Blogcritics

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, 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.

Movie Review: Closely Watched Trains

Lucas McNelly — Wed, 6 Sep 2006 05:28:59 EDT

Latest in a long history of people who's chief ambition is to get through life by doing as little work as possible, young Milos Hrma (Václav Neckár) prepares for his first day working in a railroad station by recounting his family's history, from his father's penchant for laying on a couch all day and collecting a pension to his grandfather the hypnotist and his futile attempt to stop the German troops through hypnosis. At the station he befriends Hubicka (Josef Somr), the resident Casanova, who advises him on the process by which he can lose his virginity to his girlfriend Masa (Jitka Bendová), a conductress on one of the trains. His attempts in that regard prove to be far too eager, and a distressed Milos, thinking something must be wrong with him, tries to kill himself. But with a girl as beautiful as Masa, anyone would try again. Meanwhile, Hubicka's latest seduction comes under scrutiny from the German military. Despite the ongoing war, director Jirí Menzel portrays Czechoslovakia as a country obsessed with sex. War is but a minor inconvenience. Even when a bomb destroys the photography studio of Masa's uncle, it has little impact on the characters or the narrative and Menzel spends as little time on it as possible, opting instead to move immediately to Milos' suicide attempt. And why not? When you're in a remote railroad post in the middle of Czechoslovakia where nothing happens except the passing of trains, it's easy to find the terrors of love much more troubling than the horrors of an abstract war. It's only when the war comes a little closer to home, when the bombs actually destroy the building you're in, it even warrants a mention.That's not to say Milos and Hubicka are ambivalent about the whole thing. On the contrary, when the resistance comes to their door, they are more than willing to help out even if that means blowing up one of their closely watched trains.But ostre sledované vlaky isn't about war, it's about Milos coming into his own as a man. Václav Neckár plays Milos as a boy who's sexual inexperience informs everything about him, from the way he does his job to the way he relates to people around him, both male and female. Neckár's Milos is timid and unsure, an innocent terrified of the world around him. He so wants to become a man that when he fails on his first attempt, he assumes the failure to be a sign he will never be able to perform and goes to a bordello where, instead of employing a prostitute, he cuts his wrists in the bath. He is so despondent it isn't until a doctor informs him that premature ejaculation is perfectly normal -- a symptom of being "too healthy" -- and he should practice with an older woman of ill repute and think of football. Not being a doctor, I can't be certain but I doubt this is what they tell people to say in medical school.When he does find one, finally and after asking nearly everyone he encounters to set him up, he emerges a new man - composed, assured, and confident. Suddenly he fills the screen. Jirí Menzel enhances the transformation, equating him to his mentor by evoking shots early in the film where Hubicka enjoys the memories of his latest conquest. No longer does Menzel continually put Milos in the bottom of the screen where he can be easily dominated by the other characters. Instead, Milos is given equal billing, existing on the same plane as everyone else -- a sure cinematic sign of maturity.What Menzel does in his Academy Award winning film for Best Foreign Language film -- beating out Claude Lelouch's Vivre pour vivre (1967), Chieko-sho (1967), Skupljaci perja (1967), and El Amor brujo (1967) -- is infuse every frame with a virginal eroticism that mirrors the preoccupation of his hero. Seen through Milos' mindset everything is sexual, yet nothing advances past a certain point. There is no sex education for Milos, who is continually stymied in his quest for knowledge by a hastily closed curtain or an urgent telegraph or some other interruption. But it's not just Milos who sees everything as sexual. There's Hubicka to be sure, but also their boss, Zdenka (Jitka Zelenohorská) the telegraph operator with whom Hubicka has a particularly explicit fling, and virtually every other character in ostre sledované vlaky. This begs the question: why is everything sexual in Menzel's film? Is it because Milos is preoccupied with sex, or is it because Menzel is trying to make a certain statement about the futility of war? Or is it a combination of the above?

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

Movie Review: Lawrence of Arabia

Lucas McNelly — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 18:17:09 EDT

