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.

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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.

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Camille (1936) ****

In 1852 Alexandre Dumas, fils., published his dramatic novel La Dame aux Camelias. After becoming an overwhelming success in France, the novel was adapted into what is considered the most popular stage play ever produced: “Camille”. Based on Dumas’ own relationship with the tuberculosis-ridden courtesan Marie du Plessis, the story has seen countless retellings on both the stage and screen.  The most recent film adaptation is Baz Luhrmann’s outstanding musical, Moulin Rouge (2001), starring Nicole Kidman as Satine. And, if you happened to be at the Met on New Year’s Eve you saw the newest (and most energetic) version of Verdi’s “La Traviata”—the operatic retelling of “Camille” (but with a name change to Violetta). Whatever name the female lead is given, the story of “Camille” is one every actress worth her salt wants to play.  The New York Times said it best in 1904: “What the North Pole is to the intrepid explorer seeking for fame Camille is to the actress. It is the undiscovered country, always alluring, always fascinating. No other role—unless it be possibly that of Juliet—holds such potent attractiveness for the ambitious woman player.”

Greta Garbo was an ambitious woman player, and in 1936 she gave her greatest dramatic performance in the film Camille. Aided by the steady hand of director George Cukor, Garbo delivered the definitive portrayal of the doomed Parisian courtesan. Although she was nominated for a Best Actress Academy Award, Garbo lost to Luise Rainer in The Good Earth. (I have a big issue with this not only because I believe Garbo was more deserving, but because Barbara Stanwyck’s nominated performance in Stella Dallas was better as well.)  Sadly, legendary MGM producer Irving Thalberg didn’t live to see this film to its end, but if he had to die and leave one film behind, this was the one.

In the film, Garbo plays Marguerite “Camille” Gautier, a beautiful Parisian courtesan plagued with tuberculosis in mid-19th century Paris. Tuberculosis isn’t the only thing Marguerite is plagued with, though—she has a “heart bigger than her purse” and this leads her into a fateful love triangle with the rich Baron de Varville (Henry Daniell) and the handsome, but not rich, Armand Duval (Robert Taylor). While Marguerite obviously loves Arnaud, she constantly pushes him away due to her financial needs, as well as her fear of being in love—she doesn’t believe it lasts. One of the more telling lines about her financial needs comes when Arnaud offers to take her to the country on his seven thousand francs a year and she says she spends more than that in a month.  Yet, somehow he convinces her to ditch the Baron and retreat to the country with him.

Once Marguerite makes the difficult decision to leave the Baron, she has to deal with the act of telling him and procuring from him 40,000 francs to cover her debts.  Henry Daniell is really good in this scene (actually, he’s good in the entire film, but this is his best scene). He plays it with just the right amount of wounded pride and anger. I especially enjoy watching him tell Marguerite that he’s glad to get rid of such a fool and then slaps her across the face after he gives her the money.

And so for a time, Marguerite and Arnaud live blissfully in the French countryside. Yet, money and Marguerite’s past are still an issue. Their happiness comes to an end when Arnaud’s father (Lionel Barrymore) pays Marguerite a surprise visit and asks her to give Arnaud up to save his diplomatic career. In every film they appeared in together Barrymore and Garbo always played well off one another, and this scene is probably one of their more memorable. At first, it is a feisty confrontation between the two, but once Monsieur Duval realizes Marguerite loves his son his tone becomes more sympathetic. Still, in the end, he convinces her to give his son up. And this brings us to the three most unforgettable scenes in the film.

Knowing that she can’t convince Arnaud that she doesn’t love him, she does the only thing she knows will sever their relationship forever: she chooses money and the Baron over him. The look on Robert Taylor’s face when Marguerite walks out the door is priceless. Garbo is more than believably callous in this confrontation.

Hardened by his dismissal from Marguerite, Arnaud seems like a totally different man when he meets Marguerite and the Baron at a casino.  Quoting the quintessential line of the play (and a play that they’ve just come from), Arnaud says it is “The story of a man who loved a woman more than his honor and a woman who wanted luxury more than his love.” This leads to a strange face-off between Arnaud and the Baron at the baccarat table, where Arnaud wins a fortune. Still, after all that she’s done to him, Arnaud begs Marguerite to run away with him. When he says that she will be free of him forever if she can say that she loves the Baron, Garbo’s Marguerite makes her final sacrifice and says yes.  This is painful to watch, it is so emotionally raw. You compound this with Arnaud’s throwing his winnings at her feet and declaring he owes her nothing now that he has paid his debt, and you have one helluva confrontation. Of course, this leads to a duel in which the Baron is wounded and from which Arnaud must leave the country. 

But what happens in the end, you ask? It’s a tragic love story, so have some tissues close at hand when you watch to find out that answer. Needless to say, it is a classic ending…one you will never forget.

