Rosemary’s Baby (1968) **

(There could possibly be spoilers in this post.)

What’s worse: delivering Satan’s son or having divorce papers delivered to you in front of the entire cast and crew on a movie set?  Such was life for Mia Farrow during the filming of Rosemary’s Baby (1968).  Director/writer Roman Polanski’s taut horror tale is widely considered one of the best horror films ever made.  For me, it’s mildly creepy, but not really that scary. 

Rosemary (Farrow) and Guy Woodhouse (John Cassavetes) are a young married couple who make a fateful decision when they opt to lease an apartment at the Bramford in New York City.  The mammoth building has a bad reputation as a hotbed for witches and other unpleasant types. Guy makes quick friends with their senior citizen neighbors Minnie (Ruth Gordon) and Roman Castevet (Sidney Blackmer), but Rosemary finds them crass and nosy.  Their overbearing nature takes new hold when Rosemary discovers she’s pregnant. Minnie plies her with a tannis root concoction of a drink and insists Rosemary change her OBYGN to a friend of theirs, Dr. Abraham Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy).  The pregnancy is wrought with unpleasant stomach pains and a dramatic weight and color loss for Rosemary—not to mention cravings for raw meat. Realizing that something is obviously not right, Rosemary starts to envision some sort of nefarious plot is afoot when it comes to her unborn child.  She was right.

Other than the fact that she becomes impregnated by Satan, the plot is quite plausible.  Polanski had a habit of making ordinary things like domesticity and friendship vulnerable to human baseness and ulterior motives.  Who could suspect the friendly, elderly couple next door are Satanists who would drug you so that Satan could rape and impregnate you?  And, who would ever imagine that their husband would go along with such a scheme to ensure that his acting career took off?  Now, the end of the film is way too much of a stretch for me—I just don’t envision any woman changing her mind about raising the child of Satan—not even the most Catholic woman on the planet.

Polanski earned an Oscar nomination for his adapted screenplay of Ira Levin’s hugely popular 1967 novel of the same name. I suppose Polanski wondered why mess with a good thing, so the script was very faithful to the book and those who read the book surely recognized huge sections of dialogue taken directly from the novel. While Farrow was far from Polanski’s first choice for the role of Rosemary, he ended up being very pleased that he had an actress so amenable to some of the crazy things he asked her to do.  In particular, there’s a scene in the film where Rosemary wanders into New York traffic—a scene that was shot by Polanski using a handheld camera—which was not cleared with the city of New York. That’s right, it wasn’t a blocked, staged scene—it was freaking real!  Did Farrow have a death wish following the delivery of divorce papers?  Yes, it is up to you, New York, New York, indeed!

While I’m not a big fan of Farrow, she does a nice job of playing a mouse-like waif who is almost too willingly led down a path paved in not-so-good intentions.  It’s hard to feel sorry for someone that stupid, though.  Her complete opposite is Ruth Gordon as Minnie.  Even when her character is doing very bad things she comes off as the helpful crazy lady next door.  Gordon won a Best Supporting Oscar for her turn as Minnie, and she deserved it.  The voice, hair, clothes, and mannerisms were perfect for the role. While Minnie didn’t come off as evil incarnate, her husband Roman did.  Rosemary’s Baby was Blackmer’s final film, and he went out as one of the best minions of Satan ever.  Perhaps it was his eyes, but he looked the part.

So, did Rosemary’s Baby live up to its storied reputation as one of the best horror films ever?  I guess it matters who you ask.  For me, when I watch a horror film I want to be scared.  At no point during the movie’s 136 minute run was I frightened.  Films such as The Exorcist (1973), Candyman (1992), and The Omen (1976) are far more scary than Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t know if this is because most of the horror is implied or not, but, for me at least, Rosemary’s Baby was more a study of elongated dread with not much payoff in the end.

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Koyaanisqatsi (1983) **1/2

My regular readers know that I am quite adverse to avant garde cinema.  There are not enough words to describe how much I disliked such avant garde films as Flaming Creatures (1963), L'age d'or (1930), and Un Chien Andalou (1928). Yet, something miraculous has happened, I have found one that I liked—Koyaanisqatsi (1983). Director Godfrey Reggio’s unusual film about the interaction between nature, human beings, and technology has been described as visual tone poem.  It benefits greatly from being set to composer Philip Glass’ music, as well as the brilliant cinematography of Ron Fricke.