Widely hailed as a triumph of the cinema and occasionally listed in dictionaries as the definition of an epic[1], Lawrence of Arabia is the type of grand, large-scale filmmaking few attempt and even fewer accomplish. Peter O'Toole, in his film debut, stars as T.E. Lawrence, a British military officer who has just died in a motorcycle accident and has been enshrined in one of those hallowed places the British seem to like so much[2]. The film operates largely as a biopic of Lawrence's life, focusing primarily on his time in the Arabian desert leading sparse bands of Arabs in guerrilla warfare against the hated Turkish army. To do so he must gain the trust of Prince Feisal (Alec Guinness) and his loyal military leader Serif Ali (Omar Sharif), in addition to Auda abu Tayi (Anthony Quinn), a sort of hired gun paid by the Turks. He quickly becomes their de facto leader after engineering a suicidal mission across the desert, but success goes to his head. He develops a Messiah complex and his quirks and eccentricities, while amusing at first, start to become worrisome. As anyone who's even heard of Lawrence of Arabia will tell you, the film exists as an example of the power of cinematography in telling a story. Freddie Young won one of the film's seven Academy Awards[3] for his work, which is nothing short of beautiful, and even more impressive when you consider the logistical difficulties of working in a desert where the sand is omnipresent, constantly inserting itself in cameras and film bags and a variety of places one can only imagine. There is, for the most part, a refreshing lack of matte drawings and other such tricks. Instead, the cinematography shows the desert for what it is: a harsh, unending wilderness, barren and cruel. Director David Lean takes care to, whenever possible, remind us just how small his characters really are in comparison, employing shots where a great man is merely a speck in the distance. Many have pointed out that the film often feels like it was composed with the care of a painting. Lawerence of Arabia was one of the last films shot entirely on 70 mm film stock[4]; consequently, it is a film that is best viewed in a theatre, where the images can overwhelm you, rather than on a DVD player in your living room. Unfortunately, I must resort to the latter. This, I suspect, may have had a negative impact on my viewing experience.At no time did Lawrence of Arabia take my breath away, instead coming across as a polite examination of a flawed man. The images, from which I expected greatness, felt surprisingly ordinary at times. The sound mixing, while quite good in the desert, borders on awful during the interior scenes in the film's first third. Whether this is a result of the transfer to DVD or not is a question that I cannot answer, and therefore an issue I cannot discount[5]. Particularly bothersome is a scene after the attack on Aqaba. Lawrence and Serif ride their camels to the ocean, a symbolic moment after the long, impossible journey through the desert, and Serif tosses some flowers into the surf. Lawrence scoops them up and Lean cuts to a medium shot of Lawrence very clearly standing in front of a poorly executed rear projection of the ocean. Serif, in his matching shot, is doing the same. After all these beautiful, gimmick-free shots in the desert, the rear projection looks positively awful. Awful enough to take me out of the film for a couple of minutes. Honestly, I don't know if it ever completely got me back. This begs the question, is it fair to judge an entire film based on a single sequence? In my opinion, if it's something that is so out of place that you still remember it the next day, then the filmmakers have not done their job. Lawrence of Arabia is, chiefly, a biopic, so we would be remiss to not discuss the person of T.E. Lawrence and his portrayal in the film. Structured around the personal writings of Lawrence, which he self-published for 120 of his close friends, it is an examination of one man's downward spiral into a type of madness, all the while gaining fame and prestige. Peter O'Toole portrays him as an eccentric sort, intelligent and quirky and noble and a little bit effeminate[6]. O'Toole's role is not an easy one, as he must play a character who must experience a substantial number of the extremes in the human experience. This is a man who was a British Officer lauded for his exploits, but also a man who nearly died in the desert, was beaten by Turks, nearly went mad, and developed a repulsive affection for killing. O'Toole is exceptional in portraying each of these emotions, but at times he seems to be unsure where he is in the film's timeline, that is the character does not build and develop as effectively as he could[7]. It should also be noted that the film gives me the feeling that Lawrence, in his writings, isn't being completely honest with us (or himself, perhaps). Something about the progression of the character just doesn't fit. One minute he's in the desert, ready to take over the world, and the next he's begging for a desk job where he can do paperwork the rest of his life. Then, just as abruptly, he's back in control. Clearly there's something wrong with him psychologically, but the film never makes an effort to discover what that is. It is content to present us with a Lawrence that is simply flawed for no discernible reason. Whether it is that Lawrence himself lacks the ability (or the stomach) to fully explore the depths of who he is, or the film is too respectful of him to make such assumptions, or something else altogether remains to be seen. But the result is a character who the audience never sees as three-dimensional with motives and honest emotions. What we see is a cross between the man in the newspaper and the real thing, as played by a Shakespearian actor who sometimes looks as if he's just come out of his trailer.All of this makes Lawrence of Arabia sound like rubbish, like some overrated piece of cinema that hasn't aged well for the new millennium. It isn't. There are a hundred reasons to love Lawrence of Arabia, from the cinematography to the score to the script to the direction to the performances of Omar Sharif and Anthony Quinn. And there are just as many reviews out there that will tell you as much, but I can only speak from my experience of how the film played when I watched it on DVD in my apartment late on a Wednesday night. When all was said and done, it was a film that I respected more than I liked. I never felt I was watching great cinema unfurl on screen as much as an expertly-made epic with little emotional investment on my part. It reminded me of the collected works of Anthony Minghella[8], a director who's films always feel just a little too long and a little too clean. They don't feel alive, and neither does this. It misses greatness by the smallest of margins.[1] I have no idea if that's true, but it could be.[2] The film doesn't tell us where that is, as it apparently isn't all that important, and I'm too lazy to figure it out for myself. It could be a British Military Hall of Fame, if they have such a thing.[3] The other six were: Best Art Direction-Set Decoration, Best Director, Best Film Editing, Best Original Score, Best Picture, and Best Sound. It was also nominated for Best Actor in a Leading Role (Peter O'Toole), Best Actor in a Supporting Role (Omar Sharif), and Best Adapted Screenplay.[4] It was the intention of Terrence Malick to do the same for The New World (2005), but financial considerations made that impossible.[5] To elaborate: certain scenes of dialogue were lost and had to be later re-recorded by O'Toole, et al., for the film's theatrical re-release. This could explain the early scenes that sounded as if they were mixed by a freshman film major. However, the problem seemed larger than some basic ADR, so I must assume the problem existed all along, at least in some form. It isn't a major problem, but one worth noting.[6] There is considerable speculation that Lawrence was gay. Obviously a big-budget movie in 1962 wasn't going to go there.[7] Still, O'Toole got a well-deserved Oscar nomination for the role, the first of seven, all for leading roles. He has, however, yet to win. The other six were: Becket (1964), The Lion in Winter (1968), Goodbye, Mr. Chips (1969), The Ruling Class (1972), The Stunt Man (1980), and my personal favorite, My Favorite Year (1982).[8] He of The English Patient (1996), The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999), and Cold Mountain (2003).Starring: Peter O'Toole, Alec Guinness, Anthony Quinn, Omar Sharif, and Claude RainsWritten by: Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, based on the writings of T.E. LawrenceDirected by: David LeanNR, 216 min, 1962, UK

