Sabotage (1936) **

I recently wrote a review of The 39 Steps and based on the comments it elicited I came to the conclusion that Hitchcock’s pre-Hollywood films are often overlooked or even forgotten.  I’m sure there are many reasons for this, but I think many of his early British films should be watched to understand how his directorial vision developed.  You don’t just wake up one day and direct Notorious or Rear Window. As such, I think Hitchcock’s earlier films provide excellent examples of how he honed his style over a period of many years. Sabotage (1936) is one of those forgotten gems that one should watch to gain more insight into the Hitchcockian vision.

Based on the novel The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, Sabotage is a suspenseful thriller about an international terrorist group (or saboteurs) who hold London in a state of anxiety through their rampant bombings across the city. Though not designated as Nazis by Hitchcock, many film historians believe that is exactly who the saboteurs were meant to represent. This makes sense, as Germany and Italy had just signed the Rome-Berlin Axis and many Western European nations were growing alarmed by Germany’s growing militarism. There were even rumors that German spies were attempting to infiltrate Britain and create public unrest.  As such, the film’s saboteurs serve both an artistic and political purpose for Hitchcock.

The film opens metaphorically with a close-up shot of a flashing light bulb (a warning signal?) and then transitions into a shot of a crowded London street right before a blackout.  In true Hitchcockian fashion, the film cuts back to the flashing light bulb and we watch as the light slows its pace and then goes completely out upon the blackout. Another quick cut takes us to the Bijou,a movie theatre run by Karl Verloc (Oskar Homolka). Dressed in the typical accoutrement of a shady figure—a dark overcoat—Verloc seems to be sneaking back into his home just after the blackout hits. When he lays down on the couch and covers his face with a newspaper you instantly know something just isn’t kosher. When his wife (Sylvia Sidney) comes to complain that the theatre’s patrons want their money back he tells her to give it to them, hinting that they don’t have to worry about money any more.  Why?

Soon we are introduced to Mrs. Verloc’s little brother Stevie (Desmond Tester). Stevie encompasses all that is innocent and good, which is reinforced by his helpfulness and trusting nature. Through Stevie we meet Mr. Spencer (John Loder), the street grocer…well, actually he’s not really a grocer but an undercover Scotland Yard detective who suspects Mr. Verloc is involved with the saboteur group. Spencer and Verloc engage one another in the typical Hitchcockian game of cat and mouse. Verloc comes off as cool and detached whenever Spencer makes suggestive comments about the bombings taking place in London. 

It is really enjoying to watch these two actors play off one another, especially when you throw in Sylvia Sidney as the unassuming wife. In addition, Verloc is the traditional quiet and unassuming Hitchcockian villain. He doesn’t seem particularly menacing (at least until the end of the film) and seems like an inconspicuous personality. In addition, like in so many Hitchcock films, the line between villain and hero becomes blurred when Spencer begins to have feeling for Mrs. Verloc and even when Mrs. Verloc reaps her revenge at the end of the film.  Hitchcock had a habit of blurring this line, in such films as Marnie, Notorious, and some would say even Psycho. It is also interesting to note that John Loder was not Hitchcock’s first choice for the role of Spencer. Instead, he hoped to work once again with his The 39 Steps leading man, Robert Donat, but the actor was being treated for severe asthma at the time.

The puzzle pieces start to take shape when Verloc and an accomplice meet at an aquarium and discuss the city’s reaction to the recent bombing. A newspaper headline reads: “London Laughs at Blackout”. Evidently no one was hurt in the blast and this means Verloc isn’t getting paid.  He’s told he must deliver a bomb that will do substantial damage before he gets his money.  In a rather creative shot (at least for 1936), we see Verloc staring into a fish tank as he imagines as a collapsing building in Piccadilly.  This scene is especially effective, as Hitchcock uses shadows to evoke a sense of sinister unease.

Eventually a plan is put into action to detonate a time bomb at 1:45 on a Saturday afternoon. A note reads: “London must not laugh on Saturday”—yes, the opposite reaction is, of course, the outcome. In a strange twist (but not strange for Hitchcock), Verloc gets Stevie to deliver the bomb, which is disguised in a film reel/roll of Bartholomew the Strangler (a nudge toward the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572?). Ah, but you never send a child to do a man’s work, now do you? Instead of promptly delivering the “package” Stevie attends a a street show and a parade and finds himself tardily boarding a bus for his destination. The bus, and everyone on it including Stevie, goes kaboom.  It is said that this was one of Hitchcock's’ greatest film regrets—he had violated his own rule of never harming a character with whom his audience had come to sympathize.  In the end, we are privy to the unraveling of Mrs. Verloc and the eventual comeuppance of Mr. Verloc. 

The film is tension filled, especially little Stevie’s errand from hell and the showdown between husband and wife. The bomb delivery sequence is nearly 10 minutes long and is taut with suspense. The showdown between the Verlocs is rife with unspoken anxiety and edited with shots of uneasy close-ups. In addition, Hitchcock uses the theatre setting as a clever device to mix reality with fiction, as in the scene where Spencer is visiting the Verloc’s and he hears screams and shots ring out.  After recovering from being startled, he comments, “I thought someone was being murdered.” And, then with a wonderful comeback, Verloc responds, “Someone probably is.” Priceless, and filled with so many undertones!

Sabotage is perhaps one of Hitchcock’s darkest films—what with killing an innocent child. It is also one of his few films that doesn’t contain a true mystery. Shortly after the film starts everyone knows who the bomber is and there is nothing to truly unravel. Instead, it is purely a suspense film.  As such, it is a rather unique Hitchcock vehicle. 