I can’t really explain what Koyaanisqatsi is about, since it doesn’t have a plot in the traditional sense.  It starts off with a cave painting and breathtaking shots of vast, pristine geographic formations.  I expect this was to showcase the beauty of unspoiled nature.  Slow motion and time-lapse camera work and editing capture some of the most spectacular images of landscapes that I have ever seen.  In addition, there are some pretty awesome sections of floating clouds—which come into play when Reggio gets around to depicting technology.

Once nature has had its due, Reggio turns to juxtaposing the simple but breathtaking beauty of nature against the world of technology: machines, transportation systems, and massive building structures.  It is not a coincidence that the Los Angeles highway system is displayed in such a way that it looks like an anaconda strangling its prey.  Nor, is it difficult to determine that Reggio doesn’t particularly like skyscrapers—with their mammoth faces blocking the clouds that so graciously reflect off the cold exterior of the buildings.  And, really, even though there is absolutely no dialogue in the entire movie, who couldn’t figure out that Reggio took great delight in showing the behemoth and derelict Pruitt-Igoe housing project in St. Louis being demolished.

But it’s not all nature and big, hulking building that gets Reggio’s attention—humans get their due, too. Still, we probably get the worst treatment, as we come off as pretty miserable.  Large crowds of primarily unsmiling people permeate throughout this section of the film.  We have become slaves to the technology that we’ve created, and mostly we come off as rats living in a maze of our own making. Personally, I could have done without the people, but I suppose Reggio’s overarching message would have suffered without us.

With skyscrapers eclipsing the beauty of the moon and the Hopi Indians prophesizing that, "Near the day of Purification, there will be cobwebs spun back and forth in the sky," I have no doubt that Koyaanisqatsi was a film with a message, no matter how much Reggio may have said that it was up to the “viewer to take for himself/herself what the film means." Generally, I agree with Reggio about the state of the world—life is out of balance and humans have committed ecological homicide. I also agree that we no longer control technology, but rather that it controls our every move. 

Who knew I would actually enjoy watching avant garde cinema this much?  I may just have to watch the complete trilogy, Powaqqatsi (1988) and Naqoyqatsi (2002) to wrap my mind completely around Reggio’s ultimate philosophical endgame. 

 

 

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Adaptation. (2002) ****

I don’t understand why director Spike Jonze doesn’t make more feature length films. Shorts, videos, and documentaries are all he has really produced since making the brilliant Adaptation. (2002) and almost brilliant Being John Malkovich (1999).  Why won’t Charlie Kaufman and his fictional twin brother Donald write truly original screenplays for Jonze anymore?  It boggles the mind…

Anyway, I guess it’s obvious that I adore both Jonze and Kaufman, as well as their brainchild, Adaptation. Nicolas Cage plays twin brothers Charlie and Donald Kaufman—that’s right this is a semi-autobiographical film about Kaufman’s struggle to adapt Susan Orlean’s (Meryl Streep) non-fiction book, The Orchid Thief. The premise is that after writing the screenplay for Being John Malkovich, Kaufman is given the assignment of adapting Orlean’s book, but due to his insecurities and writer’s block Kaufman struggles with the project. It doesn’t help that his twin brother Donald is around to annoy him, either.  And, really, how do you write a script about orchids? 

The only truly autobiographical element of Adaptation. is Kaufman’s writer’s block while adapting The Orchid Thief.  The twin brother, a romance between Laroche (Chris Cooper) and Orlean, and one of the strangest drug addictions I have ever seen, are all fictional.  As I write this, I wonder if I am making the film seem confusing or convoluted in some way, and, perhaps I am, but it isn’t.  Without a doubt, it is one of best written movies I have ever seen—and the performances are also stellar. Which, of course, extends my disbelief as to why Jonze and Kaufman don’t make more films together.