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

Movie Review: Andrey Rublyov

Lucas McNelly — Wed, 5 Jul 2006 15:45:54 EDT

Gather round, kids, for a three hour Tarkovsky film about the life and times of Russia's greatest iconographer, Andrey Rublyov (Anatoli Solonitsyn), famed painter of the icons in the Cathedral of the Annunciation in Moscow, the Assumption Cathedral in Vladimir, and the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. Subtitled The Passion of Andrey, Tarkovsky's film uses the historical figure of Rublyov to explore the various conditions of a life in 15th century Russia, from a man hoping to fly in a hot-air balloon, to the creative process of a iconographer, to the machinations of casting a bell for a church steeple. The Soviet Union, unimpressed with the film's religious themes, refused to allow an official release of Andrey Rublyov[1]. Most of the film's main characters are of a monastic tradition and prone to long diatribes concerning moral virtue and full of passages of Scripture, but it's clear that film isn't endorsing a religious tradition, not does it seem to be condemning it. Rather, Tarkovsky seems interested in presenting his monks with challenges to their faith, to test it by fire. En route to a commission, Rublyov encounters a pagan ceremony celebrating the virtues of love. He chastises them for their immorality, an act which gets him tied up against timbers that form the shape of a cross, and is subsequently seduced by a nude Marfa (N. Snegina) after his preaching proves ineffective. He resists, maintaining his virtue, but the encounter (along with the attack of the pagans by the army the next day) stirs something deep inside Rublyov that forces him to the motives behind his work. He delays the commissioned painting of the Last Judgment by two months while he attempts to reconcile his beliefs with his interaction with the pagans and when he finally does complete the painting, only to see the Tartans attack and burn it to the ground, he kills a man. The entire event is traumatic enough to cause Rublyov to swear off painting.Later, after the plague has done a good deal of damage to the populace, the Prince sends for a bell maker, but the only one remaining is Boriska (Nikolai Burlyayev), a mere child who claims his father told him the secret of bell-making on his deathbed. Unlike his father, Boriska rules the workers with an iron fist. Suddenly flush with power, he allows it to go to his head, demanding more silver from the Prince and not permitting any step of the process to move forward without him. He's in over his head and his response is to attempt to control everything, to feel vital to the task at hand as a means for masking his own shortcomings. Rublyov watches all of this with interest, recognizing perhaps the youthful arrogance of his own artistic endeavors.Being a Tarkovsky film, Andrey Rublyov alternates between scenes where a great deal happens--long, complicated stretches that are littered with meaning, yet obtuse--and scenes where nothing much happens at all. For most western audiences, this requires some amount of adjustment, and even then the film is difficult to understand at best. It's a work best experienced by multiple viewings, but the inherent difficulty in a single viewing makes for a steep learning curve. All that is to say that I'm still not entirely sure what Andrey Rublyov is exactly. The only thing I know with any certainty is that numerous scenes were undeniably brilliant. Beyond that, all I can speak about with any authority is what I took from the experience.You could easily make the argument that much of Andrey Rublyovis a metaphor for the filmmaking process, but such a statement probably diminishes it, as the film is just too dense to be simplified so easily. Clearly, Tarkovsky is working in metaphors here, but he's also shining a light on what it meant to be a Russian in the fifteenth century in a world where religion dominated every aspect of society, where a jester could be imprisoned for the smallest infraction but a iconographer could delay for months under various pretenses. Ultimately, though, I think much of Andrey Rublyovboils down to the struggle to create something, to use that God-given talent to the best of your ability, and failing any actual talent, doing what you can to create something lasting. It's interesting to note that Rublyov, who has the most talent of anyone in the film, is the one least concerned with how people perceive him. Boriska wants desperately to be respected, as does Kirill (Ivan Lapikov), one of the other iconographers, but Rublyov seems to care mostly about his artistic process, about painting what he wishes to paint, regardless of what some Prince has commissioned. Is that really just Tarkovsky taking a stab at the Soviet political machine? Probably, but I imagine there's a lot more going on as well. The thing about Tarkovsky is you can never really be sure.******************[1] The film was offensive enough (thanks to the violence and nudity and the horse killed on-screen) outside of Russian borders to ensure that by the time it reached the United States it had lost roughly an hour from the original runtime. Tarkovsky's original cut (or, as close as anyone can get) was secretly preserved under a bed.Starring: Anatoli Solonitsyn, Ivan Lapikov, Nikolai Sergeyev, and Nikolai BurlyayevWritten by: Andrei Konchalovsky and Andrei Tarkovsky Directed by: Andrei Tarkovsky NR, 205 min, 1969, Soviet Union

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

DVD Review: A Hard Day's Night

Lucas McNelly — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 02:28:36 EDT

A faux documentary of a typical day in the life of the Fab Four, Richard Lester's A Hard Day's Night captures Beatlemania in full force as our heroes prepare for a television appearance. With Paul's grandfather (Wilfrid Brambell), a "very clean"[1] old mixer, causing trouble along the way, they escape hordes of screaming girls, visit a nightclub, and bust Ringo out of jail, while occasionally taking time to perform one of their new songs, of course. It is, from beginning to end, a delightful lark. Our intrepid heroes play themselves (or at very least versions of themselves as presented by screenwriter Alun Owen) as four boys who want nothing more than to enjoy life. While everyone else around them is focused on the task at hand, the Fab Four are more interested in hitting on girls, playing cards on a train, and goofing off in a field when they're supposed to be preparing for the show. They seem unconcerned with mundane tasks like answering fan mail or rehearsing and show little regard for how they're perceived by the world at large. There's a memorable scene where George Harrison, having been mistaken for a member of a focus group, willingly sits down and gives his opinion on some shirts and the model for some fashion line. He doesn't bother to tell them who he is and they fail to notice. It's one of the film's delightful quirks that they are either mobbed by screaming fans or go completely unnoticed. But these people in the fashion industry never realize they are talking to one of the most famous people in the entire country, and since his opinion doesn't mesh with their market research, they dismiss it out of hand as the work of a troublemaker.What's perhaps most remarkable about A Hard Day's Night is just how comfortable the Beatles are in front of a camera. With the influx of MTV and VH1 and the like, we tend to forget that in 1964, it was a rare thing for a musician to be on TV and rarer still for them to appear in any capacity other than a performance. So for all four of them to come off so well in an actual film where they are required to act is no small feat. But even beyond that, they are not just passable, they're actually good. Better, in fact, than some real actors[2]. The film takes time to give each of them a storyline with which to work, from Paul's interactions with his grandfather to George's focus group to Ringo's diversion to live life and subsequent arrest, but the best of the lot is John Lennon, who has an ongoing feud with the band's manager, Norm (Norman Rossington). It is a simple feud. Norm wants the band to stay put, be well-behaved, and generally act as mature model citizens. John, being a born troublemaker, attempts to make this as difficult as possible. He misbehaves at every opportunity, and while it certainly is a childish way to be, it has the dual effect of humanizing him. As the band's de facto leader (and eventual martyr), there was always a mystique around Lennon, but the film contrasts that by showing him as nothing more than a big kid. Particularly in a scene where he's taking a bath and, as little kids are prone to do, is focused more on playing with his toy ship than anything else. It's easy to see why half the world was in love with him.It would have been simple for director Richard Lester to just follow the Beatles around with a camera, and with the state of Beatlemania in full effect, he probably would have been guaranteed a hit. But it's obvious from the beginning that Lester put a lot of care into making the best film he possibly could. Lester strives to not only capture the essence (such as it is) of the Fab Four and Beatlemania, but also of the culture as a whole. He constantly creates scenarios where his protagonists are cast opposite the straight members of society, and at every instance they find some way belittle it, or at very least have a good time. They are unwilling to conform, and as an audience we love them all the more for it. Also worth noting is that in a film like this, done largely as a documentary, you'd expect it to be noticeably flawed, for there to be stretches where the film lags and generally starts to lose momentum. It's a problem so inherent in this type of film, but somehow A Hard Day's Night avoids that pitfall. Partly because of the raw charisma of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, but mostly because from top to bottom this is an expertly-made film. Without question it is the standard-bearer of the genre. But beyond that, I cannot imagine someone with any amount of appreciation for the Beatles or their music who would not thoroughly enjoy this film. *****************[1] Brambell is not, as you might have guessed, Paul McCartney's real grandfather. He is an actor famous in the UK for playing a "dirty old man" in the TV series Steptoe and Son (1962), which was later turned into Sanford and Son (1972) when it journeyed across the pond to the colonies. [2] The British Academy seemed to think so too, nominated them for a BAFTA as Most Promising Newcomer to Leading Film Roles. They lost to Julie Andrews for Mary Poppins (1964), but there's no shame in that. The film was also nominated for two Oscars in Best Original Screenplay and Best Music Adaptation or Treatment. They didn't win those either.Starring: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo StarrWritten by: Alun OwenDirected by: Richard LesterNR, 87 min, 1964, UK