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The 39 Steps (1935) **1/2

In his 18th effort, legendary British director Alfred Hitchcock created a film that brought him to the notice of American audiences and Hollywood. The film, The 39 Steps (1935), also introduced two classic Hitchcockian themes: the MacGuffin and the average, innocent man (Robert Donat) who finds himself forced into extraordinary circumstances to prove his innocence.  In addition to these two themes, the film also has another classic Hitchcock element: an icy blonde heroine (Madeline Carroll).  You combine these three components with a masterfully plotted script and you have the first of many classic Hitchcock films.

The screenplay was based on John Buchan’s 1915 novel of the same name. While Charles Bennett is given the screenwriting credit, both Hitchcock and his often used dialogue writer Ian Hay (an author in his own right) also contributed to the film’s tightly-constructed script. As most Hitchcock fans know, he wanted a script that was visual in nature so his favorite directorial tool, the storyboard, could be precisely created to match the script.  I once read somewhere that Hitchcock’s storyboards were so precise that he never looked through the viewfinder while directing—he didn’t need to. Even today, Hitchcock’s storyboards are something to marvel. Perhaps that is why Cinemek created a Hitchcock storyboard app for the iPhone? 

The story takes place over a four-day period in both London and the Scottish highlands. As with most Hitchcock films, The 39 Steps begins innocently enough, with the film’s hero, Richard Hannay (Donat) attending a vaudeville show starring Mr. Memory (Wylie Watson).  However, his life soon becomes complicated when he takes Annabella Smith (Lucie Mannheim) back to his rented room after shots are fired in the theatre. Unbeknownst to him, Ms. Smith is a secret double agent hiding from two men from an organization known as, you didn’t guess it, the 39 Steps, that want to kill her.  The poor sap even jokes about it when she lets him in on her predicament. He stops laughing when she ends up with a knife in her back and two men outside his window seem like they might want to kill him, too.  And, so with the knowledge that Ms. Smith was supposed to stop British military secrets from being smuggled out of the country by a spy missing the top of his little finger and who works for the 39 Steps, Hannay sets out to do her job. First step, pry the map of Scotland out of her cold, dead hand, and notice that she’s circled the town of Alt-na-Shellach. Second step, get out of the building without being noticed by two men outside. He does this by borrowing the milkman’s hat and coat and then he takes a train to Scotland.

Whilst on this train, two very important things happen. First, he learns that Ms. Smith’s body has been found and that he is the prime suspect. This leads to the other important thing: to avoid identification he pops into the compartment of our Hitchcockian icy blonde, Pamela (Carroll). Perhaps she was mad that he kissed her before a proper introduction, but once she catches her breath she alerts the police to his presence and he has to make another daring escape.  Don’t worry, they’ll meet again.

Not able to make it on foot to Alt-na-Shellach before dark, Hannay finds shelter with a religious fanatic (John Laurie) and his young wife Margaret (a very young Peggy Ashcroft). Unlike Pamela, Margaret helps Hannay escape the police when her jealous and greedy husband tries to turn him in for a reward. Hannay then finds his way to the house of Professor Jordan (Godfrey Tearle), the man whom he mistakenly believes is Ms. Smith’s ally. This myth is soon dispelled when Jordan shows him his deformed little finger and shoots him point blank. Ah, thank goodness Margaret had given Hannay her husband’s coat as a disguise—it had a thick prayer book in its breast-pocket. You gotta love, Hitch!

He ends up in the local sheriff’s office recounting the events that led to his would-be murder and narrow escape. He finds himself handcuffed (but by only one wrist) and ready to be turned over to London authorities when he makes yet another escape.  This time he hides out at political rally where he meets up with Pamela again. She evidently doesn’t like him, because she alerts the authorities once again. Ah, but she alerts the “wrong” authorities this time, and she finds herself being taken to the professor’s house with Hannay. Conveniently, the spies handcuff Pamela and Hannay together. And, so when he makes yet another escape she has to come along too—she’s actually drug, but that’s just semantics. Anyway, this leads to some rather interesting scenes at an inn between the warring couple. Carroll is your typical Hitchcock ice queen—eventually she melts. She and Donat do a nice job of playing off one another, and the love-hate relationship that develops between their characters is palpable.

This being a suspense film, I won’t give away the ending.  All I’ll say is that it takes place at the London Palladium and it is quite circular.  However, it is Hitchcock’s newfound love of the MacGuffin that makes the ending so enjoyable. What are the 39 Steps and how can the military secrets be smuggled out of the country without detection? It is, as my old friend M. Night Shyamalan would say, a twist. And, what is a good suspense film without an even better twist? Hitchcock would use the MacGuffin device in many of his best films, such as  Vertigo, The Lady Vanishes, North by Northwest, The Man Who Knew Too Much, and, of course, Notorious.

Not my favorite Hitchcock film, that honor rests with Notorious, The 39 Steps is still an enjoyable piece of cinema.  I really think this film helped shape and define Hitchcock’s style for the rest of his career.

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3-Iron (Bin-Jip) 2004, **

This strange, but watchable Korean film from director Kim Ki-duk is in a category all its own. Short on dialogue and long on psychological motivations, it truly is a cerebral film. While the film is only 90 minutes long, it seems much longer—not that this is necessarily a bad thing, but its overall pacing is something that might deter some viewers.

Lee Hyun-Kyoon (AKA Jae Hee) gives an extremely subdued performance as Tae-suk, an over-accommodating uninvited house watcher.  Confused? I was at first, too.  Tae-suk has a strange racket: he tapes take-out menus over the keyholes of prospective houses he might want to “watch”.  He returns days later to see if any of his menus are still in place. When he finds one he breaks into the house and makes himself at home. Yet, instead of robbing these places he does the owner’s unwashed laundry, waters and prunes plants, and fixes broken things. Mind you, all of this is done in silence, with intermittent music by Sivian and an occasional TV or answering machine voice.  The premise is so bizarre that it takes awhile before you truly grasp what’s happening.

