. Elsa manipulates all three men and has them playing against one another. For example, one could maintain that she kissed Michael knowing full well that Grisby would see them. One of the movie's best lines belongs to Elsa (when first offering the job to Michael): "I'll make it worth your while." This is the essence of Elsa. Would a man do something he didn't want to simply because she asked him to do it? Most likely, yes. And there's absolutely no question as to what she's referring, by the breathy and seductive manner in which she speaks the line.


Elsa even controls the camera. One scene in particular is a great example of her visual control. Elsa is lying on the ship's deck with Grisby sitting nearby, and Bannister is discussing money with Michael. While Bannister is talking, the shot lingers on Elsa as she hands her cigarette to Grisby and asks him to light it (for the audience, her dialogue dominates and momentarily overrides Bannister). Another shot shows Michael lighting the cigarette, and then a crane shot follows the smoldering cigarette from Grisby to Elsa, who indifferently puffs away. Michael desires Elsa, Bannister is speaking about money and happiness but seems to be alluding to his beautiful wife, and retrospectively, it's known that Grisby is planning on killing Bannister for Elsa. Three men -- three fools -- all controlled by the magnetic woman dreamily staring at the sky. Likewise, the shots of Elsa lying on the deck and posing on the rocks are seductive images. Grisby spies on her, and Michael watches her, too. The two men cannot look away.

The theme of "control" is intriguing. Welles wrote the screenplay (with a small credit for the story and novel), produced, and directed. He also famously had his wife cut and dye her trademark red hair. So while Hayworth's character was in total control on the screen, Welles wielded it behind the scenes -- until the studio took it away. Welles had trouble maintaining control of his films after Citizen Kane (1941). The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) was completely recut without his consent, as was The Lady from Shanghai. Welles' original cut was reportedly 150 minutes, so that means there's an hour of missing footage. The studio reeling Welles in was quite possibly beneficial, as it is difficult to imagine the film at two hours, let alone in excess of that. As Alfred Hitchcock once said: "The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder."
 
Welles' films always benefit from rich characters, and The Lady from Shanghai is no exception. Ironically, the most sympathetic character may be Bannister. He knows Elsa is bad (he starts to tell the story of how they met... but cuts it short) and know that he's under her control. He's even willing to pimp for her; isn't that what he's doing when he goes to the docks to hire Michael? He's willing to let her cheat on him, as evidenced by stating that he doesn't mind that Michael loves her (and he likely means "love" in the physical sense). All he asks is that she stay with him, which makes him sympathetic or pathetic or both?


Then again, it's a fairly sad lot of people from which to find sympathy. Bannister seems to accept things the way they are, and he deals with life as it comes along. This is in contrast to Michael, who constantly looks ahead, hoping for everything to turn out one way but knowing it'll likely go somewhere else. I think the most unsympathetic person might be Grisby. Any type of control he has or thinks he has is highly evident, because he acts in the manner of a child, especially in the scene with Michael on the boat and Elsa is on the rocks. He also sweats incessantly, so perhaps Welles wanted the audience to view him as the "greasy" character. But, at the very least, Grisby is honest with himself. Michael wants Elsa, but he has to find excuses to be with her. Elsa would lie in a blink if it meant self-preservation. Grisby is transparent: he is greedy, he is jealous of Michael, and he wants Elsa, too. He doesn't try to hide his intentions or present himself as anything other than the greasy weasel that he is.

Orson Welles was perhaps a better director than actor. While he's very good in Touch of Evil (1958), he was too exaggerated as the evil cop, and even in Citizen Kane, he hams it up. Although, he was always theatrical because of his work on radio, in which voice is the most important tool (it's similar to the theatre, where an actor has to overdo it a bit because he/she has to project the voice). Welles is sometimes too theatrical, but Michael in Shanghai is underplayed to great effect. Michael is a brooding man and an emotional punching bag. With a lack of presence, he's really only there for Elsa to unload upon. In short, he's the complete opposite of other Welles' characters, like Quinlan in Touch of Evil and Charles Foster Kane. Rita Hayworth gives a smashing, memorable performance, and she and Welles are complemented by the supporting cast, especially Sloane (who played an equally cynical employer in 1956's Patterns, scripted by Twilight Zone creator/narrator Rod Serling).

