The Baker’s Wife (La femme du boulanger) 1938 **

(There may be spoilers in this post.)

The French always display such superiority when it comes to making humanistic comedies about philandering spouses in small, provincial towns.  I think it’s a cultural thing, as many Americans are off-put by how blasé the French are when it comes to adultery.  A French woman I know explained this to me quite simply: Americans equate sex with love, the French do not.  By now I suppose you are wondering why I am talking about this in the first place.  Well, La femme du boulanger (The Baker’s Wife) is about a philandering French wife and her cuckolded husband, and for many Americans, the ending is unfathomable.

Based on the novella Jean le Bleu by Jean Giono, The Baker’s Wife is about Aimable (Raimu), a baker in a sleepy French town where everyone knows everyone’s business. When his much younger wife, Aurélie (Ginette Leclerc), runs off with a good looking shepherd (Charles Blavette), Aimable refuses to bake and the town goes into an uproar.  A town full of generation-old grudges comes together and unites to track down the wonton wife and return her to the baker. Working with his usual stock cast, director Marcel Pagnol interweaves religion and philosophy to create a simple humanistic comedy about life.

While the film is called The Baker’s Wife, it really is the baker who takes center stage.  Raimu was an exceptionally gifted actor who could simultaneously make you laugh and cry.  His Aimable is a pitiful man. He’s both naïve and infuriating. His disbelief that Aurélie has left him is pathetic, especially as he continues to insist she has went to her mother’s even after countless people have told him that she ran away with the shepherd.  In the hands of a lesser actor, Aimable could have morphed into the stereotypical cuckolded husband—weak and infuriating—especially in the final scene when he takes Aurélie back.  Instead of beating her or scolding her, he uses a wayward cat as a surrogate to reprimand her for her straying ways. It is a beautiful scene, and the one that most remember about The Baker’s Wife.

There is nothing artistically special about the movie, though.  Georges Benoit’s cinematography is unremarkable and, for me, there aren’t any lasting cinematic images.  It is the story and the acting that carries The Baker’s Wife. Each character (even the periphery ones) has a unique personality.  The town priest (Robert Vattier) is constantly at odds with an atheist teacher (Robert Bassac) and a womanizing mayor and marquis (Fernand Charpin).  Their conversations about what constitutes sin and if there is a God are highly entertaining.  Yet, it is with their unique talents that they come up with a plan to ensure that the town gets its bread.  For me, this sends the message that no matter how divergent world views may be, there is always something that brings people together—in this case, fresh delicious bread.

Still, there are elements of the story that are too far-fetched for me.  Aurélie knew the shepherd all of ten minutes and the next thing you see is her rubbing up against him with her husband only feet away was too much of a stretch. Obviously this wasn’t her first liaison (what with her going to church all the time but no one ever seeing her there), but in the span of twenty-four hours to decide you are going to leave your husband for someone you’ve just met pushes the bounds of believability.

Overall, I enjoyed The Baker’s Wife. The story is quirkily told and wickedly funny.  And, Raimu gives a fine performance.  Yet, its lack of aesthetics and the unbelievable way Aurélie and the the shepherd hook up, take a lot of shine off the overall production.  Plus, I couldn’t help but wonder if Dunkin’ Donuts modeled their old spokesperson after Aimable—"Time to make the donuts.”

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Flaming Creatures (1963) :(((

Sometimes I wish I were dead so I wouldn’t have to watch films like director Jack Smith’s Flaming Creatures (1963). No, I’m not one of those people who would have rioted in the 60s and 70s whenever there was an underground showing of it—I could care less about transvestites, homosexuals, and graphic nudity.  No, I’m one of those people who like a movie to have a plot and make some kind of sense—Flaming Creatures was beyond my comprehension.

Using a handheld camera and outdated black and white film stock, Smith attempts to tell some weird story about lipstick, cunnilingual rape, an earthquake, a vampire who breathes life into those killed by the earthquake, and a carnival-esque dance scene celebrating the creatures’ rebirth.  If that sounds off-the-wall, well it is.  While trying to wrap my mind around what was actually going on I also got to see masturbation techniques for breasts, vaginas, and penises. 

