http://blogcritics.org/ A sinister cabal of superior bloggers on music, books, film, popular culture, politics, and technology - updated continuously. en Copyright 2005-2007 by the authors Fri, 19 May 2006 10:32:08 EDT http://backend.userland.com/rss Blogcritics.org custom software http://blogcritics.org/ Phillip WinnSunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding. Administration0@blogcritics.org Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/05/19/103208.php Paul J. MarasaThe Great Raid is another film that marks the return of the "old-fashioned" war movie. This return, however, may not be as straightforward a proposition as one might think. Or is it? Saving Private Ryan (1998) began the trend -- a kind of "greatest generation" memorializing that sidesteps Vietnam and looks backward to the Good War -- and everyone agrees it was an auspicious (re-)start. Although Ryan seemed brand-new, an up-close, digitized nose-rub into everything terrifying and transformative and pitiable about combat, the more I thought about it the more it felt exactly like the great G.I. pictures of the 1940s and early '50s, in that it brings us not only close to the action but next to the soldiers, whether via the clunky roll call of American ethnic/geographic types, or the more psychological approach - both equally open to parody.Of course, any number of war films play with these categories, mixing and matching, and the end result can creak a bit, as "Brooklyn" or "Schwartz" -- or "Texas" or "Martini" -- or the buttoned-down clueless Second Looey or the shell-shocked shrieker/freezer or the Old Campaigner or the over-eager quasi-psycho trot through their various paces.As I watch post-Ryan war films, I notice how easy it is to fall into those stereotypes. After all, even the earlier "anti-war" war films -- Apocalypse Now (1979), Platoon (1986), Full Metal Jacket (1987) -- indulged in such character typing. It's difficult to resist. Occasionally, though, what's happening -- the plot -- is more important than to whom -- the characters -- and so the broad strokes subside to make room for what is essentially a military procedural. John Dahl's The Great Raid (2005) falls into this category, with satisfying results. I was intrigued to see that his credits include Red Rock West (1992), The Last Seduction (1994), Rounders (1998) and Joy Ride (2001), and while each has its own memorable characters, they remain genre pictures of a particularly garish -- and often nasty -- sort, I'll admit featuring performances that stick with you -- by Nicholas Cage, Linda Fiorentino, Edward Norton, Steve Zahn - but what I really remember about those movies is his attention to details, small touches, inside information, the otherwise decorative elements of a set or a shot or the film's world, that allow even the most delirious moments -- such as Joy Ride's finale -- make sense.Dahl brings these tendencies to The Great Raid, and aside from perfunctory but serviceable character-sketches for the principles, focuses on the events that unfold, and the precise moments that matter. It is an almost literally synchronized-watch film, especially in its masterful last half-hour - an exciting recreation of an "inspired-by-actual-events" 1945 mission to rescue P.O.W. survivors of the Bataan Death March, ticked off for us with clarity and expository precision. You know, art and atmosphere and the glow of the human soul are all well and good, but when it comes to a war movie the real question is, can you film a battle sequence so that it is more than smoke and fire and noise? The Great Raid is such a display of craft, but it also affirms its commitment to narrative, while not entirely forgetting the people who, after all, made the narrative happen.This marriage of character and action lies at the heart of movies I may not revisit, but admire as I'm watching. I was struck by how easy it was for me to suspend judgment and enter the movie's spirit, whole-heartedly wishing someone would drive a bayonet into the brutal camp commander, feeling my heart swell with admiration for the Philippine commandos who held the bridge, mourning the soldier whose malaria claimed him just as he had been liberated. This may not be such a great achievement -- I'm a sucker for such sharp and compelling demands -- but Dahl never proselytizes; he merely ticks off the events, one after another, allowing me with natural ease to side with the tortured and neglected, and rail against the oppressor.He wisely chose a rescue mission rather than a battle per se to wring these emotions from his audience until, despite the moral qualms that might lead one away from the battlefield, allows his audience to surge toward The Great Raid, siding with the innocent.That is the great trick the war movie -- or the crime film, or the Western -- plays: It distracts one from moral dilemmas long enough to follow moral imperatives. And as long as at the end I can leave the picture and be myself again, I can forgive such films their sleight-of-hand. Video47999@blogcritics.org Fri, 19 May 2006 10:32:08 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/05/04/133344.php Paul J. MarasaHow does a director whose credits include Ealing comedy classics like The Man in the White Suit (1951) and The Ladykillers (1955) find himself unable to build a career? It seems all Alexander Mackendrick had to do was come to the United States, helm Sweet Smell of Success (1957), star Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis, and hire writer Clifford Odets and master cinematographer James Wong Howe.The result is one of those strange moments when a near-perfect movie is initially scorned, by both audiences and critics -- so someone, it seems, must be blamed. And Mackendrick, as director, was the logical choice. After Sweet Smell of Success, he never regained his footing; while respected -- in 1969 he was made Dean of the Film Department of the California Institute of the Arts -- he went on to direct only a handful of minor films.This is a great loss, because his American debut is risky and brilliantly executed, a fast-talking, late-noir expose not only of the dark side of show business but of the American urge toward greatness -- with, in passing, a creepy king-sized dose of Freudian mad love. Hmm. Considering all that, its failure to please in 1957 makes sense.Bathed in "Low-Key" Howe's deep-focus camerawork, the film gives us a New York that, both on the street and in its smoky nightclubs and bigshot eateries, comes off as a giant, glistening snake, black and sparkling in perpetual midnight. It's the perfect setting for the story of J.J. Hunsecker, make-em-and-break-em columnist -- played by Lancaster with his patented clipped glee, arch and almost prissy, but sharp as a serpent's tooth -- and his uncomfortably close bond with his sister, Susan (Susan Harrison), whom J.J. wants all to himself. Her relationship with a jazz musician, Steve Dallas (Adam-12's Martin Milner), sends him into sinuous rage, and to break up their romance J.J. enlists the help of a seedy publicity agent. Agent Sidney Falco is played by Tony Curtis with Newyawk perfection, looking seriously beautiful -- as a starlet observes, she took him for an actor because he was "so pretty" -- but also deeply fed up with being Hunsecker's toady. The "clash by night" between Hunsecker's amour fou and Sidney's redemptive self-loathing provides everyone with the rare opportunity to chew up the scenery with perfect finesse. It's a kind of controlled chaos that results in a Beat Generation Citizen Kane, in which the American hero -- success-driven, commanding, ruthless -- implodes under the weight and pressure of his own obsession.Kane famously toasts to "love on my own terms". In Sweet Smell of Success, those terms come with the throbbing heft of a blackjack, as blackly ripe as the shadows Howe pulls out of the cityscape, pressing down on all concerned, including the soon-to-be-smothered career of the movie's director. While Lancaster and Curtis went on to films in which challenges were met and promises delivered, Sweet Smell of Success claimed its sacrifice in Mackendrick; as nasty as the thing is, I suppose it had to sink its fangs into someone. Video47256@blogcritics.org Thu, 4 May 2006 13:33:44 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/04/01/195110.php Paul J. MarasaHis father was the animator Max Fleisher, who worked with his uncle Dave. I've read Richard intended to study medicine, but how could he concentrate, with Koko the Clown, Betty Boop, Popeye, and Superman down the hall and under the stairs, literal testaments to persistence of vision? It seems the pressure was too much -- and it shows in Richard Fleischer's work, a frantic outpouring of practically every genre of film. Consider this selected filmography:The Narrow Margin (1952) 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954) The Vikings (1958) Compulsion (1959) Crack in the Mirror (1960) Barabbas (1962) Fantastic Voyage (1966) Doctor Dolittle (1967) The Boston Strangler (1968) Che! (1969) Tora! Tora! Tora! (1970) (U.S.A. sequences) Blind Terror, a.k.a. See No Evil (1971) The New Centurions (1972) Soylent Green (1973) The Don Is Dead (1973) Mr. Majestyk (1974) Mandingo (1975) The Jazz Singer (1980) Amityville 3-D (1983) Conan the Destroyer (1984)I've left out a dozen or so, but look at that list, a kind of controlled delirium, relevant and marketable (especially at the drive-in, where I first saw many of these titles). Martin Scorsese has commented that a part of him would've loved to have been such a journeyman director, tackling all kinds of pictures, smuggling in a quirk here, a personal vision there, leaving behind a broad body of work united not just by his name but a half-whispered hint of his inner self, his private world a sly shadow stretching across the films he directed. An auteur of sorts, in other words.Richard Fleischer did not seem to have such aspirations--beyond a certain point. He made entertainments, plugged in to certain exploitation markets, capitalizing on trends. And yet ... Well, I won't push this too far, but in his movies I see two tendencies regularly asserting themselves, one formal, the other thematic.As a director, he seemed willing to experiment now and again, as long as the movie didn't end up serving the experiment. The hand-held camerawork and claustrophobic spaces of The Narrow Margin; the multiple-role casting of Crack in the Mirror -- and the multiple-screen approach of The Boston Strangler -- as well as the refusal to make the camera hyperventilate in 10 Rillington Place, despite that film's hysteria-inducing subject matter; even his willingness to ride the '80s 3-D mini-revival.These films, and more, provide glimpses of someone willing to take chances -- not without cause, but in the service of the story. His approach to these stylistic risks is not always virtuosic -- except for perhaps The Narrow Margin and The Boston Strangler -- but nevertheless always earnest, always adding intriguing visual layers to genre pictures.At their best, those formal flourishes served his thematic concerns. In many of his pictures he explores the relationship between the powerless and the powerful -- and, more important, the shifting of those roles; consider Barabbas, Crack in the Mirror, Compulsion, The Vikings, Blind Terror, 10 Rillington Place, Mandingo, and Mr. Majestyk. Aligned with this are films that deal with code heroes, those who stand apart from the norm to assert their personal moralities, as seen in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Narrow Margin, Soylent Green, Che!, and The New Centurions -- and okay, even Conan the Destroyer. Finally, and perhaps most telling, are the movies that pry open secretive lives, especially ones that disrupt society's smooth workings with sickening, violent force: Compulsion, The Boston Strangler, and 10 Rillington Place.Now, I know that one could extract such trends from the career of any prolific drector, but in Fleischer's films I keep seeing him stubbornly persist in considering stylistic possibilities and exploring the nature of heroism -- while at the same time often peering at the lurkers in the shadows, those who disrupt all moral codes, public and personal. Again I hear echoes of Scorsese, who also seems obsessed with outsiders and subversives, and who also cannot resist playing with the camera and his