Overall, Adaptation. was nominated for four Academy Awards. And, just like Being John Malkovich got short shrift by the Academy regarding a Best Picture nod, so did Adaptation. Freaking Chicago (2002) won Best Picture that year!  My God, all four of the other films nominated (Gangs of New York, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, The Hours, and The Pianist) were better than Chicago—oh, I’m getting off track here--suffice to say, if your three principal leads get nominated, as well as your screenwriter and his fictional brother, surely you might get a Best Picture look—especially when you were a far superior film to the actual winner! This rant is now over…

Cage, Streep, and Cooper all earned acting nominations.  Cooper won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his quirky portrayal of a delusional, but highly intelligent orchid thief who is haunted by the events of his past.  His interactions with Streep’s New York intellectual/journalist, Susan Orlean, are priceless.  They make an extremely odd couple, but their mutual loneliness and sadness draw them to one another.  I particularly found watching Streep get hooked on snorting ghost orchid up her nose to feel happy oddly fascinating.  I’ve seen Streep do some pretty screwed up things in movies—giving kids away to Nazis and Dustin Hoffman and dancing around and singing while wearing overalls—but snorting green flower residue and deciding to kill someone to keep this a secret just aren’t character traits that one would envision being in her wheelhouse.

And, as it is always difficult to play twins—just ask Bette Davis—I believe Nicolas Cage deserves a lot of credit, too.  Sure, at first it’s disconcerting to see him talking to himself—I mean his twin—but once you adjust it is easy to determine when he is playing either Charlie or Donald.  It helps that each brother had love interests played by two very gifted actresses--Cara Seymour and Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention one of the smartest and unique things about Adaptation.—part of the movie takes place on the set of Being John Malkovich.  There are cameos by John Cusack, Catherine Keener, and, of course, John Malkovich.  While most of Adaptation. is fictional, this small element adds a touch of authenticity to the Charlie Kaufman character. 

Overall, I love Adaptation. It is probably in my top 10 of the best films of the last twenty years. Graced by a highly imaginative script and standout performances from every last cast member, Adaptation. is one of those films that I never get tired of watching. Ah, if only Jonze and Kaufman would make more movies like it—preferably together. 

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The Great White Silence (1924) **

In the sake of full disclosure, I must admit that I cheated when it comes to watching director Herbert G. Ponting’s, The Great White Silence (1924).  I actually watched the 1933 reissued version of the film, which was called Ninety Degrees South and had sound. Documentaries can sometimes be difficult enough to watch with sound, so the idea of watching a silent one about an expedition to Antarctica and the South Pole just wasn’t all that attractive to me, especially since I knew there was a sound version of it. That said, the only sound in this movie was that of Ponting’s voice narrating what was already on the title cards of the silent version, with a few personal asides.

Without a doubt, the best thing about The Great White Silence is the cinematography.  Ponting captures several breathtaking images of glaciers, icebergs, and various other ice and snow formations.  It is said that many of these images were obtained at great peril to his own life.  Knowing full well that 99.9% of the population would never be able to lay eyes on the pristine beauty of such a remote and desolate place, Ponting took great care in photographing the wonders of Antarctica.

Yet, geographic formations weren’t the only things Ponting filmed.  Of course, he made it a point to portray the hardships and recreations of camp life, too.  Only the English would brave arctic temperatures to play a game of football (soccer to Americans) on the ice!  And, then there were the animals.  The Siberian ponies and sled dogs are given their due as well, but Ponting was especially enamored with the penguins and seals of Ross Island.  His depiction of these creatures was quite educational, and I learned a lot about how seals ward of killer whales and how penguins incubate eggs.  Oh, and we get to see Englishmen dance around with penguins, too.

The whole point of Captain Scott’s expedition was to make it to the South Pole before the Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen.  Scott had brought Ponting along to take pictures that he would use on a lecture tour once he returned to England.  That lecture tour never happened because Scott and four others died on their return journey from the South Pole—which they had arrived at second, behind Amundsen.  We only have Captain Scott’s journal to tell us exactly what happened on this fateful trek, because Ponting did not accompany the group to the South Pole, as it was determined to be too dangerous.  As such, the last half of the film is comprised of a lot of diagrams and still photography that was later recovered by the search party that found three of the explorers dead in a tent—one had died earlier and been buried and another had walked out into a blizzard to kill himself.

While The Great White Silence was pretty much a commercial failure, it is still of great historical importance.  Ponting’s images of Antarctica are a sight to behold. Yes, it gets a bit preachy at the end, when Ponting extolls the courage of Scott for having died for the honor of his country, but that was the English way.  Even though Ponting’s images are nearly 90 years old today, they are still remarkable. 