The only thing that got me through this long 45-minute film was the music.  Kitty Wells’ “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels”, the Everly Brothers’ “Be-Bop-A-Lula”, and “Siboney” are used throughout this mostly silent film (that is if you don’t count lines like “Do they make a lipstick that doesn't come off when you suck cock?” or the incessant screaming during the pseudo rape scene). 

Overall, Flaming Creatures is one of the worst films I have ever seen—EVER.

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Das Boot (1981) ***

(This post probably has spoilers.)

World War II lasted approximately six years. Perhaps Das Boot (1981) didn’t last quite as long as that, but at times it seemed as though it did. I watched Wolfgang Petersen’s director’s cut, which was a long 209 minutes (which really is not that long when you compare it to the 300 minute BBC mini-series version). Don’t get me wrong, I like the film—I just wish it were a tad shorter.  I expect this taut war drama would have ventured into masterpiece land if a bit more celluloid had found its way to the editing room floor.

Adapted from the 1973 German novel of the same name by Lothar-Gunther Buchheim, Das Boot tells the story of a German U-boat crew who encounters countless brushes with death only to die (at least most of them) in the most sickeningly ironic way imaginable.  There really isn’t much of a plot—after a raucous night at a whorehouse, the crew goes out to face the perils of the Atlantic Ocean in their submarine and the rest of the film centers on the dangerous nature of their mission.  Unlike most maritime movies, there is no mutiny or clashing of personalities.  The U-boat is the star, and nasty British destroyers armed with depth charges and sonar are the villains.

Das Boot was nominated for six Academy Awards, four of those were for technical elements: cinematography, film editing, sound, and sound effects editing (the other two nominations were for Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay).  There’s a reason for this—the film is a stunning visual and audio experience. The models used for the submarine were precisely the same as an actual WWII U-boat. The realistic cramped quarters were expertly filmed by Jost Vacano’s hand-held Arriflex camera. When you first encounter the hand-held shots you might feel seasick yourself, but once you get your bearings you will just feel claustrophobic—both, I expect, were intentional. 

And, then there’s the sound.  Usually I don’t notice sound—unless it is extremely, jarringly loud—but here you notice it.  Like the men aboard the U-boat, you listen for the dangers above. It is the sound that builds the drama. When will the depth charges drop? How close is that ping of sonar?  Is that creaking sound a sign  that the boat has dived too far down and is about to cave-in like a crushed can?  The use of sound to create suspense and apprehension is masterfully done.

While I might complain about how long the film is, I somewhat understand what Petersen was trying to do.  Anyone who has ever been in the military can tell you about something called “hurry up and wait”.  The Atlantic Ocean is a big place to hide out and wait for convoys and destroyers to come along.  So, when there’s not much happening above water for extended periods of time, the U-boat sailors endure weeks of endless boredom.  This tedious, tiresome waiting game is on full display here. Yet, when action does come their way, it comes fast and furious and is thrilling to watch.

Finally, a word about the beyond ironic ending of Das Boot. How symbolic was it for the men to survive the dangers of the sea only to meet their fate at the hands of an air raid at a parade welcoming them home? The Nazis were big on parades and propaganda, so to have Petersen end his film in such a bizarrely ironic way flies in the face of Buchheim’s criticisms that Petersen’s film was a cross between a “cheap, shallow American action flick and a contemporary German propaganda newsreel from WWII.” I didn’t see anything propagandistic about the ending of this film—and many other sections were hyper-critical of the German war machine.

Overall, Das Boot is a superbly directed film with stunning visuals and sound effects.  It is a taut drama that never seems unrealistic and it makes the viewer feel as though they are a U-boat crew member.  My biggest qualm is the movie’s length, but even that is not too egregious when you consider the overall scope of the story.

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Pepe le Moko (1937) ** 1/2

(There may be spoilers in this post.)

Director Julien Duvivier’s atmospheric depiction of a Frenchman trapped in the Casbah by his own criminal undoing was the inspiration behind Graham Greene’s novel and screenplay, The Third Man (1949), as well as the 1938 English remake, Algiers, starring Charles Boyer and Hedy Lamarr. All three films share an undeniable element of fatalism and entrapment, but only one truly represents 1930s French poetic realism.