Though it's easy to see why The Lady from Shanghai is a cult film, it's undoubtedly flawed. Even at 90 minutes, it's an indulgent film, sometimes quirky just for the sake of it -- such as the over-the-top courtroom scene with Bannister cross-examining himself. Welles gives himself the best dialogue, though everyone has a memorable line or two. Technically, it alternates between shoddy (some of the rear screen shots) and dazzling (the location scenes in San Francisco, the incredible mirror hall climax). But one thing is clear: it's not an easy film to forget!

Read More

Out of the Past (1947) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum) is living a quiet life, running a gas station in a small town. But then a stranger drives his car into town, and everything changes. It seems that someone from Jeff's past wants something from him, and so Jeff tells his girlfriend, Ann (Virginia Huston), about his shady past. Years ago, Jeff had been hired by Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas) to find his lady friend, Kathie (Jane Greer), who had shot him and ran away with 40,000 of his dollars. Jeff tracks Kathie to Mexico, meets her in a bar, and the beautiful lady helps him forget all about bringing her back to the States. The two lovers are eventually forced to part ways, and Jeff soon learns that Kathie had returned to Sterling. Now, Sterling wants Jeff to do one simple job, so that they're square, but Jeff suspects that it might be a frame.

Jacques Tourneur, who'd directed some of the Val Lewton-produced films, Cat People (1942), I Walked with a Zombie, and The Leopard Man (both 1943), helmed this movie. Many of the Val Lewton movies were covered in shadow, with the terror merely hinted. This was for budgetary reasons, but it helped immensely to heighten the suspense. Tourneur employs a similar technique in Out of the Past (1947), in this case with a thematic purpose. All that Jeff has left behind is creeping back into his life. The shadows begin to represent impending doom for Jeff, so that it's not only a reference to the title, but is almost a literal interpretation of the man's "shady past."

When we first see Jeff, he's fishing by a pond, in the bright of day. By the time he tells his story to Ann, he's partially hidden in shadow, where he spends the majority of the film. When Jeff is introduced in the flashback, he is wearing a dark overcoat. It was a time when he was a part of the seedy underworld, and he fits right in with the disreputable Whit Sterling. The refurnished Jeff, the man who fishes and owns a gas station, is adorned in a much lighter trenchcoat. It hints at a change in the man, but this is immaterial when he is hiding in the dark, continually stepping into the shadows when trying to uncover Sterling's scheme. It's almost as if Jeff is stepping back into his old role. He must return to his past, become who he used to be, to expose the frame-up. Despite his new life with Ann, Jeff seems more comfortable as his darker self.

When Jeff sees that Kathie is with Sterling again, she comes to his room later to explain herself. Jeff tells her simply, "Let's just leave it where it all is." But even Jeff knows that cannot happen. This is why he goes to see Sterling without an argument, why he takes the job offered to him, knowing full well it's more than likely a setup. It's a basic belief in penance. Jeff walks back into the past to face whatever consequence awaits him.

The lighting in Out of the Past helps shape the film's story and people. Heavy contrasts, like the infamous sequence in which Jeff walks down a hallway (after stealing evidence implicating Sterling), clearly express the world in which the characters reside. The brighter the lights, the deeper the shadows, and the easier it is to lose oneself in the dark. Cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca had worked with Tourneur previously on Cat People. He'd also photographed other Val Lewton movies, such as The 7th Victim (1943) and The Curse of the Cat People (1944).

Out of the Past was based on the book (and released in the U.K. as) Build My Gallows High. The novel and its adaptation were written by Daniel Mainwaring, both under the pseudonym, Geoffrey Homes. Mainwaring's dialogue is so sharp that a viewer might need a box of gauze handy while watching the film. The lines are witty, with a wry sense of the environment. In other words, most of the characters have accepted their lot in life, and their words are assertions of this reserved compliance. One of the film's best scenes involves Jeff's first meet with the potential victim. He arrives at the door, where Meta Carson (Rhonda Fleming) is posing as his cousin. The other man and Jeff share this bit of dialogue:

"Your, uh, cousin is a very charming young lady."