This was Garbo’s favorite role. In it she showed just how talented she was.  There are few actresses who truly make you believe they are the character they are portraying, but Garbo embodies this role completely.  It is truly one of the greatest female screen performances ever.

There are very few films that I rate as excellent, but this is one that I thinks deserves that ranking.  The story is a timeless tale of sacrificial love—a favorite theme of mine.  The acting is of superior caliber, especially Garbo and Daniell. For those who are enraptured by elegant, luxurious costumes, this film delivers. Garbo looks stunning in all of her gowns (lots of flounces and ruffles) and the men appear dashing and debonair in their 19th century long coats and top hats. Overall, it is a spectacular production that all classic cinema fans should encounter at least once…if not several times.

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Stella Dallas (1937) **1/2

Throughout her storied career Barbara Stanwyck played every female character produced by Hollywood: ingénue, seductress, bad girl, gangster moll, heroine, entertainer, con woman, socialite, etc. While she carried every role off like a true professional, it was the working class girl who wanted to make good role that she most excelled at.  This most probably had to do with her meager, but colorful, upbringing. Orphaned at the age of four, she spent time in foster homes, but was primarily raised by her showgirl sister, Mildred. It was on the vaudeville circuit with Mildred that Stanwyck learned what it took to get ahead in life: strength, determination, and ambition. These, of course, are the same characteristics that many of Stanwyck’s working class roles required—especially Stella Dallas.

Considered one of the best female character roles of all time, Stella Dallas earned Stanwyck the first of her four Academy Award nominations for Best Actress. The daughter of a mill worker, Stella schemes to marry her father’s boss, Stephen (John Boles).  Although they are from two very different backgrounds—he is reserved and refined, while she is loud and crass—they find themselves married and raising a daughter. As Stella finds herself bored with Stephen’s ways, she begins to revert to her tacky ways.  Eventually Stephen leaves her, but leaves their daughter Lollie (Anne Shirley) with Stella because he knows that she is a good mother. As time passes, Stephen finds a much more suitable (and wealthy) woman (Barbara O’Neil) to marry, but Stella doesn’t want to give him a divorce because she’s afraid she’ll lose Lollie. In the end, when she realizes that she cannot give Lollie the life she wants her to have, she makes the ultimate sacrifice.
Of all her roles, and there were many to choose from, this was Stanwyck’s favorite. What’s interesting about this is that Samuel Goldwyn didn’t want to give her the part. He thought she lacked the necessary sex appeal for Stella and wanted Ruth Chatterton for the role. All I can say is: Really? Thankfully director King Vidor and hunky Zeppo Marx (her agent—yes, really) finally convinced Goldwyn that Stanwyck was the right woman for the role.

Based on the Olive Higgins Prouty’s popular novel of the same name, Stella Dallas is considered one of the greatest tearjerkers ever produced. It is a melodramatic film, but it isn’t schmaltzy. This, of course, has to do with Stanwyck’s multifaceted performance. At times, she plays her character as a conniving shrew and you just want to slap some sense of decency into her. Then, she plays Stella as a loving and devoted mother and you just want to wrap your arms around her and give her a hug.  I suppose the scene where she convinces Lollie that she wants to get rid of her so she can run off to South America with her salesman boyfriend is my favorite because Stanwyck plays it with such raw emotion.  Knowing that the only way she can get Lollie to leave her is to convince her that she doesn’t want or need her, Stella is almost ruthless in the act she puts on for Lollie. Not every actress could pull this off, but Stanwyck does a wonderful job of having the audience both hate and admire her at the same time in this scene. It is difficult to watch this, but at least the final scene in the film heals some of the hurt that the audience has endured by Stella’s sacrifice.

This is a film ruled by women---the men are totally forgettable.  Besides Stanwyck’s great performance, the audience is treated to two standout offerings by Shirley and O’Neil. Nominated for Best Supporting Actress, Shirley does a nice job of playing a young woman who loves her mother but is conflicted by her desire to live a more respectable life.  This may have been the finest performance of her career (I do like her in Murder, My Sweet though), but sometimes it is difficult for me to suspend my belief that Stanwyck was old enough to play her mother (they were only eleven years apart in age). That said, she does give a touching performance. An interesting aside about the Stanwyck/Shirley connection is that Shirley played Stanwyck’s younger self in So Big (1932). In addition to Stanwyck and Shirley, O’Neil also does a fine turn as Stella’s polar opposite. I enjoyed watching her scene with Stanwyck.  It was one of those only another mother could understand moments that pull at your heartstrings.

In the end, Stella Dallas is a film you don’t want to watch without a box of tissues.  It is a prime piece of evidence that Stanwyck was one of the greatest actresses to grace the silver screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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L’Atalante (1934) **

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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