casts. I don't know if Hollywood can much sustain Scorsese -- and I know as time goes on we will not see many directors with Fleischer's broad resume. I urge you to seek out his movies yourself -- or rediscover them, lined up one after the other, from the ridiculous to the sublime. Go and Netflix a Richard Fleischer Memorial Film Festival; as you can tell from the titles, you'll at least be guaranteed variety. Video45800@blogcritics.org Sat, 1 Apr 2006 19:51:10 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/03/30/151439.php Paul J. MarasaWhen Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash in Walk the Line fingers the teeth of that table saw at the start of the movie, the convicts' feet thumping like the T. rex in Jurassic Park -- both making the water's surface jump -- I was immediately relieved: I knew I wasn't going to have to slog dutifully through every inspiring step in a calcified Great One's life and career, milestones bright and obvious, ticked off in obligation to its subject.That is the grave danger of the biopic, and I won't dwell on comparisons - I will only mention in passing that Ray is mostly compelling for Jamie Foxx's performance, rather than the movie's structure and rhythms; while Great Balls of Fire, Jim McBride's 1989 take on Jerry Lee Lewis, wisely chooses to spin out like the Killer himself, glorious and goofy; its rhythm is "the beat, the beat, the beat." Walk the Line follows McBride's lead, except it respects its subject more, while not sanctifying it. Phoenix's Cash is introspective and haunted, which can be a trap as well, the Deep Pop Star approach that's more than a little embarrassing. Mangold and company, however, manage to avoid the extremes of both Saint John and the devilish Man in Black. Instead, we are given a fundamental problem -- how does one recover from a deep and early loss? -- and, in Joaquin Phoenix's performance, asked to watch that recovery stumble up the hill.The saw-blade that killed Cash's brother resonates like those stomping feet, and Phoenix carries the sound in his eyes; we can also see it in the trademark scar -- the Internet tells me he was born with it, another metaphor -- that forces even his sunniest or saddest moods into a bit of a sneer, and best of all we hear it in his voice. Phoenix (and co-star Witherspoon) give the movie a great gift by doing their own singing; and not merely to display their abilities as mimics, but to capture the emotional depth of the need for restoration. Joaquin Phoenix has staked his claim on that need: I don't like to indulge in biographical criticism, but I cannot help thinking of his brother River, dead in front of the Viper Room (another metaphor) at the hands of the same kinds of demons that snapped at Cash's heels, as well as Joaquin's. Again, the Internet tells me he is a recovering alcoholic.I think bringing up such details is usually rudely intrusive, ultimately distracting, but in Walk the Line the biographies of both the characters and the actors accumulate and commingle to provide rocky layers -- or are they steps on Jacob's Ladder? -- that enrich, not cheapen, the film, and allow Cash to ascend intact.Among his final recordings is My Mother's Hymn Book. And the last song on that album is "Just As I Am": "I come I come ... waiting not to rid my soul of one dark blot." And as long as we're on Last Things, the last song on the last volume of American Recordings is "We'll Meet Again." It is a beautifully silly thing, since it is also the song that wraps up Dr. Strangelove. Johnny serenades the Apocalypse, and manages a quick one-sided grin. Video45725@blogcritics.org Thu, 30 Mar 2006 15:14:39 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/03/29/144623.php Paul J. MarasaWhen they picked the new James Bond -- Daniel Craig, from Layer Cake, Road to Perdition, and Tomb Raider -- I think I heard off in the distance some howls of protest, but that would be inevitable in any case. I'm a bit sorry to see Pierce Brosnan go - and yes, I read the gossip about his abrupt disposal; it reminded me of the similarly sudden, jet-propelled deaths of certain Bond villains, sucked out of the frame with the force of violent decompression or detonation. Then again, Brosnan's Bond, so veddy veddy debonair, was lacking in a certain bullying quality we haven't seen since (obligatory fanfare) Sean Connery - but, let's admit it, who cares?. As much of a Connery fan as I am, I'm getting tired of dragging him into the picture, so to speak. How long has it been - more to the point, how many generations - since he's toweled off, speargun at the ready? Too long to matter, I'm afraid. To be honest, I don't worry much about Bond unless he's hogging basic cable channels, as he is periodically wont to do. I'm more interested in spotting him in incognito cameos in other movies. And I'm not talking about the long line of knockoffs, as admirable as some of them are, from Matt Helm and Our Man Flynt to Indiana Jones (and let us not forget their casting of Connery as Jones' father) and XXX, not to mention the even beefier action heroes that have come between, rocky terminators all. I am in no mood for replicas and duplicates. No, the real fun's in the sudden surprising glimpses, the non-Bonds who catch me off-balance with their sudden Bond-ness. This started in earnest for me when I read something on Peter Dinklage in, I think, Film Comment a few years ago. Sorry I can't recall the writer, but he/she daydreamed that in an alternate-universe Hollywood, Dinklage would be the next Bond. Good call. Watch Dinklage's effortless cool in The Station Agent -- in a completely un-cool situation -- and you'll see a kind of grace under (everyday) fire that is pure Bond. (Even his character's name, Finn McBride, has a nice edge to it.) Dinklage would be a real contrarian's treat, perfectly off-center. Since then, I've kept an eye out for such unexpected Bond-ing. Try it yourself; you'll find Bonds in the unlikeliest places: George Clooney in Three Kings (1999), keeping it together; John Gries' Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite (2004), living in narcissistic bliss; even Johnny Depp as Capt. Jack Sparrow - as long as you're willing to