Pepe le Moko (Jean Gabin) is a French gangster hiding out from the police in the winding labyrinth known as the Casbah.  As long as he stays in the Casbah, Pepe is protected by the other criminals and outcasts who live and work amongst him.  Even the local police inspector, Slimane (Lucas Gridoux) doesn’t dare to capture Pepe within the confines of the Casbah.  Yet, Pepe longs for Paris, and when a beautiful Parisian woman (Mireille Balin) ventures into the Casbah, Pepe finds himself tempted to trade one prison for another one.

Just as Howard Hawks used an “X'” in Scarface (1932) to signal when an unnatural death was imminent or Martin Scorsese used the same device in The Departed (2006), Duvivier employed the use of bars and grates to signal Pepe’s inescapable imprisonment inside the Casbah.  In addition, the director used tight camera shots, as well as extreme close-ups to create a sense of claustrophobia. Whilst he is free to roam the Casbah, everything around him—the narrow corridors and the crowded streets—are a reminder of his self-made prison.  Marc Fossard and Jules Kruger’s cinematography expertly captures the staid, fatalistic feel of the Casbah. 

While Pepe le Moko is not nearly as romantic as Algiers, it does push the envelope more than its Hollywood remake.  This was possible, of course, because it was made in France where the censors were more liberal—except in the Vichy days, when it was banned for being too fatalistic.  We get to see a two-faced informer killed and another man take his own life instead of going to prison.  Oh, and then there’s the fact that Balin’s character is obviously a kept woman who has no qualms about going to a brothel for a rendezvous with another man—just your typical depiction of acceptable French mores. 

What makes Pepe le Moko stand out, though, is its ending.  (This is when the spoilers begin…) From the tracking shot of only Pepe’s feet running down the Casbah steps to the final image of Pepe’s dead body enwrapped around a closed gate, Duvivier memorably ends his film in such a way that once you’ve seen it you will never forget it.  There is no American sentimentalism allowed to finds its way into this movie’s last moments. No, what we are dealt is French poetic realism: as Balin’s character longingly stares up at the Casbah believing Pepe is dead, he stands at the gates of the boat dock, handcuffed, yelling out her name just as the boat’s horn bellows.  Accepting his final imprisonment, Pepe then knifes himself and dies wrapped around the gate that separate’s him from his love, freedom, and France. What a way to end a film!

Overall, Pepe le Moko is a gritty atmospheric movie, with a claustrophobic feel.  It also made Jean Gabin a true French cinema icon. Yet, it is the ending that makes this film memorable. 

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Enter the Dragon (1973) **

This is a martial arts film.  Anything that doesn’t involve Bruce Lee using his fighting skills to decimate an entire legion of minions is bad…real bad.

I’m not sure if director Robert Clouse envisioned Enter the Dragon (1973) as a Hong Kong version of a James Bond film or not, but it sure seemed as though he did.  Let’s star with Lalo Schifrin’s musical score. If you’ve heard both it and the Bond theme, then you must see some similarity. Granted, Schifrin’s theme sounds more like Asian funk (if that is even a style) than anything, but it is definitely reminiscent of the Bond theme.  I wonder if Monty Norman sued Schifrin over authorship like he did John Barry…

Then there’s Mr. Han (Shih Kien)—he is an amalgamation of Bond villains dressed like the Chairman from the Japanese version of Iron Chef.  Han is an opium smuggler—just about every Bond villain is a smuggler of something, be it gold or some type of weapon.  Han has a metal hand—Dr. No has metal hands.  Han likes to pet his cat—Blofield loved to pet his kitty.  Han has an extremely tall and mute assassin named Bolo (Bolo Young)—Odd Job was mute and Jaws was a giant.  Hopefully, by now you are seeing what I saw.

Yet another Bond-esque element in Enter the Dragon is the objectification of women. Dr. Han’s private island is not only used as a martial arts dojo, but also as a brothel.  Ahna Capri plays Tania, the resident madam to a stockpile of the United Colors of Benetton of whores.  Their sole purpose is to service the needs of Dr. Han’s guests—and serve as guinea pigs for his opium.  The one woman on the island who is supposed to be a British agent (Betty Chung) is briefly allowed to speak to Lee’s character and then plays no other role in the movie.