"No, he isn't. His name is Norman, and he's a bookmaker in Cleveland, Ohio."
The performances in Out of the Past are flawless. The lazy-eyed Mitchum is unparalleled as Jeff. His lines flow from his lips like water from a faucet. The beautiful Jane Greer is the quintessential femme fatale. Her performance is so strong and alluring that it's easy to see why Jeff is such a sucker for her. You want to see more and more of her, in spite of knowing what her presence means. Douglas is equally solid as Whit Sterling. He spends so much of the film smiling that you can't help but assume that his charm is genuine. In one incredibly effective scene, he approaches Kathie, and just as she enters the frame, Sterling slaps her. Greer's reaction makes you wonder if the slap was unexpected, but more than anything, it makes Sterling a terrifying menace. Even Fleming, in the small role as Meta, is noteworthy. In essence, she is the other femme fatale, but she is so appealing that her association with the bad guys is a trait that can readily be forgiven.

Out of the Past was remade in 1984 as Against All Odds starring Jeff Bridges and Rachel Ward. Greer played the mother of Ward, who was portraying Greer's '47 character. Paul Valentine, who made his film debut in Out of the Past as Sterling's crony, Joe Stephanos, also had a small role in the '84 remake.

Out of the Past is often cited as a prime example of the film noir genre. Tourneur's film is dramatically sound, and at times romantic, suspenseful, and just plain cool. So many separate elements come together to form a memorable film. And, just like Jeff and the movie's seemingly endless shadows, it's easy to lose yourself in a dark, somber world.

Read More

The Seventh Victim (1943) **

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Mary Gibson, attending a Catholic school, is informed that her sister, Jacqueline, has not paid her tuition in six months. Concerned for her sister, who is apparently missing, Mary travels to New York and discovers that Jacqueline has sold her business to a partner. Additionally, she rented a room above an Italian restaurant, changed the lock on the door and left, returning a few times only to dine and pay a monthly rent. Mary pleads with the restaurant owners to open Jacqueline's apartment, Room 7, where they see a single chair sitting underneath a hanging noose. Irving August, a private investigator, wants to help Mary find her sister (mostly because he was told to stay off the case), but things take a turn for the worse when someone is murdered.

Well known producer Val Lewton was hired by RKO Pictures to produce low budget horror films with titles provided by the studio. When the first film, Cat People (1942), proved a hit, Lewton was allowed much control over the pictures. He insisted that the directors cover many scenes in shadows and imply the impending horror, like the attacks in Jacques Tourneur's Leopard Man (1943). But whether or not there was a monster or a physical evil, Lewton's movies all contained a somber ambience and a sense of doom lurking in the dark.

In The 7th Victim (1943), there is a feeling of dread throughout the movie. In the opening scene, Mary learns that her sister, her only living relative, is missing. Jacqueline's room represents the way in which she wants to live, as if she could control her life by knowing when and how she would die. She does not want to be unaware of her time of death, but would rather decide for herself. In a terrific sequence, Mary and the P.I. break into the building housing Jacqueline's company. A long hallway leads to a door (which is the only locked room in the building, according to August), and the hallway is hidden mostly in shadow. Without having a clear reason for being frightened, the two debate on who should be the one to continue down the dark corridor. Another great scene is when Mary is threatened while taking a shower. Predating Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), a silhouette of the character appears on the shower curtain as Mary is harshly told to stop looking for Jacqueline.

Mary does learn about what has happened to her sister, but it is best to watch the film knowing as little as possible. It is a movie which thrives on fear of the unknown, and Mark Robson handles the directing reins wonderfully. With Lewton as producer, he also directed The Ghost Ship (1943), Isle of the Dead (1945) and Bedlam (1946), the latter two starring Boris Karloff. Kim Hunter, in her film debut, gives a strong showing as Mary. Hunter would later earn an Academy Award as Best Supporting Actress for her role as Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951).