entertain the thought of Keith Richards on Her Majesty's Secret Service. The effect that accumulates is bracing: One sees how "cool" continues to be revived, despite its corruption and co-option, in which the Truly Cool have been marginalized, asked to wait off to one side while noisier, Pop-Tart-colored parties jitter and jive past the velvet rope. But in the shadow-Bonds -- as riddled with self-reflexivity as they may be -- you'll hear echoes of cool-cats like Stan Getz, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Gerry Mulligan, Chet Baker, John Coltrane and others, with close-cropped hair and black suits, thin ties and skinny lapels. They were cool because they knew how to keep it. Bondspotting reminds you that this is not yet gone, that some still know about something cool.Now don't bolt, but this brings me to Bill Murray. Not so odd, I guess: His almost-over-the-hill actor Bob Harris in Lost in Translation (2003) is in Japan doing a whiskey ad ("For relaxing times, make it Suntory time") and the photographer asks him to think of 007. (Bob responds, "He drinks martinis, but all right.") And as a comic actor Murray has always cultivated a kind of cool, deadpan and charming - or a close approximation thereof. But Murray's best undercover-Bond movie is The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004). He has gadgets, a mission, and sundry villains, confederates, and women in various -- and sometimes total -- stages of affection, ire, and undress. One moment stands out for me, when I knew he could be Bond: The pirates are on his ship, making a mess of everything, shooting people. Steve is tied up, but he chews through the ropes (!) and runs at the pirates, gun blazing; and he's wearing a big floppy robe and a Speedo. It is not a "cool" moment per se, but watching him I thought, "He should do one Bond movie." I think I'm right -- and not a jokey, Bond-busters spoof -- another ex-SNL-er has already done that, shagadelic-ly, more times than necessary - but a straightforward Bond programmer, with the standard-issue nemesis and his illogical world-domination plot, the good babe and the bad babe (with single-entendre name), the Sharper Image ordnance and Eames-designed lair. With Murray, we would get the American cool Bond, his eyes letting us in on the joke, but his hand steady. He may be getting a bit old for the part - and OK, maybe a number of directors over the years have already given him the chance to play Bond, albeit under deep cover - but I'd still like to see that license to kill given to someone who seems almost to disdain it, even while dispatching scores of henchmen. And if I may once more invoke Connery-Bond, I think Murray could also handle the bully-boy aspect of the role, the slight sneer and amoral gleam in the eye as he cracks the unconscious minion's skull one more time, for luck. After that, Bond could go back to his franchise a bit refreshed, and a little more than amused. Video45679@blogcritics.org Wed, 29 Mar 2006 14:46:23 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/03/29/035355.php Paul J. MarasaNo matter how hard I try, I can't stop enjoying Star Trek. In my defense, I'll assert the various Treks do at times provide the pleasures of well-made SF, in which a "fascinating" (thank you, Mr. Spock) idea is extrapolated to its (extra-)logical conclusion. Kirk's Tribbles and his visit to the City on the Edge of Forever, Picard's endless Prime Directive quandaries, Sisko's future socio-political history, even Janeway's internecine struggles; more often than not I find myself watching puzzles unfold -- and, more importantly, the figures who cause or solve those puzzles, so that, in the end, Trek's characters provide, I think, the deepest rewards. As with any TV series, familiarity breeds content (ha, ha), and the Treks are generous in their efforts to give us "interesting" (thank you again, Spock) but readily identifiable characters. On the surface, Star Trek is "comfort video," as challenging (OK, and as good for you) as any beige middle-American meal, and as easy to consume. This partly explains why I've recently turned to Enterprise on DVD, perhaps the last Trek series; I'm watching every episode -- almost dutifully, I'll admit (to continue the gustatory analogy, I guess I'm being good and cleaning my plate), but also along the way gathering some rewards: the series takes place about a century before Kirk's Trek, and includes affectionate nods to the first series' day-glo aesthetic and mini-skirt/Nehru jacket sensibility; more importantly, in its plots and characters it rewards The Faithful without turning the series into a poster-board presentation at a Trekkie-con.But, beyond the blandly satisfying familiarity of series television and the intermittent SF rewards, what is it about Trek that holds my interest? I want to get back the characters - specifically, one recurring feature of Trek characterization. To clarify I'll turn to anthropologist Jon Wagner's 1998 book, Deep Space and Sacred Time: Star Trek in the American Mythos, which offers compelling arguments for the Trek-as-myth-cycle, as it charts the shifts in the various Treks as reflections of similar movements in modern American society. A number of years ago, a friend pointed out that every other culture has their myths set in an imaginary past; modern Western society, on the other hand -- at least since the late nineteenth century -- positions its myths in the future. Wagner's book explores how Trek contributes to this future-engineered myth-making, in part how it manipulates its characters. In a section called "The Doppleganger Effect," Wagner points out how often Treks deal with the idea of the doppleganger, the alter ego that haunts us. He notes that Jung considered this "the strongest of all the archetypes." This "evil version of the self" is "the repository of all the personal traits that one ordinarily refuses to confront and may actively deny." Jung insists, though, that we must recognize and reconcile with this double. Wagner notes that Counselor Troi in The Next Generation actually mentions this in one of many Trek split-personality episodes, "Frame of Mind," in which she advises Riker to "own" his