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

Movie Review: Once Upon a Time in the West

Lucas McNelly — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 12:29:05 EDT

As Jill McBain (Claudia Cardinale) rides the train west to join her new husband at the start of Once Upon a Time in the West, he is gunned down by the notorious Frank (Henry Fonda), a ruthless villain after McBain's considerable fortune. Upon arrival, she learns the gruesome details of the murder and desires nothing more than to sell her inheritance at an auction controlled by Frank. But an unlikely team of Harmonica (Charles Bronson) and Cheyenne (Jason Robards) work together to block Frank's power grab.At first glance, this seems to be a somewhat standard plot for a western, but in reality it isn't. What's written above is the Cliff Notes version, condensed and simplified for your convenience. The actual plot, as it unfolds during the course of the film, is a great deal more complicated. The alliances of the three men in regards to each other or the woman are constantly in flux, never approaching a state where you can definitively say who is in cahoots with whom.Naturally, this tends to be a point of confusion that isn't helped by Sergio Leone's unwillingness to provide any more backstory than is absolutely necessary. So the audience spends a lot of time trying to figure out who's going to kill whom, which depending on your point of view is either a brilliant choice by Leone or a terrible one. If you view it as brilliant, then the argument is probably that in the wild west allegiances are always in flux, no one is to be trusted, and it adds to the general suspense of the film. All of these things are true. At the same time, this leaves Leone free to ignore basic things like character development and dialogue for his specialty - wide, beautiful landscape shots with a transition to a close-up of someone's eyes.And there are a lot of close-ups of people's eyes, usually complimented by squinting. Call it the Clint Eastwood effect.The credits contain three "story by" credits, which is a lot for a film that doesn't contain much actual story, so allow me propose a theory on how this particular idea was born. Leone, in the process of trying to make Once Upon a Time in America (1984) was told by the studios that they wouldn't fund it unless he made another western for them to capitalize on the box office success of his Fistfull of Dollars trilogy.So, being frustrated with the constraints of the studio system, he did what any great filmmaker would do. He rounded up two of his fellow Italian filmmakers -- Bernardo Bertolucci, best known for Ultimo tango a Parigi (1972), and Dario Argento, a rather well-known director of thrillers and father of the actress Asia Argento -- and headed for the bar. There, they came up with the outline of a story that Leone could turn into a western on par with his earlier works. But, they didn't bother to fully flesh out the story[3], figuring Leone could just fill in the gaps with landscapes and close-ups and music and the rest of his bag of tricks. And they were right, to an extent, but I think the film suffers a bit upon close inspection.As a result, C'era una volta il West is, above all else, a classic example of style over substance. The prime instance is the opening sequence of three gunmen waiting for a train. Leone uses nothing but natural sounds (and a couple flies) to build the suspense of these men simply waiting. We assume they aren't going to welcome whoever is on the train, but we have no idea who that person is, why they are waiting for him, or what exactly they plan to do with him.So when the train arrives and no one emerges, we let our guard down for a moment, only to find Harmonica has gotten off on the other side. They stare each other down the way people do in westerns and Harmonica kills all of them. It's an undeniably cool way to start a film. From there on out it's one cool scene after another -- some of them merely fun, some of them breathtaking -- but few of them spend any time strengthening the film's core, so if you fail to buy fully into the cool factor, Once Upon a Time in the West can tend to leave you cold. There are only so many times you can look at someone's eyes without being able to look deeper before it gets repetitive, and Leone crosses that line a couple of times.Technically speaking, this is a better film than Il Buono, il brutto, il cattivo (1966), but that's primarily due to the budgets. What Once Upon a Time in the West (C'era una volta il West) lacks is what Il Buono, il brutto, il cattivo had in spades: a raw energy that made the film feel alive.And while West has some amazing moments, it occasionally has the feel of a great director coasting along, killing time until he can make the film he really wants to. In short, he's too proud to make a bad film, but his heart just isn't in it. So, what could have been amazing is merely very, very good. Definitely worth watching multiple times, but not quite up to the standards of greatness.Starring: Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson, Jason Robards, and Claudia Cardinale Written by: Sergio Leone & Sergio Donati, from the story by Leone & Dario Argento & Bernardo Bertolucci Directed by: Sergio Leone M, 165 min, 1968, Italy/USA