 

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The Goddess (1934) **

While not well-known to modern audiences, China’s Ruan Ling-yu was considered one of the greatest actresses of the Silent Film Era. Her nickname was the “Chinese Greta Garbo”, as she had an innate ability to convey her every thought with facial expressions and body language. And, like Garbo, she did not rely on overly-theatrical movements. Instead, she had a natural film presence that lured her audience into viewing her as they would their next door neighbor.  Of course, she possessed a beauty enhanced by flawless skin and piercingly emotive eyes.  While her career was cut short by her suicide at the age of 24, Ruan Ling-yu is still one of the most iconic Chinese actresses ever.

The Goddess (1934) is probably the most revered Chinese silent film ever made.  In it, Ruan Ling-yu plays an unnamed prostitute who works the streets of Shanghai to provide her son with a better life.  Scorned by her female neighbors and bullied by her gambling pimp (Zhang Zhizhi), Ruan Ling-yu’s character hides money away so that she can educate her son and turn him into a respectable young man.  While life seems to conspire to defeat her, the prostitute takes solace in the unconditional love and adoration of her son.  In the end, she makes the ultimate sacrifice to ensure her son’s future.

This was director/writer Wu Yonggang’s first film, and he was quite fortunate to have Ruan Ling-yu as his star. In 1934, China was in the midst of a civil war and having to deal with Imperial Japan, so to say that Yonggang’s Shanghai-based production was stressful would be an understatement.  Known as a Leftist director, Yonggang greatly benefitted from the Communists’ victory, and he enjoyed a directing career that spanned over 40 years.  His egalitarian worldview shaped The Goddess into a story about a woman’s sacrifice for the betterment of her son.  The overall tone of the film is humanistic. There is no judgment one way or another about how Ruan Ling-yu’s character earns her money. Instead, Yonggang presents a realistic view of what many women in Shanghai had to do to survive. 

While Ruan Ling-yu’s performance is mesmerizing, the same cannot be said by the overall production of The Goddess. Of course, I viewed a rough restoration of the movie, so that could have contributed to its overall aesthetics.  Still, there wasn’t any highly creative cinematography or set designs, which for me, at least, are necessary to push a silent film to the forefront of my memory.Thankfully, the story is compelling, so I can somewhat overlook what I consider lackluster photography and set designs.

Overall, I enjoyed watching Ruan Ling-yu’s performance. It gave me some context to consider the next time I watch Maggie Cheung play her in Stanley Kwan’s, Center Stage (1992). However, I think I would have liked the movie much more if the cinematography had been more memorable.

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A Throw of Dice (1929) **

 

Director Franz Osten’s A Throw of Dice (1929) is rather unique, in that it was filmed entirely in India and used Indian actors but it is still considered a German production. If I were judging the film strictly by its production scale, it would be a homerun.  With a cast of thousands, set amongst the vast Indian countryside and housed in beautiful palaces along the Ganges River, A Throw of Dice is on the same scale as D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance (1916).  However, I don’t judge a movie solely on the magnitude of its cast or set design.  While these things are definitely important, I also need to be enthralled by the story.  Alas, this is where A Throw of Dice falls short for me.

Based on an episode from The Mahabharata, the story centers around two Indian kings (but I expect they were really Rajas) in love with the same woman.  Sohan (Himansu Rai) is an evil king, who plots to kill his cousin and rival king, Ranjit (Charu Roy), by having his henchman/flunky shoot Ranjit with a poisonous arrow on a hunting trip.  Unfortunately for Sohan, there is healer nearby who saves Ranjit’s life.  As if things weren’t bad enough between the two kings, they both fall in love with the healer’s daughter, Sunita (Seeta Devi). When Ranjit wins Sunita’s heart, Sohan plots to unravel their happiness. And, this brings us to the title of this film: A Throw of Dice. Ranjit has a gambling problem that Sohan tries to use in his favor by playing a dice game with loaded dice—things never end well in dice games, just ask Nas.

Okay, let’s start off with what I liked about A Throw of Dice: the film score. Silent films can be difficult to watch, but fortunately the re-mastered 2006 score for A Throw of Dice is pretty darn special.  Nitin Sawhney’s score is both engaging and authentically Indian (although he is British Indian), so it fits perfectly with the film. While you don’t hear many silent scores with lyrics, Sawhney minimally uses vocals, and when he does, it always seems appropriate. 