other self. Like Kirk before him -- split in two in one episode ("The Enemy Within"), and elsewhere ("Mirror, Mirror") propelled into an alternate universe of literally devilish "others" (the alternate Spock particularly fits the bill, not only equipped with his requisite pointed ears but sporting a goatee) -- Riker also faces his other self at least twice, as do sundry Trek characters. Most intriguing is the android Data, a "double" himself who time-travels -- and whose remains are discovered in his "future" -- and who encounters Lore, his manufactured "evil twin."As Wagner comments, such splitting/doubling allows for "explicit interaction" between the separated aspects of self. I'm especially attracted to this, since one of the pleasures of Trek characters -- and more than that, something that I believe lies at the center of all the Trek myths -- is a fundamental principle: "to boldly go" cannot occur until one achieves Jungian "unification with the shadow self" (coincidentia oppositorum). The real "strange new world" is the divided self, that is, the Prime Directive-bound passive observer vs. the explorer/intruder. Kirk, Picard, Sisko, Janeway, Archer; they all lead us, not just out but in, not merely toward the Peter Pan-ish "second star to the right" (as Kirk commands in the sixth movie, The Undisocvered Country/1991) but to Pan himself, unwilling to grow up, aggressively "striving, seeking, finding and not yielding," to semi-quote Tennyson's "Ulysses." (And why not, as long as I'm writing about a series that loved to quote the old warhorses?) From Kirk's Cold Warrior to Picard's empathetic concensus-builder, from Janeway's Wanderer to Sisko's frontier sheriff-cum-Emissary, and, once more time-traveling, back to Archer's -- well, exactly what I'm not yet sure; Jim Hawkins saving everyone from the pirates in Treasure Island? I haven't seen enough episodes yet to decide. But taken together, these characters -- and their split motivations -- seem to vacillate between Self and Double, until they recognize and reconcile, as Wagner and Jung remind us, with the truth that the grotesque figure in the dimness is ourselves. It is a sly myth because it is an open-ended one: the ultimate sequel. Gene Roddenberry toyed with the basic stuff, sometimes softly yielding, sometimes rock-jagged, that we feel beneath our feet as we make our way through this mythic terrain, accompanied as well as accompanying. Culture45638@blogcritics.org Wed, 29 Mar 2006 03:53:55 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/11/10/180359.php Paul J. MarasaF.W. Murnau's The Last Laugh (1924) is one of those silent films you should watch if you (a) love movies but (b) are wary of silent ones. Let me assure you, though, that there is a list--I should show you mine one day--of silent films that will cure you of your not-entirely-unwarranted hesitation, and The Last Laugh is one of them.Still, the silent era is, depending on your age, two or three generations removed from your experience, so I will not be such a snob as to scold you for a perfectly natural apprehension of the silents. Let's keep in mind that plenty of avid, even serious readers have to take a deep breath before reading Shakespeare, or Chaucer, or Homer, let alone most poetry. So we'll agree that the problem exists. Now, let me try to solve it.The director of The Last Laugh is best known for Nosferatu (1922), his "unathorized" version of Dracula. But he also directed other remarkable films, most notably a version of Faust (1926) followed by Sunrise (1927) and Tabu (1931), all noteworthy because of their collective commitment to fluid camerawork and expressive set design that work together to reflect his characters' personalities and perspectives.Watching Murnau is a curiously "modern" experience, if only because, in a variety of classic and contemporary films, from Citizen Kane (1941) and Night of the Hunter (1955) to Scorsese's and Spielberg's restless cameras, we see Murnau's influence. Consider the sharp slanting light that cuts through the shot compositions of film noir, the subjective perspective as the camera moves smoothly through the bar scene in Mean Streets, or the swooping glance across the audience in The Age of Innocence. And let's not forget the giddy low-tech stunts that got Barry Sonnenfeld (as cinematographer for Raising Arizona) and Sam Raimi (Evil Dead) noticed, not to mention the dizzying tracking, dolly, and handheld shots that thrust us headlong onto the beach in Saving Private Ryan. One can see Murnau's hand at work everywhere a director wants to carry us with and into the action.In The Last Laugh (German title: Der Letzte Mann, literally, "the last man"), Murnau brings his bold acrobatics to a painfully simple story. An anonymous hotel porter/doorman (played by the formidable Emil Jannings, who came to Hollywood, was made unemployable by talkies, and returned to Germany, where he became a leading figure in Hitler's film industry), whose identity derives exclusively from his position--even more specifically his uniform, with its heavy square shoulders, epaulets, and shining buttons. He lives among the working poor, but works among the gaiety of Germany's Roaring '20s. Preening, flirting, manfully hoisting luggage, he gains all his status via the irony of his job: He is the fanciest laborer in his neighborhood.But he is getting on in years, and the hotel manager notices how he struggles with the trunks perched high upon rainy taxis, and immediately demotes him. He is now a washroom attendant, spending his days underground, brushing the shoulders of the guests, supplying towels, accepting small tips. He even takes his meals in the bathroom.Ashamed, he attempts to keep his demotion a secret, stealing his confiscated uniform and donning it as he approaches home, where he climbs the stairs past the other tenants, who as usual cease beating rugs and emptying garbage pails in deference to his uniform. While his pride, his very identity, has been sullied and soiled, the uniform is spared.Eventually, the truth emerges, and the neighbors who had given him such respect turn on him, jeering at his diminished state. He is now their equal, and the object of their scorn.The