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

Movie Review: Psycho

Lucas McNelly — Mon, 12 Jun 2006 13:06:30 EDT

NOTE: This review will discuss the film's ending. If you haven't yet seen it, beware.The film that made a generation wary of the shower[1], Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho is a landmark of cinema, one of the high-water marks for the man many consider to be one of the greatest directors in history. Janet Leigh stars at Marion Crane, a rather ordinary secretary who one day decides to steal $40,000 from her boss and run off with her unsuspecting boyfriend. After napping on the side of the road, she arouses the suspicion of the local authorities, but nothing comes of it. Nearly in the clear, she stops on a rainy night at the secluded Bates Motel. She rents a room, shares a pleasant enough discussion with Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins), the son of the hotel's owner. Then, she is brutally murdered[2]. Meanwhile, back in Phoenix, Crane's boss starts to worry, both about his secretary and his cash, so he sends a private eye (Martin Balsam) looking for her.While a great number of people would like to forget it ever happened, there's no denying that Psycho was remade in 1998 by indie auteur Gus Van Sant. Employing a shot-by-shot approach and starring Vince Vaughn and Anne Heche, the re-make is generally considered to be a horrific travesty, but has some value for our purposes[3]. One would assume that a shot-by-shot remake would approximate the quality of the original, at least to some extent. It doesn't. So what does this tell us about film? Well, for one, one could argue that the contributions of actors holds more value than originally assumed. After all, that's the major variable at play. Beyond that, though, it suggests that perhaps film is an art form where genius lies between the shots. That is, if the shots are identical and the script is identical, then what does it do to the auteur theory? Van Sant is no slouch of a director[4], so you have to wonder if his remake indicates that perhaps we're spending too much time analyzing the specifics of a shot, if perhaps there isn't something larger at play that conventional criticism can't put a finger on. It is, at the very least, something to ponder.As for the masterpiece, to fully understand the impact Psycho had when it was originally in theatres, you have to know a little of the backstory. Hitchcock purchased the option to Robert Bloch's little-known novel without telling anyone, then proceeded to buy every available copy he could find. During the production, which was filmed under the fake title Wimpy, he planted casting rumors in the press that he was considering Helen Hays for the non-existent role of Mother, had a chair on set reserved for the character, and went to the trouble of billing Janet Leigh as the film's lead, despite the fact that she dies in the early going. Effectively this created two stunning plot twists with the dual benefit of being completely unexpected both in the context of the film and in the reality of anyone familiar with the various Hollywood machinations of casting. Few expect the lead to die in the first half of the film and fewer still expect the casting rumors to involve a character that is a figment of another character's madness.Part of what makes Leigh's death scene so powerful is that the film never gives us any indication that it isn't going to be about her theft of the money. It invests a great deal of energy in developing her story. From the opening scene of her in a hotel room with her lover, to the nerve-racking encounters with the police, we are completely behind her as a protagonist. So when Hitchcock kills her, revealing the theft as the ultimate MacGuffin[5], it has the ability to take your breath away, but the way Hitchcock films it - with quick cuts and lots of screaming - creates one of the most harrowing scenes ever put on film. It is such a vivid scene that many audience members swore they saw red blood washing down the drain, when in fact the film is done entirely in black and white. With the protagonist gone, the audience is left scrambling, open to suggestion and manipulation and all sorts of trickery. So we focus on the relationship between Norman Bates and his mother, or what we believe to be his mother. Hitchcock wisely gives us only as much information as is absolutely necessary for us to be convinced of her existence - a shrill voice, a silhouette in a window, a shadowy figure in a dress - but none that might suggest otherwise. Yet the ending survives our suspension of disbelief, partly due to the psychiatrist's explanation but largely thanks to the performance of Anthony Perkins, who is nearly flawless as the boy with the Oedipal complex. He's a friendly enough person, perfectly comfortable with small talk, but note the slight shift in his eyes when someone mentions his mother. He reflects both devotion and a quiet desperation, but more importantly goes from helpful to protective. It should be clear that he's got something to hide, but the devotion to one's mother can be a fierce one, so a son protecting his mother's health isn't all that insane. Only, in this case, it is.To me, one of the most powerful aspects of Psycho is the way the film presents two false realities without undercutting the impact or validity of what's truly going on. So often a twist ending is either telegraphed well in advance by excess foreshadowing or so far-fetched that no reasonable person would ever believe it. But Psycho manages to avoid both pitfalls, striking a perfect balance where it is both shocking and realistic. Factor in Hitchcock's unique ability to ratchet up tension shot by shot and what you've got is a top-notch thriller the likes of which most films can only dream of duplicating, even if they duplicate everything else.[1] According to IMDB.com, Hitchcock received a letter from a father angry because his daughter, who had already sworn off baths after seeing Les Diaboliques (1955), would no longer take a shower after seeing Psycho. Hitchcock's response? "Send her to the dry cleaners."[2] It isn't any old film that can have a brutal murder qualify as a standard plot point. But, with Hitchcock, anything is possible. [3] Full disclosure: I actually saw the remake before I saw the original, back when it was in theatres, on a date (the fact that I took a date to Psycho should tell you something about how the relationship turned out). I remember thinking Vince Vaughn was actually pretty good in the Anthony Perkins role, but Anne Heche was pretty terrible. I imagine she was cast, in part, for her short blonde hair.[4] He's best known for Good Will Hunting (1997), but is also responsible for Gerry (2002), Elephant (2003), Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1993), My Own Private Idaho (1991), and Drugstore Cowboy (1989). It's a pretty impressive filmography, for the most part. [5] Basically a Hitchcockian red herring.Starring: Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, Vera Miles, and Martin BalsamWritten by: Joseph Stefano, based on the novel by Robert BlochDirected by: Alfred HitchcockNR, 109 min, 1960, USA

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

DVD Review: Persona

Lucas McNelly — Wed, 7 Jun 2006 12:49:16 EDT

Ingmar Bergman's Persona opens with a barrage of images, none of them pleasant, designed to put an audience on edge. Or perhaps the goal is give the casual filmgoer a chance to leave before the difficult subject matter arrives. Either way, they appear to be unrelated to the narrative of Persona, or maybe they're everything. Hard to say for sure. Some of them are Freudian, some comic, some famous, and a few are just weird, but Bergman's trying to establish something here, be it a reminder that this is all just a movie, or an indication of what's to come, or a feeling of unease. Whatever his motives, it's an effective sequence, as it tends to get different reactions from different audience members, to the point that no one can seem to agree what Bergman's trying to do.What follows is the a story of Sister Alma (Bibi Andersson), a young nurse put in charge of the care of Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann), a famous actress who has inexplicably stopped talking. By all accounts she is not sick, nor is she emotionally damaged, she just refuses to talk. So Alma does the talking for her, revealing more and more until it's difficult to see the line where Alma ends and Elisabeth begins. This culminates in the film's most famous image: a split screen combination of Ullmann and Andersson, made to appear as if they are one person. Then, we get another barrage of images. It is, to be completely honest, a little off-putting and weird.[1]So let's assume that's Bergman's desired effect -- to put us on edge and creep us out a little bit -- and go from there. What we get is a compelling dynamic between Andersson and Ullmann, two actresses at the top of their profession, in a film that can't help but showcase their talents. Save for a few brief appearances by a nurse (Margaretha Krook) and Elisabeth's husband (Gunnar Björnstrand), this is a two-woman show that relies heavily on the abilities of the leads, and they are more than capable. Andersson appears to have the more difficult role of the two, as she has all the dialogue, talking for long stretches about everything and anything, partly as a means of filling the silence, but partly, I assume, because it's cathartic. After a while, though, the catharsis is no longer enough and she begs Ullmann to speak, to say anything at all. Naturally, this is triggered by something, but more than that it's just a culmination of being with someone for weeks and never hearing them speak.The highlight of Andersson's monologue is a story she hasn't even told her fiance, one involving a female friend, a nude beach, and two very curious teenage boys. It is a charged, erotic scene we are never shown, but Andersson is so vivid in the telling of it, that you'd swear it was done in flashback. The entire infidelity occurs while her fiance is at town for the day, yet she does not hesitate to cheat. And the film being a Bergman film, we don't spend time questioning the moral implications of her act, for it is enough that the act was committed in the first place. Liv Ullmann, her audience, does not judge, does not react violently, she does not even seem mildly surprised. She just takes it all in, silently smoking and listening, a perfect sounding board.[2]But why? Is Ullmann studying her, preparing for her next role? Or is the entire thing a dream, and if so, who's? It's possible that the two women are actually two halves of the same person, hence the split-screen final shot. The way Ullmann plays the character, she gives the impression that she knows, but isn't telling. As does Bergman in his camera choices, which are all very clean, composed, and beautifully lit by legendary cinematographer Sven Nykvist. But part of the appeal of Persona is that neither the film, nor the filmmakers, seem inclined to tell you what's going on, and that open-ended question mark adds more power than a hundred answers. Everything seems likely, even the extremely unlikely, and by keeping us guessing, Bergman keeps us watching, time and time again.******************[1] And I love Bergman, but the images sort of creep me out.[2] One thing the film doesn't really get into is the fact that a perfectly silent person can get more information out of someone than a person asking questions. This is probably how Andersson opens up to Ullmann.Starring: Bibi Andersson, Liv Ullmann, Margaretha Krook, and Gunnar BjörnstrandWritten and directed by: Ingmar BergmanNR, 83 min, 1966, Sweden