The acting is pretty natural, too.  Histrionics and overacting, pillars of most silent movies, are not really present in A Throw of Dice, except in one scene where the henchman has an exaggerated death scene.  There is no mugging for the camera or overuse of hand gestures or facial muscles. Pretty much everyone in the cast seems at ease with allowing the camera to capture the spirit of each scene. 

Still, I was not really that impressed with the overall narrative of A Throw of Dice. I never found myself truly engaged in the story, nor did I particular connect with any of the characters.  I did, however, find Sohan to be an evil bitch, but not enough for me to care one way or another about what happened to him.  (It puzzles me why Rai would want to play the bad guy in this, as he was one of its producers.) Plus, for an 80-minute movie, the plot moved pretty slowly.  Of course, this could probably be attributed to Osten’s desire to capture the majestic beauty of the Indian countryside more than crafting a truly memorable story. 

Overall, A Throw of Dice is aided by a wonderful film score and a unique setting.  That said, I never found myself invested in the plot, nor did I really connect with any of the characters.  While it was great to see tigers, elephants, and palaces, the story never really took hold for me.  Still, it was nice to watch a silent movie with naturalistic acting, and to see what silent Indian cinema looked like.

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Lone Star (1996) **

Once I got over the fact that hunky Matthew McConaughey was in director John Sayles’ Lone Star (1996) for less than ten minutes, I came to the conclusion that the interconnected plot and characters are the best thing about the film. Without giving the ending away, which falls somewhere between ICK ICK ICK and is it really ICK?, I have to say I admired how Sayles wrapped the intersecting stories together to create an ambiguous conclusion. That said, Lone Star is somewhat hindered by an overabundance of characters and peripheral stories.

The film starts off with a body, a Masonic ring, and a sheriff's badge being discovered in the desert. Both once belonged to Rio County Sheriff Charlie Wade (Kris Kristofferson)—a racist, corrupt, evil son of a bitch who liked to shoot people in the back if he didn’t get a cut of whatever they were doing. For more than forty years the racially diverse Texas border town thought they were free of his reign of terror, but now Sheriff Wade is back for his last payoff.

For Sherriff Sam Deeds (Chris Cooper) the number one suspect is his father and former sheriff, Buddy Deeds (McConaughey).  Sam had a difficult relationship with his father—mainly because he ended his son’s teenage romance with a local Mexican girl named Pilar (Elizabeth Pena)—but, by all other accounts, the residents of Rio County loved Sheriff Buddy.  Yes, Sheriff Buddy used his position to get building contracts for his friends and to curry political favors, but he didn’t kill anyone or take money out of anyone’s pockets, either.  As such, when Sheriff Sam tries to put the pieces together as to who killed Sheriff Wade, he meets with some resistance.  In the end, however, the truth about who killed Sheriff Wade comes out in a rather unexpected way—thus, creating an ending that is shocking and Icky.

What Sayles does particularly well is show how segregated Rio County is. He attempts to show how the blacks, Mexicans, and Anglos view their positions in the border town and tie it to the overall plot.  Of particular interest was how established Mexicans like Pilar’s mother, Mercedes (Miriam Colon), viewed “wetbacks”.  Perhaps the funniest thing in the movie happens when she calls Border Patrol to pickup some Mexicans she sees crossing over. 

Still, I think Sayles goes a bit overboard with how many stories he tries to cover.  For example, although I absolutely loved seeing Frances McDormand's Bunny maniacally ramble on about every football team in the state of Texas, this was one of several peripheral elements that could have been cut.  There is also a story about a young female Army soldier who joined the military to escape a crime-ridden section of Houston which could have been easily omitted. 

Sayles’ unique use of flashbacks to explain what led to Sheriff Wade’s demise is quite resourceful.  I like how he merged the flashbacks with the present to meld the two time periods together.  Sometimes this technique can be misused which can create confusion, but the way Sayles uses it comes off quite seamlessly.

While I was not wowed by any particular performance, the two standouts would have to be McDormand and Pena. I don’t think it’s possible for McDormand not to shine in whatever she’s in, so it’s not surprising that her one brief scene in the movie is one of the most memorable. However, Pena was a revelation as the sexually pent up Pilar.  It’s too bad that she really hasn’t been given many opportunities to shine since Lone Star.

Overall, I was impressed with how Sayles incorporated the past with the present in Lone Star.  Yet, for me, there are too many peripheral elements which slow down the overall pacing of the film. This ultimately takes a lot of sting out of the Icky and jarring ending.

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