Read More

Modern Times (1936) **

Talking pictures had been around for about a decade when Charlie Chaplin released Modern Times (1936).  A silent film star with a instantly recognizable screen alter ego—the Little Tramp—Chaplin debated whether he should let the Little Tramp speak in this film.  In the end, he chose to make Modern Times his last silent feature film—and the last appearance of the Tramp as well.  However, it should be noted that the there is sound in this film, with machine sounds and voices out of televisions. We also hear the Tramp’s voice when he sings a song in Italian gibberish—perhaps a tongue-in-cheek slap in the face of talking pictures by Chaplin? In the end, the film that took Chaplin four years to make—I suppose when you write, star, direct, score, and produce it takes some time—turned out to be one of his best.

This is a protest film against the effects of automation on mankind. The Tramp represents the millions of people who were unemployed during the Great Depression, who saw machines doing jobs that would have put food in their bellies and roofs over their heads. He was quoted in  a newspaper article as saying that “unemployment is the vital question… Machinery should benefit mankind. It should not spell tragedy and throw it out of work.” The dehumanizing effects of industrialization and unemployment are at the forefront of this film. It is up to the Tramp to struggle against these unruly behemoths, while not so carefully waddling through the institutions that support them.

Now, when you start a film by showing a flock of sheep dissolving into workers you begin it with a statement. We first view the Tramp working on a factory assembly line where he has to tighten nuts/bolts with both hands while his boss watches from the comfort of his office via a video camera. Since everything is based on precise timing, the worker doesn’t have a second to itch--and when the Tramp does this he creates hilarious chaos on the production line, trying to catch up to the bolts he missed. One of Chaplin’s more memorable sequences, this was parodied on I Love Lucy when Lucy works in the candy factory. At lunch time the Tramp is chosen as the guinea pig for the company’s new feeding device, which is designed to cut lunch periods. The machine malfunctions and the Tramp is treated to bolts instead of food, shortcake in the face, and soup everywhere but in his mouth. After lunch the boss speeds up production and the Tramp can’t keep up, so he lies down on the machine and is literally fed through the gears of the machine. This is a visual image worth watching. In the end, it is deemed he has had a mental breakdown and he’s whisked off to the funny farm.

After being released from the psychiatric ward the Tramp makes the mistake of picking up a red flag on the street and waving it.  Unfortunately for him there is a communist rally happening at the same time and he is mistaken as one and hauled off to jail. While in jail he makes yet another mistake when he unknowingly uses a salt shaker filled with cocaine to salt his food. Fortunately for him the cocaine gives him such an adrenaline rush that he helps thwart a prison escape by knocking out his fellow convicts. This eventually leads to his release from jail.

The Tramp’s next job is in a shipyard. It’s a short-lived one after he accidentally sinks a ship. Faced with starvation the Tramp remembers that prison wasn’t so bad, with a warm bed and food to eat, so he tries to get arrested again. This is where he meets Paulette Goddard’s (Chaplin’s then wife) orphan character, whom he runs into as she’s fleeing from a bakery heist—she was hungry. She’s arrested and so is he after he knowingly steals some cigars. On their way to jail their paddy wagon swerves and both captives are thrown out.  And, so the Tramp and the orphan go on the lam together. Inspired by a dream sequence where he and the orphan can live together in suburban bliss with enough food to eat, the Tramp sets out to make this happen.

He takes a job as night watchman at a department store. Here the Tramp and the orphan eat to their hearts content.  Wearing roller skates the Tramp happens upon burglars who just want to eat.  The next morning the Tramp is found asleep and is taken to jail for all the “missing” items. When he gets out of jail he finds the orphan waiting for him. They move into a shack by the lake.  When his old steel mill reopens the Tramp gets a job as a mechanic’s assistant. One of the best sequences in the film happens here. While helping the mechanic (Chester Conklin) get the machines moving again, the Tramp sees his boss get caught in the machine and he has to help free his boss from the moving gears and wheels of the machine. At one point the only thing you can see of the mechanic is his head—he has literally been swallowed by the machine.

When the workers go on strike, the Tramp is out of a job yet again. When he accidentally hits a policeman in the head with a brick he’s taken back to jail. While he’s in jail the orphan gets a job as a dancer in a cabaret. She gets him a job as a waiter. Falling dishes, roast duck footballs, and forgotten song lyrics somehow aren’t enough to get him fired—and so he seems to have made it as a singing waiter. Too bad the juvenile authorities come to pick up the orphan and they have to flee secure jobs.