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

DVD Review: A Clockwork Orange

Lucas McNelly — Fri, 2 Jun 2006 12:38:22 EDT

Listen, my dear brothers, to a review of a tale most vile, full of the old in-out and other such nastiness. A tale in which Alex (Malcolm McDowell), our faithful narrator and leader, is imprisoned for the accidental killing of a person and later conditioned by his government to abhor sex and violence, but also the glorious music of Ludwig Van. Sometimes karma can be a cruel, cruel mistress. Sometimes it can be poetic. But, my dear brothers, we must never forget that it is always in play.So learns Alex after his release from prison. Cured of his predilection toward sex and violence, he encounters the victims of his earlier transgressions only to find that people's forgiveness depend little for his cure or the fact that he's paid his debt to society. The wounds Alex has inflicted are deep, so it's little surprise when his victims exact their revenge because, deep down, they are no better than Alex. Freed from restraint by a feeling of righteous indignation, they are able to expose their true selves, as dirty and nasty and vile as Alex in his prime, only now Alex has been so conditioned that he cannot even fight back. He is defenseless, begging for mercy. It's doubtful that this was a desired effect of the conditioning, so you have to wonder: if the government takes away Alex's ability to defend himself and sends him out in a society that hates his very existence and distrusts this so-called cure, does perhaps the punishment exceeds the crime? Taking nothing else into consideration, possibly. But when you factor in the conditioning against the perfectly natural sexual appetite and the music of Ludwig Van Beethoven, then it's clear the government has gone too far. There's little question that's part of the film's message, but to what end? The Prison Chaplain (Godfrey Quigley), as close to a voice of morality as A Clockwork Orange gets, argues before the review board that, due to the conditioning, "He ceases also to be a creature capable of moral choice." He's right, of course, as the Pavlovian approach to morality takes away the subject's humanity, reducing him to nothing more than a castrated animal. He's pitiful, really, which is a stunning turn of events considering his actions in the first half of the film. A great deal of that change relies on the acting abilities of McDowell, who's amazing in the role.[1]Part of what made A Clockwork Orange so controversial upon its initial release[2], is that switch wherein Alex goes from hated to pitied. Kubrick presents us with a protagonist and narrator who is essentially an uber-villain -- a gang leader who picks fights with rival gangs, beats up a homeless man, orchestrates a gang rape, and has a three-way with two teenage girls. There is no code of ethics by which he could be considered a good person. But, he is a clever and charming young man who serenades his rape victims with "Singin' in the Rain" and has a strange, unexplained fascination with Beethoven. It's difficult to reconcile that this likable young man could be capable of such atrocities, which is partly what Kubrick's going for here. Take Alex out of his odd white outfit and into some normal clothes and he looks no different than anyone else his age. Only at night he lets his inner demons run wild, where the rest of society has decided to suppress them. But the solution of just taking the demons away isn't a solution at all, because the demons are vital to who we are. Think of it as a ying and yang approach to the soul of man. Without that battle between good and evil we have nothing but an empty, boring wasteland. And that's not a life worth living.[3]A Clockwork Orange, like so many of Stanley Kubrick's films, is an acquired taste. It is a bold, daring piece of cinema that aims to provoke a reaction in the belief that it is better to be found spectacularly bad than dull. Thankfully, it is neither. Kubrick paints in broad, provocative strokes, muting nothing in the frame. He employs a broad range of colors and flourishes that give the film a vibrant and raw feel, as if you're watching the characters and images explode off the screen. Alex mentions during one of his sessions that "the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen," so Kubrick does his best to make them seem really real, from Mum's hair to the red outfit of the woman being raped to the flashing lights of the record store. Couple that with the wide-angle lenses Kubrick is fond of, the slang bordering on gibberish[4], the numerous phallic symbols, and the occasional intentional continuity error, and the entire film is a bit disorienting and unnerving. It's designed to put you slightly on edge. Of course, A Clockwork Orange isn't for everyone. It's an X-rated film that contains rape scenes and torture and pretty much anything that could make someone uncomfortable, but it's also a brilliant film with grand ambitions. Sure the film's message gets a little muddled near the end, and it isn't always clear what the intention is, and it tends to occasionally lose its way, but that isn't a reason to discount it. Thanks in large part to Kubrick, A Clockwork Orange feels like jazz, and because of that it feels alive, and a flawed film that feels alive is always preferable to a by-the-numbers one that's dull, especially when it's directed by a genius.[1] His performance is often noted as one of the best to never be nominated for an Academy Award. He was also snubbed by the British Academy. The film received four Oscar nominations: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Editing. It won zero.[2] Kubrick received death threats against both himself and his family and took measures to ensure the film wouldn't be shown in Britain until after his death.[3] Strange as it may sound, I'm reminded of Revelation 3:15-16, "I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm — neither hot nor cold — I am about to spit you out of my mouth." I imagine there aren't many reviews of A Clockwork Orange that quote the Bible.[4] A combination of English, Russian, and slang. So, yeah, you probably won't understand all of it.Starring: Malcolm McDowell, Patrick Magee, Michael Bates, and Warren ClarkeWritten by: Stanley Kubrick, from the novel by Anthony BurgessDirected by: Stanley KubrickX, 136 min, 1971, UK