Since this isn’t a performance art film, something has to happen to move the story along, and that’s where Sun-hwa (Lee Seung-yeon) comes into play. Unbeknownst to Tae-suk he breaks into a house where battered housewife Sun-hwa silently watches him in her home.  He is there for quite some time before he even notices she is there.  Not one for human companionship, Tae-suk leaves the home but then decides to teach the abusive husband (Kwon Hyuk-ho) a lesson. Hence, the title of this film: 3-Iron (Bin-Jip). After getting the husband’s attention by practicing golf in his yard, Tae-suk proceeds to hit the man with golf balls when he comes outside to complain. Perhaps it isn’t a naval officer coming to your factory and sweeping you off your feet romantic, but it works for Sun-hwa and she leaves with Tae-suk. Mind you, they have not spoken one word to one another--Really. And, so we now have two strange “house watchers.”

The couple eventually run into some trouble when they discover an elderly dead man in one of the houses.  As if taking care of the plants wasn’t enough, the couple clean the man up and prepare him for burial.  When relatives arrive at the apartment and find the couple they assume Sun-hwa and Tae-suk are murderers and the couple finds themselves in jail. Things aren’t easily cleared up when the suspects take remaining silent to a whole new level, but eventually they are cleared of any crime.

In some strange twist, the abusive husband bribes a police officer to allow him to hit Tae-suk with golf balls. This leads to Tae-suk choking the officer and being taken off to jail while Sun-hwa has to go home with her bastard husband. While in jail, Tae-suk engages in his usual strange behavior: he hits imaginary golf balls with imaginary clubs and plays a game of hide-and-seek inside his cell with the prison guards. This “where is Tae-suk” game is quite interesting to watch…especially when he hides so well that we see him following a guard around the cell. This leads, once he is released from jail, to the even stranger ending of the film.  Having perfected this technique, Tae-suk can rejoin Sun-hwa in her own home without her husband even knowing it—really. It is a film you have to see to understand, and even then, you might find yourself questioning what really has taken place.

Both Lee Seung-yeon and Lee Hyun-Kyoon are really good at conveying their character’s emotions without the use of words. Restrained, nuanced performances are rare in cinema today, but that is how I would describe the work of these two actors. 

Not a film for everyone, 3-Iron is still an innovative film that most viewers will enjoy. However, if you are a dialogue-driven film watcher, this might not be the film for you.

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Rebecca ( 1940) **1/2

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

By the late 1930's, Hitchcock's reputation was riding high based on several suspense films he'd made in Britain. He came to Hollywood under contract to producer David O. Selznick. Selznick intended Rebecca to rival his previous film, the award-laden Gone With the Wind (1939). The two men had a contentious collaboration on Rebecca but ultimately produced a critical and commercial success that was nominated for 11 Academy Awards. It won two: Best Picture and Best B&W Cinematography.

Rebecca is a favorite of mine, and here are a few reasons why...

A strong sense of atmosphere that underscores the story's gothic quality and mood of vague but insistent foreboding. Manderley, where much of the action occurs, conveys a cavernous and chilly ambiance of inhospitable elegance.

Multi-layered characters, evocative performances. Joan Fontaine is palpably anxious and apprehensive as the second Mrs. de Winter. She doesn't miss a beat and, late in the film, smoothly portrays the young woman's transition as she gains poise and confidence. Laurence Olivier's Maxim de Winter is guilt-riddled, highly strung and volatile...with aristocratic charm. Judith Anderson creates one of Hitchcock's and the screen's great villains as the unbalanced and eventually dangerous Mrs. Danvers. George Sanders as Jack Favell and Florence Bates as Mrs. Van Hopper both play unsavory types, but with comic overtones. Favell is an oily bounder, but a witty one. Van Hopper is insufferably demanding and grandiose - and more than slightly ridiculous.

A final note...Hitchcock reportedly edited "in camera" to prevent Selznick from re-editing his work. Rebecca strikes me as classic Hitchcock with the Selznick treatment: top-notch cast, the finest writers and technicians - and a big budget that shows.

Those are some of my thoughts...but what do you think? What are your opinions, observations and comments...and, if you've read Daphne du Maurier's novel, how would you compare the film to the book?

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Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) **1/2

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

One of the most charming and potent portrayals of Americana to ever grace the screen, Meet Me in St. Louis tugs at the heartstrings as powerfully today as it did 65 years ago when it was first crafted by MGM's "Freed Unit" and released in 1944.

The film's wondrous perfection is the work of producer Arthur Freed, director Vincente Minnelli, a bravura ensemble cast, an ace artistic and technical team, songwriters Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin and...Technicolor.
This is one of my all-time favorites...
Meet Me in St. Louis was adapted from a series of reminiscences by Sally Benson that first appeared in The New Yorker in early 1942. Told from the perspective of five-year-old 'Tootie' Smith, Benson's memory pieces, though rich in warmth and humor, were light on plot and conflict. A more defined storyline was developed, the characters were strengthened and 17-year-old Esther Smith (played by Judy Garland) became the pivotal character. The story evolved into a "year in the life" of an idealized American family and was comprised of vignettes set in each of the four seasons with its dramatic climax, a family crisis, set at Christmastime.

The Smith family home at 5135 Kensington Avenue was the film's central interior and Minnelli made the decision to build a continuous set with interconnecting rooms, just like an a actual house. He reportedly wanted the entire picture to have the look of a painting by Thomas Eakins (1844 - 1916, above is his Baby at Play) and art director Preston Ames' assignment was to recreate a St. Louis neighborhood, circa 1904, as evocatively as possible. Ames did so spectacularly, creating a full block of Kensington Avenue (at a cost of $200,000) on Metro's back lot.