The final sequence finds the orphan girl downtrodden about their circumstances.  She wants to know what the point is in even trying.  It is up to the Tramp to keep her going—and that’s what he does. Unlike other films where the Tramp is seen waddling out into the cold world alone, this one finds him waddling side-by-side with the girl he loves looking for the idealized American dream of prosperity.  It is a fitting end to the Little Tramp’s appearance on the Silver Screen.

This is most probably my favorite Little Tramp movie. All of the choreographed sequences are a treat to watch, especially the machine scenes.  I also enjoyed the message that Chaplin was trying to send with this film.  There is something overtly dehumanizing about the factory system. In addition, he does a good job of expressing what people really went through during the Depression.  People really did commit petty crimes just to stave off starvation or to end up in jail where they knew they would be given something to eat and a warm place to sleep. While he made only two appearances during the Great Depression (this and City Lights), I often think of the Little Tramp as its mascot.  As I said earlier, I think this was a fitting end for the Tramp.  Beaten down and dehumanized by industrialization, the Tramp looks to the future with hope, as no doubt millions of others did during this same time period. Truly a film of its time.

Read More

The Rules of the Game (La Regle Du Jeu) 1939 **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at The Classic Film & TV Cafe.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Entire books have been devoted to analyzing Jean Renoir's 1939 masterpiece, so it's impossible to do justice to this French classic in a single film review. However, I am constantly surprised by the number of film buffs who haven't seen it, so I feel compelled to promote it--well that, plus it's been a personal favorite since I watched it in college long ago.

Best described as a "comic tragedy," The Rules of the Game focuses on three themes: the relationship between and among the frivilous upper-class and their servants; the complex emotions between men and women; and the boundaries and expectations of society (the "rules of the game").

The film opens with the arrival of Andre Jurieux, a courageous aviator who has just completed a 23-hour solo flight across the Atlantic. As the public stands ready to hear about his heroic exploits, Andre uses the opportunity to whine that he did it all for a woman who didn't bother to be there and greet him. It doesn't matter to Andre that Christine, the woman in question, is married.

Andre's best friend, Octave (Renoir), has a long-standing friendship with Christine (Nora Gregor). He uses his influence to secure Andre an invitation to La Coliniere, a country estate owned by Christine and her husband Robert (Marcel Dalio). Robert is hesitant to agree at first, but Octave convinces him by agreeing to find a husband for Robert's mistress Geneviève (Mila Parely).

At the country gathering of friends, relationships change amidst an avalanche of mixed messages and misunderstandings. A confused Christine contemplates an affair with a stranger, then confesses her love for Andre before realizing that her friendship with Octave may be much more. Meanwhile, her maid Lisette ignores her husband, the gamekeeper, and flirts with both Octave and a poacher-turned-servant named Marceau. It's a classical French farce on the surface, but it's undercut by a condemnation of the bourgeois and concludes with an unexpected tragedy.


Clearly, Renoir wants to expose the emptiness and thoughtless cruelty of the upper classes, the latter conveyed in the film's most famous scene: a hunting party that slaughters dozens of rabbits and pheasants. As if this sequence (which is difficult to watch) needed more conviction, Renoir forsakes his typical long takes for cramming in 51 shots in less than four minutes. The violence is shocking and the analogy--that the bourgeois are indifferently destroying an unsuspecting society--is all the more potent.

It's no coincidence that the only likable members of Renoir's bourgeois are "outsiders." Several of Robert and Christine's "friends" feel sorry for Christine because she's Austrian. Later, we learn that Robert's father was a "Rosenthal from Frankfort"--meaning that he was Jewish. This allows us to feel empathy for them while still accepting that their vacuous life of luxury is no different from their guests.


In Renoir's world, both upper-class and servant classes understand the conventions of society, even though they break them. Octave stresses to Andre that "society has rules." And one of the house maids, upon learning Christine allowed Andre to sit next to her at dinner, expresses concern because "etiquette is etiquette."