ex-porter reels from these humiliations, casting himself down even lower than the hotel manager and his neighbors ever could. Alone, completely extinguished, he slumps in the dimness of the lavatory.Murnau tells the story without the intertitles we often depend upon in silent films. Actually, then, he does not "tell," but truly "shows," as the action occurs in a special kind of silence: All of the exposition and character development is physical, down to Jannings' remarkably expressive face.It is a pantomime of epic proportions, set amid looming skyscrapers--at one point the hotel where he works, now an object of dread, literally bends toward him like a great, leaning monolith, threatening to crush him--and increasingly darkened streets and rooms. This alone is enough to give this movie a special place in film history.Spoiler Alert: The next paragraph reveals the movie's completely unexpected ending.Something else, though, occurs in its last ten minutes that struck me deeply the first time I saw it, when I was in college, and has haunted my attitude toward film ever since.It is a turn of events that Roger Ebert finds "improbable and unsatisfying." The ex-doorman is alone in the bathroom, so still he might as well be dead, and the scene fades. Suddenly, the film's only intertitle appears, and states, "Here the story should really end, for, in real life, the forlorn old man would have little to look forward to but death. The author took pity on him and has provided a quite improbable epilogue." As Ebert tells it in his "The Great Movies" essay, "The doorman accidentally inherits a fortune, returns to the hotel in glory and treats all his friends to champagne and caviar, while his old enemies glower and gnash their teeth."Ebert complains it is a painfully obvious tacked-on happy ending to soothe the sensibilities of the day. It is in itself a remarkable sequence, filled with glorious excess, scenes of eating and gleeful consumerism, punctuated by not only gnashed teeth but the delighted, and I think condescending, smiles of the other hotel guests.When I first saw this film I was stunned. But unlike Ebert I did not feel cheated by the ending; instead, Murnau taught me a simple but fundamental lesson about film storytelling that I have never forgotten. In that moment when he steps in and yanks the story out from under us, he completely undermines our trust in film narrative, which is immediate and fleeting, because as the images roll on, we are forced to watch closely, lest we miss something; and we expect that attention to be rewarded with a recognizable narrative arc, rising and falling as all narrative has since we hunched around the fire and told our stories--then of course drew the tale on the walls; I like to think of them as the first storyboards.But Murnau punishes us for paying such close attention, for trusting him so much, and reminds us of the power of storytellers to do what they please. It is unfair but, in a stinging Socratic way, instructive: Murnau sets us up to thwart us. All of our intellectual and emotional investments derive from the choice we've made to be manipulated by the film; if so, we have no right to complain when the manipulation continues counter to our expectations. After seeing The Last Laugh I learned to trust myself as I watched movies, but to be on my guard as I watched. Dangers lurk in a great film because it's freer than my needs; in fact, it may even have an agenda counter to those needs.Over the years, I've found the caution that Murnau taught me to be a good thing. It has increased my pleasure when my expectations have been fulfilled, and thrilled me like a roller-coaster when thwarted. In either case, I'm reminded I'm merely one of those "little people out there in the dark"; but there's nowhere else I'd rather be. Ed: JH Video39280@blogcritics.org Thu, 10 Nov 2005 18:03:59 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/11/07/152103.php Paul J. MarasaI know I'm as early as a Wal-Mart, but I want to be among the first to check in with my obvious picks for The Two Greatest Christmas Movies: It's a Wonderful Life (1946) and A Christmas Story (1983).Let me quickly add Honorable Mentions: Miracle on 34th Street (1947), The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) -- really more of a Halloween movie, though -- and the Chuck Jones version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas! (1966). Fine work all, but my two picks are the gems in the crown that shine more deeply, and tell us more about American Christmas and the thin red (and green?) line of the Season itself, than any others.Any heft these movies possess comes from a dual source: (1) the brains of their creators--Jean Shepherd (and OK, the director, Bob Clark, who does get many things right) and Frank Capra--and (2) the faces of their protagonists--Ralphie (Peter Billingsley) and George Bailey (James Stewart). In the Shepard/Clark movie, Christmas is bracketed and bookended by a variety of mishaps, malfeasances, and garden-variety meannesses. In fact, Christmas itself is forgotten for relatively lengthy stretches, as Flick's tongue gets glued to a flag pole -- and it hurts to watch, doesn't it? -- and Scut Farkus dishes it out (and takes it), and Randy roots among the cabbages, and a Major Award gets its fifteen minutes of fame, and lug nuts fly like sparks in the night air, while profanities bark and all of one's hard work results in a decoded "crummy commercial."Despite these diversions, what places this movie on the list is its willingness to dip into Shepard's canon and fill out these mock-epic lives, to make us feel they deserve a perfect Christmas morning, with its granting of the wish for once --including of course an eye getting (more or less) shot out --as well as that amazing sequence that moves from innocent delight at a decapitated duck to a still and glowing and perfectly natural moment before the tree.All of it becomes more than whimsy and farce--which good Christmas movies are wont to serve up--and more than heartstrings tugged, but an implanted memory, like all lasting family stories, retold so often the tale becomes the truth; and fiction, you need to know, is truer than fact.Through