Focused on the film's visual look and intent on accurate period detail, Minnelli supervised every aspect of set and production design. He brought in top Broadway set decorator Lemuel Ayres and, in addition, spent time with Sally Benson who described to him every feature of her girlhood home in St. Louis. To handle costume design, he turned to Irene Sharaff, another recent Broadway-to-Hollywood transplant. Sharaff researched the historic era carefully, even using a 1904 Sears & Roebuck catalog as a reference.

Minnelli and cinematographer George Folsey, a master of fluid camera work, took such pains with the film's colors and textures that many scenes do resemble period paintings. This was the first MGM film to be fully shot in Technicolor, and Folsey and Minnelli proved to be adept at the use of color, even managing to capture subtle changes in seasonal light.

The songwriting team of Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin composed three very special songs for Judy Garland: "The Boy Next Door," "The Trolley Song," and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Each became a standard in Garland's later repertoire and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" remains a holiday classic today. To add more period flavor, Blane and Martin also reworked popular tunes from the turn of the century - "Meet Me in St. Louis," "Skip to My Lou" and "Under the Bamboo Tree." Up to this time, most films had music inserted arbitrarily, but the songs in Meet Me in St. Louis were integrated into the action and dialogue to help advance the plot.
With such meticulous preparation and skilled collaboration, Vincente Minnelli's genius for utilizing and showcasing light, color, form and movement was able to soar.

Meet Me in St. Louis was an immediate hit, the highest grossing film of 1944. It turned out to be just the tonic a country at war needed to lift its spirits. The film firmly established Minnelli's reputation as a top director, provided Judy Garland with a solid push to the next plateau of her career and toward her ultimate status as a legend, and it ushered in a golden age of Hollywood musicals.

There is much to love about Meet Me in St. Louis. For me its charm is that, though nostalgic, the sentiment isn't heavy-handed. The film beguiles gently, taking one on a fanciful, many-faceted trip back...into a golden epoch. The turn of the century in America is depicted as a languid time before the World Wars and the Great Depression, an era when multi-generational families lived under the same roof...when mothers made vats of ketchup every summer in large, window-filled kitchens...when horse-drawn ice wagons regularly clattered down neighborhood streets...and when a young lady might easily fall in love with and dream of marrying a boy who lived right next door...

As Esther Smith, Judy Garland glows as the film's heart and soul. She is at her best - wistful and endearing, spunky and warm, her voice at an early peak.

Margaret O'Brien, as the high-spirited young 'Tootie,' adds a delightful dimension of childhood mischief and carries the imaginative Halloween sequence almost entirely on her own. She takes another precocious star turn during the climactic Christmas scenes with Judy Garland.
Leon Ames blusters as the bombastic but good-hearted family patriarch, Alonzo Smith. Mary Astor effortlessly inhabits the genteel yet womanly 'Mrs. Anna Smith.' Lucille Bremer is winning as Esther's demure older sister, Rose. Harry Davenport shines as crusty but lovable 'Grandpa' Smith.

Marjorie Main adds spice as the cantankerous maid, Katie. Tom Drake is affecting as awkwardly appealing 'boy next door' John Truett. Very fine in fleeting roles are Chill Wills as Mr. Neely and a young June Lockhart as Lucille Ballard.

As I write, an image of Judy Garland drifts through my mind...it's a wintry night...she and Margaret O'Brien lean together, framed by a bedroom window...and Judy sings...

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light,
From now on
Our troubles will be out of sight.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on
Our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore,
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.
Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow,
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

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The Birds (1963) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Alfred Hitchcock’s most divisive thriller finds the Master of Suspense in magician mode. On the surface, The Birds is a traditionally-structured horror film, in which the bird attacks build progressively to three of Hitchcock’s most intense sequences. However, this is just Hitchcock performing a little playful sleight of hand with the audience. Our feathered friends play a strictly peripheral part in moving the plot along. In actuality, The Birds is a relationship movie about another memorable Hitchcock mother, her adult son, and the women who threaten to come between the two—a theme explored by Hitchcock earlier in Notorious and Psycho.

In The Birds, the son is the bland, but likable, Mitch Brenner (Rod Taylor). Mitch’s mother (wonderfully played by Jessica Tandy) fears losing her son to another woman—not because of jealousy, but because she can’t stand the thought of being abandoned. Young socialite Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) views Mitch as a stable love interest, something she needs as she strives to live a more meaningful life. And Annie Hayworth (Suzanne Pleshette) is the spinster schoolteacher, willing to waste her life to be near Mitch after failing to pry him from his mother.

These characters come together when Melanie follows Mitch to his home in Bodega Bay after a flirtatious exchange in a pet store. Melanie’s arrival coincides with the beginning of the bird attacks. It’s almost as if the birds arrive to prevent any potential love between Mitch and Melanie, perhaps an extension of Mitch’s mother’s anger at having to defeat another rival for her son’s love. (Taken to the extreme, there could a parallel between the birds and the creature created by Morbius in Forbidden Planet). However, although the birds initially come between Mitch and Melanie, they eventually have a very different impact. They allow Melanie, who first appears spoiled and shallow, to show her courage and vulnerability. In the end, Mitch’s mother no longer sees Melanie as a threat, but as a woman worthy of her son. Once the friction between those two characters is resolved, the bird attacks stop and the movie ends. Hitchcock’s conclusion—often criticized as ambiguous—is perfectly logical.