It's ironic that the two most pathetic characters--Andre and Geneviève--are the ones who follow the rules at the risk of their own unhappiness. Andre may come across as a lovestruck fool, but he truly loves Christine and knows what he wants. Likewise, Geneviève understands that she doesn't want to lose Robert, although she confesses that "I don't know if it's love or force of habit." In contrast, Christine, Octave, and Robert struggle with trying to figure out what they really want. In the end, their actions seem foolish and perhaps even tragic, but as Octave explains to Robert at one point: "Everyone has their reasons."


The history of The Rules of the Game is almost as fascinating as the film itself. Two of Renoir's previous two films--La bête humaine and Grand Illusion--were big commercial and critical successes (Illusion even earned an Oscar nomintaion as Best Film...not Best Foreign-Language Film). So, it was a tremendous disappointment when Rules of the Games flopped miserably. Renoir even re-edited the film, trimming its running time from 96 minutes to 81. During World War II, the Nazis destroyed all known negatives. Then, in 1959, a restored 109-minute version of the film was released. Renoir approved this version, although it's important to note that he was not involved in the restoration.

Based on shooting scripts, film historians have compared the 81-minute and 109-minute versions. They contend that the shorter film was a harsher indictment of the upper classes, since it reduced or eliminated scenes that fleshed out the characters of Octave and Robert.

Since 1952, Sight and Sound magazine has done a poll of the 100 Greatest Films every decade. The Rules of the Game entered the 1952 poll as #10 and has been  #2 or #3 in every decade since then. The only film to rank above it: Citizen Kane.

Read More

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935) **

(This article is from guest contributor ClassicBecky and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/. Visit ClassicBecky’s own blog at: http://classicbeckybrainfood.blogspot.com/. The rating in the title is my own.)

Bride of Frankenstein (1935) is such a staple for classic film lovers and horror movie lovers that it is difficult to add anything to the many reviews and articles written over the years. From the time that director James Whale designed the look for the monster in 1931’s original Frankenstein and directed it to perfection, all the way up to the present day, Mary Shelley’s novel has been a favorite for each generation of movie-makers. Everyone wants to put their own personal stamp on this exciting story, some quite good, others just plain awful.

Bride of Frankenstein is different. There has only been 1 attempt of which I am aware at re-making it, a really dreadful movie called The Bride, with Sting and Jennifer Beals. (Remember Mystery Science Theatre 3000? They would have had a hey-day with that one!) As far as other serious attempts, I know of only two that are worth mentioning. These were movies about the entire Frankenstein story, a made-for-TV movie with Jane Seymour as the bride, and Kenneth Branagh’s version featuring Helena Bonham Carter. However, those two can’t really be considered re-makes, as they were trying to film the entire novel.

I think it would be impossible to re-capture the wonderful dark humor infused into the original bride story that was mostly responsible, in my opinion, for its unique nature. Bride of Frankenstein was written by William Hurlbut and John Balderston, and also incorporated James Whale's brand of side-glancing, off-beat humor which was his personal stamp. When I was a kid, I thought the story was deadly serious, and believed I should see it that way. After I had a few years under my belt, I realized how really funny this movie is. It still has the pathos of the poor monster’s loneliness and solitude, it has the wonderful eerie atmosphere of light and shadow, that fabulous laboratory, and lots of lightning. But it also has Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Praetorius with his little human menagerie, O.P. Heggie as the violin-playing blind hermit, and of course Elsa Lanchester with the hair!




As for the storyline, the movie opens with Mary Shelley, Lord Byron and Percy Shelley at the famous villa where Mary wrote the novel "Frankenstein."  She explains that the story was not finished, and begins to tell the rest.  The monster is back on the rampage, having escaped the fiery windmill in the first story.  (In the opening scene, Boris Karloff fell into a well which was part of the set and broke his leg.  The metal rods that held his legs rigid for his distinctive walk helped keep the bone in place until he got to a doctor.)  The monster frightens people everywhere, is misunderstood in his intentions, and longs for someone like himself to be his friend. He comes upon a hut in the woods and hears the music of a violin. The hut is inhabited by a blind man, who welcomes the monster without fear since he can’t see him. The monster learns some words, and the two men sit down together to eat dinner. When the blind man strikes a match to light a cigar, the monster screams because of his fear of fire. The blind man explains to him that fire is good, and offers him a cigar. “Smoke is good!” the blind man says, and the monster inhales and says “Smoke….good.” (In these days of political correctness, we may yet see this scene cut out, although the rampaging and killing will of course be left in.) Some villagers come by, and since they are not blind, they panic, attack the monster and drive him away.