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

DVD Review: Chinatown

Lucas McNelly — Wed, 31 May 2006 17:20:05 EDT

Warning: Contains spoilersPrivate eye Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson), a successful man with a nasty reputation specializing in marital cases, is hired by Mrs. Mulwray (Diane Ladd) to investigate the alleged infidelities of her husband Hollis Mulwray (Darrell Zwerling), chief engineer of the city's water supply. Jake and his two associates follow Mulwray as he spends long hours investigating reservoirs, walking dry river beds, and staring at the ocean. The city is in the midst of a drought and he has, as Jake puts it, "water on the brain". But he's also got a mistress, who Jake discovers and photographs, only to find that the photos have instantly found their way to the newspaper and that the real Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) is suing him. Just as quickly, Hollis is dead, and Jake finds himself in the middle of something much more complicated than photographing an affair.But in the convoluted reality that is Chinatown, how certain can Jake be that he's actually witnessed an affair? Viewed through a zoom lens and taken at face value as validation of the job he was hired to do, it certainly looks like evidence of an affair, and that's what Jake assumes. The work is easier that way. When Evelyn asks Jake what he used to do in his previous life as a cop in Chinatown, he answers, "as little as possible[1]," and that philosophy is one he seems to have adapted to his current line of work. The problem is that this approach leads to Jake drawing concrete conclusions -- often incorrectly -- at multiple points in the investigation. In a lot of ways it's a scattershot approach -- he's sometimes right, sometimes wrong -- and with a little more due diligence he could have the thing wrapped up quickly, but then it wouldn't be much of a film, would it?Despite the Occam's razor[2] methodology of finding the simplest explanation, Jake manages to get needlessly drawn into a complicated web. He puts his nose where it doesn't belong (and has the bandage to prove it). He gets involved personally with the case. He fails to take his own advice to "let sleeping dogs lie." He tells his one operative of the need for a certain amount of finesse, but fails to use any himself. This does not necessarily make Jake a bad private eye, just a headstrong one with some contrarian tendencies, almost a bull in the china shop. Still, his is a results-oriented profession and Jake manages by sheer will to get results, proving that there is a method to his madness or perhaps that he's got more finesse than we realize. He certainly isn’t the first private eye in the world to solve the case despite his methods.Few actors could pull off a role this complex as well as Nicholson, who as the protagonist serves as the film’s ballast. Initially he appears to be playing a standard film noir private eye, but as the film progresses, he begins adding layers. He laughs a raucous laugh at a racist joke, nearly comes to blows with a bank manager, and gets into a couple of fights, which is pretty much what we expect from the character. But, he also shows tenderness and humanity where needed. He harbors no ill will toward the people who seem to be making his job more difficult, telling Russ Yelburton (John Hillerman[3]) that he’s more than willing to pass the whole thing off on a couple of big shots. One of the delights of Chinatown is that in this web of mystery and intrigue, the audience is never given any more information than Jake has at that particular moment, nor are we given any hint as to how reliable such information is. We know only that he has it and where he got it. Since the entire film is done from a first-person perspective, we're given no indication of the various machinations going on behind Jake's back. In essence, we are put in the position of one of his operatives, trying desperately to piece the whole thing together. Eventually we do, largely without chunks of exposition explaining the complicated proceedings and at the end of the film not only does the entire thing hold water, but it makes sense. This is no small feat for a film noir done without voiceover.Naturally much of the credit goes to Robert Towne’s Academy Award winning script[4], but likely this would not have been possible without the uncredited contributions of Roman Polanski and Jack Nicholson. Nicholson wrote sections of his character’s dialogue and Polanski, faced with an original draft of over 300 pages, worked closely with Towne to trim it down to something a bit more manageable. One of the changes was to eliminate the voiceover narration, a staple of the genre, thus allowing things to flow more smoothly. The result is a wonderfully complex script where virtually every scene serves to advance either the plot or the characters, and sometimes both. Take, for example, the opening scene in which Curly (Burt Young) has just learned of his wife’s infidelities. We start by seeing the photographs -- undeniable proof in this instance -- and then Curly’s pained reaction. This is nothing new to Jake, who calmly offers him a drink and later assures the poor fisherman that he can pay when he’s able. We learn a lot about who Jake is, what he does for a living, and that he’s a nice enough person not to take a poor man’s last dime. The whole thing seems to be a standard enough opening to a film noir, especially when it moves seamlessly into the main investigation. But part of Towne’s genius is how he relates the scene to what happens later in the film, how Curly plays a more important role than we would have expected, how Jake’s casual comment of “What can I tell you, kid? You're right. When you're right, you're right, and you're right” is more vital to his character than we would have expected. Whereas a lot of writers would have used the scene as a simple introduction or a clumsy means of foreshadowing, Towne ties it to the story effortlessly and deftly, and it’s all the more effective because we don’t expect such a scene to have any real importance.The title doubles as both a part of Los Angeles and a metaphorical state of mind where it can be difficult to understand what’s truly happening, where outward appearances are rarely accurate and a barrier exists between reality and the truth. It has been described as feeling like you’re always on the wrong foot, that things are constantly slightly off-kilter. It’s a place where perception is not always reality, where to get too involved can be dangerous, where it’s probably best to let sleeping dogs lie. One of Roman Polanski’s master strokes was to change Towne’s upbeat ending to reflect a fatalistic worldview. (This was Polanski’s first American film after the murder of his girlfriend, Sharon Tate, in the Manson family incident.) At the end of the day, after all his investigation, what has Jake really gained? He has the truth, sure, but he also has a scar on his nose, his car is damaged, people have died, and none of those big shots got what was coming to them. The unveiling of truth has probably done more harm than good, but that’s how things work sometimes in Chinatown.[1] While this sounds like a terrible method of police work, it is actually recommended to officers in Chinatown, due to the fact that the various dialects make it dangerous to investigate every little thing that people do or say. Therefore, the approach is a more laissez-faire one than normal.[2] Per Wikipedia: it is translated from Latin as "entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity."[3] Hillerman is best known for playing Jonathan Higgins in the seminal television series Magnum, P.I. (1980-88), so he knows a little bit about dealing with a private eye.[4] The script won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, the film’s only win against 11 nominations. But, when you consider that it was up against The Godfather Part II, Lenny, and Murder on the Orient Express, thait makes a lot more sense. The other 10 nominations were: Best Actress in a Leading Role (Faya Dunaway), Best Art Direction, Best Cinematography (John A. Alonzo), Best Costume Design, Best Director (Roman Polanski), Best Editing (Sam O’Steen), Best Original Score (Jerry Goldsmith), Best Sound, Best Picture, and Best Actor (Jack Nicholson). Shockingly enough, in a showdown between Nicholson, Al Pacino, Dustin Hoffman, and Albert Finney, the Oscar went to Art Carney for Harry and Tonto. Go figure.Starring: Jack Nicholson, Faye Dunaway, John Hillerman, and John HustonWritten by: Robert TowneDirected by: Roman PolanskiR, 131 min, 1974, USA

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.