Hitchcock goes to great lengths to misdirect his audience by disguising The Birds as a conventional thriller. Always concerned with audience expectations, the Master of Suspense told French director/film critic Francois Truffaut in Hitchcock, a brilliant collection of interviews: “I didn’t want the public to become too impatient about the birds, because that would distract them from the personal story….” For that reason, the first bird attack comes at twenty-five minutes into the film and occurs toward the end of a playful scene in which Melanie races her boat while Mitch drives along the lake road trying to beat her to the dock.


From that point on, the birds become progressively more menacing and their appearances more frequent: Mitch sees them on the power lines after Melanie visits for dinner; a bird crashes into Annie’s front door and dies; birds swoop down to break up a children’s birthday party; they fly through the open flue into Mitch’s house; and Mitch’s mother find the first human victim in a farmhouse. (I love how Hitchcock uses broken teacups in this scene to foreshadow the impending horror. Earlier, he shows Mitch’s mom picking up broken teacups after the birds-in-the-flue incident. Then, when she visits the apparently empty farmhouse, she sees broken teacups hanging on their hooks—just before discovering the bloody, eyeless body.)

The remainder of the film consists of the three major set pieces: the bird attack outside the school-house; the attack after the gas station blows up; and Melanie’s struggle with the birds in the attic. Again, following the classic horror film structure, Hitchcock separates each sequence with a transition scene that allows the audience to relax and catch its breath. The scene in the restaurant with the ornithologist is one of Hitch’s rare missteps in The Birds; as Truffaut points out, it goes on too long without contributing to the narrative structure. I won’t dissect the birds’ attack on the school children—it’s an iconic sequence—but I strongly recommend that Hitchcock fans seek out Dan Auiler’s Hitchcock’s Notebooks, which include the director’s hand-drawn storyboard and notes. Though less famous, the burning gas station sequence is no less impressive. In the midst of the terrifying chaos, Hitchcock shows Melanie protected—and trapped—inside a phone booth. This “glass cage” is a marvelous metaphor for her previously sheltered life (also symbolized by the lovebirds in the birdcage) from which she is rescued by Mitch (literally…when he pulls her from the phone booth).

The three years between Psycho and The Birds (1963) comprised the longest gap between Hitchcock films up to that point. Much of that time was spent dealing with the technical difficulties in bringing Daphne du Maurier’s short story to the screen. In Truffaut’s book, Hitchcock admits that he discovered narrative weakness in The Birds as he was shooting it. A compulsive pre-planner, who storyboarded every shot in every film, Hitchcock began to improvise during the shooting of The Birds: “The emotional siege I went through served to bring out an additional creative sense in me.”

That creative genius is captured for all to see in The Birds. From its use of bird sounds in lieu of music to its disturbing closing shot, The Birds is an atypical Hitchcock film which finds the director in a mischievous mood. He gives us a classic chiller, but then reveals that it’s all wrapping paper and that’s what inside is a relationship drama. It’s an unexpected gift and, hey, Hitchcock even includes a birthday party for us—although it’s disrupted by those darn birds!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Goldfinger (1964) **

(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.)

At a beautiful resort in Miami, British secret agent James Bond (Sean Connery) is relayed a message from MI6 head, M (Bernard Lee). Bond’s friend and occasional confidante, CIA agent Felix Leiter (Cec Linder), informs 007 that he is to watch a man named Auric Goldfinger (Gert Fröbe), who the spy catches cheating at a game of gin rummy. However, Bond’s true assignment is to learn how Goldfinger, who by all intents and purposes is a legitimate jeweler, is moving his shipments of gold bullion. As 007 is told, since gold can be melted down, tracing any of the precious metal that has been stolen is nearly impossible. The superspy trails Goldfinger, always accompanied by his mute henchman, Oddjob (Harold Sakata), from London to Switzerland, eventually uncovering Goldfinger’s plan known as Operation Grand Slam. Bond, with the help of a fully loaded Aston Martin DB5 and shaken, not stirred, martinis, must halt an attack on Fort Knox.

Goldfinger has become the “go-to” Bond film since its release in September 1964. It popularized a number of 007 elements, most notably, perhaps, the title song performed by a famous singer, in this case Shirley Bassey. Bassey would also be the only musician to perform a Bond title song more than once, having the honor again in Diamonds Are Forever (1971) and even a third time, as a last-minute replacement for Johnny Mathis in Moonraker (1979). A title song performed by a well known singer would become a staple in the Bond series, with 1969’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service being the sole exception.

This is the first film of the series that 007 orders a martini “shaken, not stirred” (although in 1962’s Dr. No, the titular baddie serves the secret agent a martini, knowing how he likes it mixed). This is actually taken from Ian Fleming’s novels and would become such a celebrated trait of the films that it was sometimes parodied, such as You Only Live Twice (1967), when he accepts a martini inaccurately stirred, and Casino Royale (2006), when an irate, preoccupied Bond refuses to specify a mix. According to actor Desmond Llewelyn, who plays Q, director Guy Hamilton instructed Llewelyn to play his character as if he disliked 007, since he has no respect for his gadgets. This method led to numerous sarcastic remarks from a perpetually exasperated Q, as well as one of his best known lines spoken in Goldfinger: “I never joke about my work, 007.” Although Bond was given a gadget-laden briefcase in the previous year’s From Russia with Love, Goldfinger popularized Bond’s visit to the Q-Branch, as Q explains to him his latest gadgets (as well as the audience treated to various additional gadgets in the testing phase).

Editor Peter Hunt, who worked on Goldfinger, had reconstructed From Russia with Love into a nicely paced action feature. His most noteworthy contribution was creating a pre-credit sequence. With Goldfinger, Hamilton and screenwriters Richard Maibaum and Paul Dehn turned the pre-credit scene into a movie all its own, with Bond in the midst of an assignment that has nothing to do with the forthcoming mission. Most of the subsequent movies adopted this format.