Meanwhile, Dr. Praetorius is insinuating himself into Dr. Frankenstein’s life (Colin Clive reprises his role, looking a bit the worse for wear during the 4 years since the original Frankenstein. Clive had also broken his leg just as shooting began on the film, and is shown in seated positions throughout.) Ernest Thesiger is wonderful as the mad Dr. Praetorius, with his long, skeletal face and clipped British accent. He plays Praetorius in a threatening but gleeful way, prancing at times and clapping his hands together. Frankenstein is not interested in trying to re-animate dead tissue anymore, but Praetorius piques his interest by showing him his new brand of re-animation, or rather, creation of life. Praetorius displays his collection of tiny people kept in glass jars, a king, a queen, a bishop, a ballerina, a mermaid, alive and well and playing pranks. (The famous little person, Billy Barty, was to have been part of the menageries, but his scenes were cut.) When the tiny people speak, it is with tiny squeaks like cartoon mice. Frankenstein is horrified and interested, but still does not want to go back into the body-building business. Later, the monster finds Praetorius sitting in what looks like an open-air crypt, drinking gin and relaxing. When the monster realizes that it would be possible for Dr. Frankenstein to create a female, Praetorius is able to enlist him to kidnap Frankenstein's wife and hold her hostage until he agrees to do so.



The female is created in the same laboratory (that’s pronounced laBORatory) where the monster was brought to life. Her shroud is much more stylish, though, well-fitted and displaying a fine figure.  (It was so well-fitted that Elsa Lanchester was unable to move.  She had to be carried around the set.)  The bride  opens her eyes – the next scene shows her standing, dressed in a widely-shaped, floor-length, long-sleeved white dress. (Lanchester was 5'4", and was put on stilts to make her much taller.)  Her hair is done up in a very chic updo, dark with lightning-shaped white hair on either side. She sees Dr. Frankenstein and likes him, sees the monster and hates him, and utters a few distinctive echoing cries. The monster sees that she refuses his overtures, and decides he has had enough rejection in his life. He grabs a lever. Dr. Praetorius cries “Don’t touch that lever. You’ll blow us all to atoms!” Why such a lever would be installed in the first place is never explained. The monster, in an unusual mood of love for his creator, tells him to leave – “You live! We belong dead!” Then of course, he pulls the lever, and Dr. Praetorius’ warning comes true.



I just cannot write about Bride of Frankenstein without paying tribute to two movies where it plays major roles. The first is Gods and Monsters, a biographical film about James Whale with Ian McKellan,  In a flashback for Whale, we see him shooting the scene where the bride stands in her finery. The actor who plays Praetorius turns to Whale and says “Are Colin and I supposed to have done her hair?” Gods and Monsters is a tremendous movie and you shouldn’t miss it.



The second movie is, of course, Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein. For any lover of the Frankenstein movies, this is a must. It takes elements from Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein and Son of Frankenstein. It is one of the greatest comedy films I have ever seen. The wonderful Madeline Kahn plays the woman who becomes the bride, and the scene where she comes out of the bathroom to her new husband, with her hair in that style, is not to be missed. Cloris Leachman as Frau Blucher, Peter Boyle as the monster, Marty Feldman as Igor (that's pronouced Eye-gor), Gene Hackman as the blind hermit (a scene with an ending line I'll never forget),Terri Garr as the voluptuous laboratory assistant and the marvelous Gene Wilder as Dr. Frankenstein (that's Fronk-en-steen) are an unbelievably funny ensemble.  Frankly, I can never watch any of the Frankenstein movies anymore without the hilarious Young Frankenstein always in my mind. Make a really fun weekend for yourself.  Watch these movies in order.  It will be an experience you won't forget.

Read More