Really, the only reason anyone should watch this film is to see Bruce Lee in action.  Way before CGI and wire work (ala Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon), Lee demonstrated why he was (and still is) so revered by martial arts enthusiasts.  While I don’t believe any man could seemingly wipe out an entire island of skilled fighters, it is still amazing to watch Lee’s moves.  Even I have to admit that the mirror fight sequence between Han and Lee is something special.

It’s a good thing Lee was a master at something, because his acting was less than desired. Of course, he was in good company, because between the lame lines that he and the less than stellar cast were asked to utter and the gaping plot holes, Enter the Dragon is really a B picture dressed up as a wannabe Bond film.

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The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011) **1/2

While Sweden generally does not suffer from extreme heat temperatures,  I can find no other explanation as to why so many characters in director David Fincher’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011) are so diabolically demented than this: Satan sleeps in Sweden.  While the film is cloaked in a rather riveting plot about a serial killer, there is no getting around the fact that that the story is filled with graphically disturbing scenes and amoral characters. 

Based on the international best-selling Swedish novel of the same name by Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo asks the question: what happened to Harriet Vanger (Joely Richardson) 40 years ago? Disgraced journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) is asked by Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer) to investigate his niece, Harriet’s, disappearance and assumed murder.  Whilst combing through boxes of documents, Mikael discovers a notebook containing a list of undecipherable names and numbers, which he thinks is connected to Harriet’s disappearance. Part of his investigation requires his questioning Vanger family members about what they remember about the day Harriet disappeared. Let me tell you, the entire Vanger family is a study in emotional instability and Type A-personalities—almost all of them live on the same massive island compound in separate homes and refuse to speak to one another.  When Mikael’s investigation hits a snag he enlists the help of Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), a gifted computer hacker.

Lisbeth is the girl with the dragon tattoo—as well as many other tattoos and piercings.  Let’s just say it—she’s a crazy bi-sexual with anti-social tendencies who dresses like a punk obsessed with the color black.  You’d think that the most disturbing images about the hunt for a serial killer would be connected to the murders, but not here. No, we are treated to two graphic rape scenes. In one, Lisbeth is sodomized by her reprehensible state guardian Nils Bjurman (Yorick van Wageningen)—it’s the price she has to pay to get him to allow her to have her own money.  In the second, Lisbeth tasers Nils, rapes him with a giant dildo and then proceeds to tattoo “I Am a Rapist” on his chest. Mikael, of course, takes her away from this sick world and into the demented Vanger world, where first a father is a serial rapist and killer and then his son. Quite frankly, it’s one “Ick” after another—and in between “icks”, we get to see Lisbeth and Mikael have soft porn sex. 

So, after my description of the film you are probably wondering why I gave it 2-and-a-half stars if I was so repulsed by it?  Well, no matter how deplorable and unlikable most of the characters are and how graphically disturbing some of the images are, you cannot get around the fact that the story is compelling.  When Mikael and Lisbeth discover the truth about what happened to Harriet you are shocked (even though when you reflect on how screwed up the Vanger family is it does make perfectly sick sense). 

Although Mara was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar, overall there were no striking performances.  The film is filled with gifted actors: Plummer, Richardson, and Stellan Skarsgård to name a few, and there is a steadiness to the film because of this.  Yet, other than the character of Lisbeth (and even she is limited), Fincher presents his characters as staid, cool Swedes. Attempting to channel Bergman was a mistake for a former music video director from Colorado. Fincher does much better making films with American sensibilities, and should leave Swedish existentialism to the master (and, on occasion, his American stalker and imitator Woody Allen).

Overall, I found The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo graphically disturbing, but found myself immersed in its overall plot. I didn’t like one single character, yet was still somewhat attached to the outcome of a few of them.  Simply put: I found the entire film disturbing—was that a good thing? Who knows…

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A Matter of Life and Death (1946) ***

 

(This post was a participant of “The Archers Blogathon” hosted by The Classic Film & TV Café. To find other wonderful blog entries on this subject please visit the CMBA website.)