Goldfinger is likely the most popular of the Bond films. In addition to the distinctively mixed drinks and Q berating Bond, there are a number of things viewers tend to remember about this film: the golden fate of Jill Masterson, the introduction of the Aston Martin, the movie’s theme song (I personally cannot speak the title, choosing instead to sing it). But one of the most memorable components of Goldfinger is Goldfinger himself. Bond’s chief antagonist is a charming, brilliant man, and he’s an impressive and fascinating figure to watch onscreen. One reason for this is an outstanding performance from Fröbe, a German actor who could not speak English and was consequently dubbed for the film. He plays Goldfinger with a style that can easily be equated to 007. But more than anything, the manner in which the villain transports gold and his plan that he ultimately reveals to Bond are ingenious, and even if he is a self-centered, egotistical, malicious person, it is difficult not to respect him for his methods.

Honor Blackman as the provocatively-named Pussy Galore gives a strong showing in Goldfinger. Before being cast in the film, Blackman had just ended her contract on the successful British series, The Avengers. Her co-star, Patrick Macnee, would star in another Bond film, A View to a Kill (1985), and her replacement, Diana Rigg, would catch Bond’s wandering eyes in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. To round out the Bond-Avengers connections, Joanna Lumley, who would be featured in The New Avengers with Macnee, had a small role in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Prior to Goldfinger, both Blackman and Shirley Eaton, who played Jill Masterson, had made appearances in another popular British TV show, The Saint, starring future 007, Roger Moore. Following the film’s 1964 release, Lois Maxwell, who played Moneypenny in numerous Bond films, and one-time Felix Leiter, Cec Linder, both starred in episodes of The Saint.

Toshiyuki “Harold” Sakata, of Japanese descent and born in Hawaii, was a professional wrestler, wrestling under the name Tosh Togo. Although he has no lines, his portrayal of Oddjob would make the character one of the best of the 007 series. The weaponized bowler hat was Fleming’s creation, but it is Sakata who flashes a wicked grin when Bond’s attempts to subdue him prove futile. Reportedly, Milton Reid, who’d previously had a small role as a guard in Dr. No, was up for the part of Oddjob and challenged Sakata to a wrestling match (to determine who would play the henchman) that never materialized. Reid would have a significant villainous role in The Spy Who Loved Me (1977). Linder is a standout among the many actors who would play Felix Leiter, pleasant and a worthy counterpart to Bond.

Goldfinger was a huge international success, breaking box office records and earning back its three-million dollar budget in just two weeks. Just a little more than a month before the premiere of Goldfinger, Bond creator/novelist Ian Fleming died of a heart attack.

Goldfinger is one of my favorite Bond films and is typically the one that I will recommend to potential 007 fans. Connery is terrific, of course, and there are many significant aspects of the film: a great villain, plenty of action, and excellent music.

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In the Heat of the Night (1967) ***

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

This racially-charged mystery, 1968’s Oscar winner for Best Picture, has aged gracefully over the years. The secret to its success can be attributed to its many layers. Peel back the mystery plot and you have a potent examination of racial tension in the South in the 1960s. Peel that back and you have a rich character study of two lonely police detectives, from completely different backgrounds, who gradually earn each other’s respect.

The film opens with a nighttime “tour” of Sparta, Mississippi, as police officer Sam Woods (Warren Oates) makes his rounds in his patrol car. He stops at a diner for a cold Coca Cola, then drives past closed shops with their bright neon signs. He pauses at a house where a young exhibitionist walks around in the nude. It’s a typical night in the sleepy little town…until Sam finds a dead body in an alley way.

The murder victim turns out to be an industrialist who planned to build a big factory in Sparta. The local police chief, Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger), quickly launches an investigation that results in the arrest of a well-dressed black man at the train station. Much to Gillespie’s dismay, he learns his prime suspect is actually a police detective from Philadelphia named Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier), who was awaiting a connecting train to Memphis. Tibb’s Philly superior tells Gillespie that Virgil is his “number one homicide expert.”

Though Gillespie doesn’t like Tibbs, he realizes that he needs help. Gillespie knows his subordinates are ineffective (they can’t even remember to oil the air conditioner) and the mayor won’t support him if he fails to find the killer quickly. Most importantly, Gillespie realizes that he’s out of his element; he just wants to run a “nice clean town” and lacks the expertise to handle a homicide investigation. For his part, Tibbs is torn—he’s eager to leave, but wouldn’t mind showing up these prejudiced, ignorant white men.

The film’s most famous scene is the confrontation between Tibbs and Endicott (Larry Gates), a wealthy cotton farmer and a principal murder suspect. Their conversation begins as a calm discussion on orchids, but Endicott quickly shows his racist side when he notes his flowers are “like the Negro…they need care and feeding and cultivating.” Tibbs coolly ignores the insult and persists with probing questions. When Endicott realizes he’s under investigation for murder, he slaps Tibbs across the face. Without hesitation, Tibbs strikes him back. When an enraged Endicott asks Gillespie what he’s going to do about Tibbs’ actions, the police chief replies simply: “I don’t know.”

Seen today, the scene still works as powerful drama. It no doubt had a greater and more significant impact when In the Heat of the Night was originally released. Ironically, Tibbs’ slap wasn’t in the novel nor the original screenplay (in both, Tibbs just walks away). In a February 2009 interview with the American Academy of Achievement, Poitier said he read the script and then told producer Walter Mirisch: “I will insist that I respond to this man (Endicott) precisely as a human being would ordinarily respond to this man. And he pops me, and I'll pop him right back. And I said, if you want me to play it, you will put that in writing. And in writing you will also say that if this picture plays the South, that that scene is never, ever removed.” Mirisch agreed and a classic, landmark scene made its way into a mainstream Hollywood film.