it all, Billingsley's Hummel-figurine face, at turns beaten down by the adult world -- can anyone ever forget Santa's foot applying just the right pressure to Ralph's forehead to send him sailing down the Horrendously Happy Slide? -- and heart-breakingly confident it will all work out -- and he is right, after all -- reminds us that there is something at stake here: simply the rest of Ralphie's life, which I am convinced will take a course dependent on his foolish Christmas wish, ocular jeopardy or not.All this, plus true hilarity, and flawless performances by Billingsley, Melinda Dillon, and that rough gem, Darren McGavin. I know you've seen this one way too many times, but I triple-dog-dare you to catch it once more between now and the Big Day, and treat yourself to a careful examination of all their faces. Not a single false note, just like a Christmas choir. As Shepard intones about the Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle (with a compass in the stock, for some reason an ineffably beautiful detail), the movie itself becomes "the greatest Christmas gift I ever did or will receive."As for It's a Wonderful Life, it too ignores Christmas for quite a while - in fact, is in many ways not a Christmas movie at all. This is part of its greatness, in that Christmas is entwined in the fabric of George's story, where it becomes more than another episode, but the arena for the deciding moment in George's life. Unlike Ralphie, though, for George the moment is not the granting of a Christmas wish, but the relinquishing of a wish to be - actually, to have ever been at all. Ah, such Buddhistic bliss, to be allowed to meander off into stillness, quietude, and eventual nothingness, a cozy paradox where wakefulness is no longer required because there is no one to awaken. Like the clouds and the birds in "The Walrus and the Carpenter," one would not see George, for there would be no George to see.Of course, George is not allowed to not be. He has lives to save, including his own. Somewhere or other, that sometimes-enlightening curmudgeon of a film critic, David Thompson, argues that It's a Wonderful Life is about the tenuousness of the American Dream, that a small sum of money can spell real ruin, and that George's violent panic, as wide-eyed and horrific as any Greek mask of tragedy, is averted only by a deus ex machina--or would that be populus ex machina, as his neighbors literally heap his salvation before him?It is joyful, to be sure, but Thompson rightly points out the hysteria of the moment, with barely time to hear the bell tinkling out Clarence the angel's ascendancy. George must go on; the evidence of his necessity is too overwhelming, almost as shocking as George's earlier urge to tear it all apart.I think, though, that this film is about something more than a close call.Like A Christmas Story, it insists that Christmas is a culminating moment, or better yet, a fitting space to work out wishes made with conviction AND in haste. For me there is something deeply attractive about the snow scenes of both movies, like Robert Frost's snowy woods--except their snow does not distract from the promises to keep, but punctuates those promises, with an exclamation point or an ellipses, and promises further promises, if you follow me. This is the faith to which these movies testify. Clarence and his twinkly eyes and all that are not where faith rests; they are cute catalysts to get George careening down Main Street, delirious, first with pain, and then joy. And as any moralist will tell you, it's always pain first.I suppose what I love most about these two movies is their willingness to surrender to the notion that one can be both an idealist and a dope. Ralphie and George believe in what the poet G.M. Hopkins calls "the habit of perfection"; the fact that they walk into all kinds of walls because of that belief does not deter them--nor does it detract from the value of cultivating that habit in their drafty, perfect little living rooms. Video39152@blogcritics.org Mon, 7 Nov 2005 15:21:03 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/10/14/062714.php Paul J. Marasa Our fair town received a rare treat last night; we hosted the Midwestern premiere of George Clooney's Good Night, and Good Luck in our own Orpheum Theatre. So here we are, finally exactly like New York and Los Angeles. At least as far as Clooney movies go. Galesburg is the home of Knox College, whose journalism program boasts Marilyn Webb among its faculty; one of her professors was Fred Friendly, played by Clooney in the film, and we were further honored to have the film introduced by Knox's own Bob Jamieson. All in all, a regular single-film movie festival.The movie itself has a beautiful consistency in terms of its subject matter and visual and acting styles. While Edward R. Murrow's on-air joust with Senator Joseph McCarthy is the stuff of TV journalism legend, it was played with an understatement that today seems almost morose. Good Night, and Good Luck is valuable because it reminds us of what American Cool really means. Like Miles Davis and Chet Baker, Murrow and associates perform straight-faced, level-eyed; nobody sweats, and the deadpan wisecrack becomes the only discernible measure of emotion. Watching the film, I was reminded of Apollo 13, another movie in which monumental acts of heroism are performed by semi- (and not so semi-) nerdy guys (and gals, in Clooney's movie) with horn-rimmed glasses and white shirts, people who know their jobs well and do them without drawing undue attention. These are rock-solid types who may be seething underneath, but on top all give us only a square shoulder and a frank gaze. I once saw Miles Davis perform; he wandered around the stage, eventually making his way behind the drumkit, out of sight of the audience. The horn never wavered, but the performer slipped away, never missing a beat. This attitude is captured perfectly in Good Night, and Good Luck, particularly by David Strathairn. While he allows his Murrow an occasional tic of the eye or drawn corner of the mouth, mostly it all comes down to a deep concentration nothing can break. It is an attitude that seems long gone; and the film for me seems