The Archers, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, collaborated on eighteen films over a thirty year period (1939-72). Usually, it was Powell who did the bulk of the directing and Pressburger who came up with the story ideas and handled most of the production chores (especially when it came to editing and music). A Matter of Life and Death (1946) was the fifth film they made as the Archers, and is considered by many as their finest. While I don’t share that view (I just love those crazy nuns in Black Narcissus), I do think it is a creatively innovative production that exhibits everything that made the Archer collaboration one of the finest in all of cinema.

Initially, A Matter of Life and Death was conceived as a propaganda film to ease the hostility some Brits had toward American military personnel stationed in England during the war. There were complaints that some American soldiers were insensitive to the deprivations the British people endured as a result of rationing and bombing. I suspect if you were watching this in a British theater in 1946 you would have picked up on some of the propagandistic elements, but these were only a small part of a much bigger message about love and art.

Love at first sight is the most common device used by writers of novels and screenplays. Thankfully, the Archers weren’t common and so the lovers of this story are given their own unique love connection. David Niven plays Squadron Leader Peter Carter, a man about to be killed in a fiery airplane crash. Wanting to say goodbye both to his family and the world at large, Peter radios in to give his coordinates so someone can pick up what’s left of him after he jumps without a parachute. He makes contact with June (Kim Hunter), an American radio operator who listens sympathetically to his last words. In that brief conversation they fall in love, which only makes Peter’s coming demise even more tragic. But then there is a literal twist of fate when fog over the English Channel prevents Conductor 71 (Max Goring) from collecting Peter and ushering him into the Other World (that’s its actual name). And, so instead of making his way up a stairway to heaven (which happens to be what the film was called in America), he washes up on a beach near where June is stationed. Their love is affirmed when they meet along the road, and for the rest of the movie they must fight whatever might try to wrest away their happiness.

What I like most about A Matter of Life and Death is its distinctive artistry. Exhibiting the vastness of the universe and the smallness of human existence must have seemed a strange way to begin a film in 1946, but what an inspired way to begin a supremely unique endeavor. Whenever I watch the opening scenes, with the voiceover of the Universe, I can’t help but think how much of an influence this must have had on directors like Stanley Kubrick and Terrence Malick. Taking a page out of The Wizard of Oz (1939), the picture was shot both in Technicolor and black and white. Yet, instead of depicting everyday life in black and white and the the fantasy world as a Technicolor paradise, the Archers did something inspired—the Other World is presented in ethereal black and white while real life is shown in color. Cinematographer Jack Cardiff does an excellent job of presenting both worlds as individual realities. His panoramic shots of the Other World’s courtroom are simply masterful. I find it extremely troubling that his work (as well as every element of the film) didn’t merit an Academy Award nomination.

Alfred Junge’s set design, especially in the Other World, is brilliant. The one image most people remember is the endless escalator to heaven. Its construction was a monumental endeavor that took three months to complete, but it was well worth it. Watching Peter and Conductor 71 sitting on the steps and pondering which great mind (usually a passing statue) should represent him in his appeal is almost surreal. The backdrop of endless space is mesmerizing and actually creates a sense of peacefulness. In addition, the design of the Other World’s courtroom is eye-catching, too. The logistics of the massive amount of spectators in the gallery, as well as creating a set design that could hold all of those people, is just mind-boggling. Yet, Junge pulls it off seamlessly.

Other standout production innovations include the use of freeze-frames, the inventive transitions between Technicolor and black and white, and creatively designed perspective shots. If you’ve seen the film you know that whenever Conductor 71 meets Peter in the real world that time freezes—in his words, “time is a mere tyranny.” The most memorable instance of freeze-frame is when June is playing ping pong with Dr. Reeves (Roger Livesey) and the ball stops in midair while Peter and the conductor move about in live action. While this is an interesting scene, it is not what I consider to be the most inspired. That honor belongs to the one where the Archers place the point of perspective behind Peter’s actual eyeball when he goes under anesthesia. The viewer sees what Peter’s eye sees: the medical team, the gas mask, the closing eyelid, then blood vessels, and finally the transition into the black and white Other World. It’s just such an unusual shot design and so different from just about anything that you would see in cinema at that time.

While the overall story is entertaining, I enjoy watching A Matter of Life and Death for its artistic merits. Powell and Pressburger’s cinematic vision is a celebration of creativity and artistry.

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