Historical significance aside, the film’s best-played scene has Tibbs and Gillespie relaxing in the latter’s drab home as a train whistle echoes in the distance. Drinking warm bourbon, Gillespie confesses to Tibbs that the Philly detective is the first person to see the inside of his home. Then, in an unguarded moment, Gillespie opens up about his mundane existence and isolation.

Gillespie: Don’t you get just a little lonely?
Tibbs: No lonelier than you, man.
Gillespie: Oh now, don’t get smart, Black boy. I don’t need it. No pity, thank you. No thank you.

The scene perfectly illustrates the performers’ contrasting acting styles (which is one reason why they work so well together). Steiger dramatically transforms from a sad sack looking off into a corner of room into a proud man who is offended that Tibbs would empathize with him. Poitier, meanwhile, says very little, slumping in his chair to convey exhaustion and leaning forward attentively to show interest in Gillespie.

Thanks in part to Stirling Silliphant’s excellent dialogue, In the Heat of the Night provides an ideal showcase for its two leads. Steiger, who had a tendency to overact in later movies, remains in total control here. Gillespie’s sloppy appearance, yellow-tinted sunglasses, and constant gum-chewing makes him look like a typical redneck Southern sheriff—but Steiger skillfully avoids playing the stereotype. Gillespie comes across as wily, independent, proud, prejudiced, and lonely. The performance earned Steiger a well-deserved Best Actor Oscar.
Poitier matches him scene for scene as the intelligent, proud, equally prejudiced Tibbs. He skillfully underplays the Philadelphia detective, so that when Tibbs strikes Endicott or flashes his anger toward Gillespie, those scenes catch fire. Amazingly, Poitier was not Oscar nominated, perhaps because his votes were split among three memorable 1967 performances: In the Heat of the Night, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and To Sir, With Love.

Strip away its atmospheric setting and riveting characters and In the Heat of the Night is just an average mystery. But, in this case, the plot is just a means to the ends. The film is foremost a character study of two strong-willed men (played by two actors at the peak of their careers). Secondly, it’s a portrait of Southern life in the late 1960s. Some of it may be exaggerated, but overall, screenwriter Silliphant and director Norman Jewison skillfully capture a time and a place—making the viewer feel like they’ve just experienced a visit to Sparta in the 1960s. That’s what makes the confrontation between Tibbs and Endicott so powerful.
In the Heat of the Night also spawned one of the most famous lines of dialogue in movie history (the American Film Institute ranked it #16…it should have been higher). When Tibbs’ investigative skills expose a flaw in Gillespie’s initial theory about the crime, the following exchange take place:

Gillespie: Well, you're pretty sure of yourself, ain't you, Virgil? Virgil, that's a funny name for a nigger boy to come from Philadelphia. What do they call you up there?
Tibbs: They call me Mister Tibbs!

And that’s exactly what they called Virgil in two sequels in which Poitier reprised the role: They Call Me MISTER Tibbs (1970) and The Organization (1971). Sadly, neither film is very good. They transform Tibbs into a family man working in a big city—making him just another detective working the streets in a 1970s urban crime film.

In 1988, In the Heat of the Night was adapted as a television series starring Carroll O’Connor as Gillespie and Howard Rollins as Tibbs. Set in Sparta again, the show lasted for eight seasons, although Rollins was dropped after 1993 due to legal problems.

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Once Upon a Time in the West (C’era Una Volta Il West) 1968 ***

 

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

"Big," "epic," and "sprawling" are the words critics frequently use to describe this now-revered 1968 Spaghetti Western. Yet, despite its lengthy running time and visually massive backdrop, Once Upon a Time in West focuses tightly on the relationships among four people over a relatively short period of time. These characters are: Frank (Henry Fonda), a ruthless gunfighter who aspires to be a powerful businessman; Cheyenne (Jason Robards), a rascally outlaw with killer instincts; Jill (Claudia Cardinale), a former prostitute in search of a more meaningful life; and a mysterious revenge-minded stranger whom Cheyenne calls Harmonica (Charles Bronson).

Each character is introduced to the accompaniment of his or her own musical theme, memorably composed by Ennio Morricone. The mood of these themes range from playful (for Cheyenne) to bold and abrupt (Frank) to sweetly old-fashioned (Jill) to eerily disturbing (Harmonica). The last theme--an almost off-key four-note piece--is often played by Bronson's character on the harmonica he wears around his neck.

In addition to the musical motifs, director Sergio Leone employs natural sounds in unique ways throughout the film. For example, the film's opening fourteen-minute sequence contains virtually no dialogue--but we hear cracking knuckles, buzzing flies, water drops plopping, birds, and a train whistle. Later, Leone introduces Cheyenne by letting us listen to a ferocious gunfight from inside a quiet desert cantina.

As in most Leone Westerns, the storyline takes a back seat to the interesting characters and overarching theme, Leone's stylish direction, and some marvelous set pieces. For the record, Jill inherits a valuable property from a husband she hardly knew. Frank, working for a railroad baron, wants the property for its future value as a railroad way station. Cheyenne takes an interest in Jill and decides to protect her.

Harmonica helps Jill and Cheyenne, but his motive is revenge against Frank. Indeed, his reason for wanting to kill Frank is a riddle that lurks in the background until their epic showdown at the film's conclusion. Then, in a concise flashback that immediately proceeds the gun shots, Leone reveals the incident that fueled Harmonica’s vengeance.