to imply that we are in trouble without this cool in the face of the marching morons of politics and broadcast journalism.There is so much to admire about this low-key movie; other reviewers will tell you of the beauties of its black and white--more like nuanced shades of gray--and the single exuberant touch of the jazz combo whose musical numbers throughout the film punctuate key moments. What struck me last night was the movie's ability to make me long for a return to cool in the face of fire. We are always under one Blitz or another; I wish I could take mine with half of Murrow's reassuring immobility. Video37872@blogcritics.org Fri, 14 Oct 2005 06:27:14 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/10/10/212657.php Paul J. MarasaIt's instructive, I think, to note that the director of Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things, Bob Clark, gave us A Christmas Story (1983), which is, along with It's a Wonderful Life (1946), among the greatest Christmas movies. But he has also helmed two Porky's movies, as well as Rhinestone (1984), Loose Cannons (1990) and a couple of Baby Geniuses movies. Yikes.But Clark's checkered career is only the tip of this nasty little iceberg. Children Shouldn't ... may boast a great title in a genre that prides itself on titular extravagance--consider The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Gave Up Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies (1963)--but I'm afraid that's not enough. I'll admit I watch movies like this in part for the unintentional humor, but I have such a genuine affection for horror and SF films that, as much as I enjoy Mystery Science Theater's smug jibes, in the end they seem too easy. And I don't feel I have to lower my sights to appreciate low-budget films. Most fans agree that these movies are of the hand-made variety, so it's OK if a few seams are crooked, so to speak. And besides, to judge them by Hollywood fare marks a surrender to imposed "standards" that Hollywood itself is hard-pressed to live up to. Just ask anyone who's seen Battlefield Earth (2000). No, as many others insist, the Grade-Z genre pictures of the 1970s and before mark a true independent movement; by being cut off from big budgets, they had to rely on actual creativity and imagination.Unfortunately, though, Children Shouldn't ..., well, doesn't. Have any creativity or much of an imagination, that is. I admit it did have just enough budget to produce Night of the Living Dead-style makeup effects (although Night's effects do look better, in large part because they're in B&W. See? Budget isn't the problem). And it had an intriguing story: An egotistical theater director (played by Alan Ormsby, who also wrote the screenplay and the one for Paul Schrader's remake of Cat People; how's that for a tangled web?) and his troupe go to a cemetary island, play with dead things, and naturally get more than they bargained for. There're just enough ideas here to get us through set-up, chills, and The Goods--that is, zombie massacre/just desserts. But I had the instructive experience of watching this last night with someone who has little patience with low-budget horror films, and her silent disapproval and impatience with it all influenced my own reaction. And I must admit she was right. Children Shouldn't ... is annoying, tedious, inappropriately hysterical, and self-indulgent. In a bad way.Let me stress that low budgets and mediocre acting are NOT the problem. The semi-independents of the 1940s and '50s--Val Lewton, Ida Lupino--produced some real gems; and of course any number of filmmakers--George Romero, Tobe Hooper, Chris Kentis (Open Water, 2003), the Blair Witch phenomenon, to name the famous few--have done remarkable work with little time and less money. And let's not forget documentarians and animators, from Errol Morris to Mike Judge, who began their careers on the proverbial shoestring. So "quality" at the surface level is not the issue. Just look at Roger Ebert's list of Worst Movies. Most of them are Hollywood pictures with huge budgets. I agree with him that what we need to see on screen are living breathing imaginations at work.Which is where Children Shouldn't ... falls apart for me. It didn't trust its premise enough and was too self-indulgent, spending much of its overly long (almost 90 minutes) running time hammering us with character "development" and "conflict," when all it needed to do was establish the mood, sketch out the characters, provide space for three short speeches--one for the egoist, another for the rebellious actor, a third for the submissive one--and keep hinting that things are going wrong. Then fifteen minutes of mayhem at the end. Clark only gets the last right; but by then we've been bored and frustrated by the need for his cast to chew up their particular corner of the scenery. Maybe the real problem is timing: Right before Children Shouldn't ... I watched Val Lewton's The Seventh Victim (1943), about bored intellectuals in NYC who become Satanists. The director, Mark Robson, needed only 70 minutes to immerse us completely in a world dominated by a jaded disregard for life, where suicide hangs--literally--in the air, a constant promise and threat, and where no one wins. The movie kills three people in an almost casual manner that is both despairing and subtle, all in the service of a Poe-like concentration on its "single effect": the dreadful inevitability of death. I will at some point devote a separate posting to The Seventh Victim; I bring it up now only to remind we lovers of low-budget horror that one needs talent as well as desire, vision as well as determination. Look at poor Ed Wood. I think Tim Burton gets it right in his biopic: he portays Wood as a man completely dedicated to something for which he had no talent. The so-called "turkeys" that resulted were foregone conclusions, and although they might not deserve our scorn, I don't think they can be praised. I'm afraid I have to say the same for Bob Clark's debut film. (NOTE: Believe it or not, someone seems to be backing a remake of Children Shouldn't ... . I look forward to being proved wrong.) ED/PUB:LM Video37716@blogcritics.org Mon, 10 Oct 2005 21:26:57 EDT