Bronson and Robards give fine performances, but Henry Fonda steals the film in a great change-of-pace role as a villain who kills defenseless children and kicks out the crutches from underneath cripples. When Frank is making love to Jill, he remarks casually: “I think I might be a little sorry killing you.”

The only subpar performance is from Cardinale, who is also burdened with the least interesting character. Nevertheless, Jill is the strongest female character in any Leone Western and central to the film’s theme. Unlike the male characters, Jill is willing and able to adapt to the “New West.” Frank wants to become a businessman, for example, but he can’t change his violent ways.

Once Upon a Time in the West features one of the best openings of any Western: the aforementioned fourteen-minute sequence in which three gunfighters arrive at a train station to kill Harmonica after he unboards. They walk around the empty town and then wait and wait--and we wait with them as the credits appear slowly across on the screen. After thirteen minutes, the trains finally arrives, but Harmonica is nowhere in sight. As the train pulls out of the station and the gunfighters turn to leave, they hear Harmonica play his eerie tune. They turn around and he becomes visible on the other side of the tracks as the train rolls out of view. That leads to the following exchange:

Harmonica: "Did you bring a horse for me?"
Head Gunfighter (laughing): "Looks like we're shy one horse."
Harmonica (shaking his head): "You brought two too many."
In a flash, guns are blazing and four bodies hit the ground in a matter of seconds. It's a textbook example of how a filmmaker can manipulate his audience's perception of time and space--and it's also an incredible way to start a movie.

Amazingly, Once Upon a Time in the West flopped miserably when released in the U.S. in 1969. Part of its failure can be attributed to Paramount’s poor decision to cut thirty minutes from the film’s running time, thus rendering some of its plot incomprehensible. Still, the film did brisk business in Europe and helped make Charles Bronson an international star (ironically, Leone had tried to convince Bronson to play the Eastwood role in the earlier A Fistful of Dollars). As Leone’s status as a Spaghetti Western auteur grew in the 1970s and 1980s, Once Upon a Time in the West came to be rightfully hailed as his masterpiece.

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The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (L’ucello Dalle Piume Di Cristallo) 1970 **

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

Sam Dalmas is an American writer looking for inspiration in Italy. After two years of writing very little, he is nearly broke and planning a return to the U.S. Passing by an art gallery one night, he sees a woman struggling with a man in black. The woman is stabbed, and the man runs away. Sam is inadvertently locked between giant glass doors and is unable to help the wounded woman. The police arrive, and Sam is questioned all night, but he cannot recall much about the man in black. In spite of this, the police consider the writer an important witness, and his passport is taken from him. Apparently, someone else believes Sam knows more, as an unknown assailant swings a cleaver aimed at his head while on his way home. When other young women start being murdered, and realizing that the killer may very well be the one who wants him dead, Sam begins investigating the killings on his own. This leads to a mysterious painting and a close examination of a recorded phone call from the killer, with a strange sound in the background (and an explanation of the title).

Director Dario Argento was a screenwriter for some years (including co-writing Sergio Leone's classic, Once Upon a Time in the West (1969), and Don Taylor's 1970 Western, Five Man Army). The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (1969) was his directorial debut and marked the beginning of what would become his trademarks. These include: a killer who threatens people with a creepy, whispering voice; focusing on the killer's weapon(s) of choice with extreme close-ups; and frequent point-of-view shots of the killer donning black leather gloves (Argento has stated that, in his films, the killer's hands always belong to the director himself, who believes that no one else can move the hands the way that he wants). One of the more significant and original trademarks that Argento first employed in his debut is a character who believes that he/she has seen something that may be important, but cannot be recalled at the present time. Sam says just that in The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, that there was something about the attack that was a little "off." Argento did this again in films such as 1975's Deep Red (aka The Hatchet Murders), 1982's Tenebrae (aka Unsane), and Trauma (1992). In each film, the character invariably remembers what exactly he/she was seeing, and it eventually leads to the killer's unmasking.

With this movie, Argento proved adept at combining scenes of suspense with humorous sequences. There are many instances of the killer stalking potential victims, and one attack in particular is truly terrifying, as the murderer tries to force a way into Sam's loft, while Sam's girlfriend, Julia, is alone. But comic relief abounds, as Sam visits a man in prison who tackles a speech impediment by saying "So long" (initially making Sam believe the interview has prematurely ended), as well as tracking down the artist of the aforementioned painting, a burly man surrounded by cats who lives on the second floor of a remote cottage, accessible only by a rickety stepladder.

The unveiling of the murderer is shocking and quite clever, and it's important to note that Argento never cheats in hiding the killer's identity. He is fair in his presentation to the audience. Much like the protagonist, Sam, the viewers see what they need to see and are allowed to form their own conclusions. Although many Italian horror films are mocked for weak and illogical stories (as well as shoddy English dubbing), The Bird with the Crystal Plumage has a solid plot with strong, likable characters. Tony Musante is very good as Sam, but he is outshined by Suzy Kendall portraying Julia. The real star, however, is Argento's camera, which simply refuses to sit still, creating beautifully fluid shots.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage is reportedly an unaccredited adaptation of Frederic Brown's novel, The Screaming Mimi (officially adapted in 1958 in the U.S. as Screaming Mimi). This movie is the start of a reputed "Animal Trilogy," as the director followed this with The Cat o' Nine Tails (1970) and Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971). Many Italian directors, hoping to achieve similar success, began including animals in the titles, such as Sergio Martino's The Case of the Scorpion's Tail (1971), Paolo Cavara's Black Belly of the Tarantula (1971), and Lucio Fulci's A Lizard in a Woman's Skin (1971) and Don't Torture a Duckling (1972).

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