Movie Review: Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Lucas McNelly — Mon, 29 May 2006 14:11:29 EDT

Widely hailed as the greatest black comedy ever filmed, Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb[1] is Stanley Kubrick's subversive take on a common Cold War theme[2]. Deranged Brig. General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) has sent his squadron of planes an order to attack the Soviet Union as they held at the fail-safe point, and subsequently made it impossible for anyone other than him to call the planes back. When news of this reaches Washington, President Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers) calls his advisors to the war room, where General Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) suggests the best plan of action may be to back the planes up with a coordinated all-out offensive that's sure to cripple the Soviet forces and limit American casualties to twenty million, tops. But the Russians, to everyone's surprise, have just completed a "Doomsday Machine" designed to destroy all plant and animal life on the planet, and even they cannot prevent it from retaliating. Combine the plot details with the direction of Stanley Kubrick, and it's probably safe to assume that few people in 1964 automatically assumed Dr. Strangelove would be a biting political satire. But on second thought, maybe they did. In retrospect, Dr. Strangelove feels like a departure from Kubrick's normal fare like 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), A Clockwork Orange (1971), The Shining (1980), and Full Metal Jacket (1987)[3], but Dr. Strangelove pre-dates them all. So a comedy doesn't seem like a Kubrick project to us, but it makes sense when you view it in context. This is a man who had done several self-produced projects, which he had parlayed into the Kirk Douglas war film Paths of Glory (1957). When Douglas couldn't get along with Anthony Mann, he replaced Mann with Kubrick for Spartacus (1960), primarily to serve as a figurehead through whom Douglas could operate. Naturally, this didn't work. Kubrick took over, then made Lolita (1962), a lighthearted[4] version of the Vladimir Nabokov novel that featured a supporting turn by Peter Sellers. All this is to say that when you view Kubrick's career in that sequence, a Peter Sellers dark comedy isn't all that unexpected. In fact, it's a rather natural progression.But enough history, let's look at the film itself. The primary settings for Dr. Strangelove are deceptively simple: the interior of a plane, the War Room, and Brig. General Ripper's office. Apart from a few others, that's pretty much it. A knowledgeable audience member realizes that much of the film is shot on sound stages[5], but a couple of choices in staging and camera work gives the impression of so much more. The plane interiors are filmed as if the camera is being operated by one of the crew. There are no long tracking shots or wide establishing shots. The shots are instead framed in a way that at no time are we given the feeling that the production has taken out a chunk of the plane so that the camera can get the perfect angle. This gives the scenes a cramped, uneasy feeling further heightened by the borderline mental instability of the pilot, Maj. T.J. "King" Kong (Slim Pickens). Our level of closeness to him and the rest of the crew is uncomfortable, especially when you consider the nuclear bombs stored below. Contrast that with the scenes in the War Room, where Kubrick goes to great lengths to show us just how big it is. He seats all the advisors around the type of enormous round table you only see in a movie, with a circular florescent light hovering overhead. Behind them is the "big board", a large map of the Soviet Union with lights indicating the position of the planes. The room itself is so big that even the widest wide-angle shot cannot show it all. Clearly rooms of this size do not exist, but Kubrick uses it to remind us of the great power the men in this room hold, but at the same time, he often puts them in the lower part of the frame, an indication that despite all their power, there is little they can do in this situation. And the one man in the room who should be able to prevent a nuclear holocaust, comes across as the most ineffectual of them all - President Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers). Originally conceived by Terry Southern as a character with a bad head cold[6], the President is shocked to learn that not only has someone authorized an attack, but that there's no way to bring them back. And to top it off, the bill that enabled such a bizarre scenario is one that he approved. It is a politician's worst nightmare. Of the three characters Sellers plays in the film (Muffley, Group Captain Lionel Mandrake, and Dr. Strangelove), this is the most memorable, or at the very least my favorite. His telephone conversation with the Soviet Premier ranks as one of the best comedic exchanges in all of cinema, and it's all that more impressive that we can only hear one half of the call.The Premier is drunk, so Muffley must explain things to him multiple times and deviate from a very important issue to reassure this man that "Of course I like to speak to you! Of course I like to say hello!" The three-pronged performance by Sellers is clearly one the best from this comedic genius[7]. Much of Muffley's scenes are played against Gen. 'Buck' Turgidson (George C. Scott), a military advisor a little too enamored with the business of war and highly distrustful of the Russians. Scott, a criminally underrated actor, is perhaps the best thing in the film. Chomping violently on multiple sticks of gum, he's all big movements and facial contortions, ready to fly off into a rage at a moment's notice. Secretly he's thrilled with the turn of events and a little perturbed that he must waste valuable time convincing this damned politician to launch a coordinated attack. Acting-wise, Scott is off in his own little world, but it's important to note that even as he launches nearer and nearer to madness, he stays firmly grounded in the reality of the film. Few actors can chew the scenery with such vigor without detracting from the film. It's a fine line, and Scott walks it perfectly.There's little doubt that Dr. Strangelove serves as the high-water mark for anti-war films, but it also ranks alongside not only the best comedies ever made, but also the best films. For such a timely film, it feels as fresh today as it did in the Cold War. But what's most remarkable is that it was even made at all. Imagine the modern equivalent: a dark satire about terrorism featuring the melody "We'll meet again" playing over footage of the explosion. It's the sort of bad taste no one would permit, but when you have people as bold and talented as Stanley Kubrick and Peter Sellers, they find a way to make it work. In their able hands, the gruesome becomes absurd and the horrific becomes somewhat campy and sweet. It is, hands down, one of the greatest things ever put on film.************* [1] As I am extremely lazy, from here on out I will refer to it by the film's abbreviated title: Dr. Strangelove.[2] See also Sidney Lumet's Fail Safe (1964) as one of the better examples.[3] If you get a chance, check out his filmography on IMDB.com, particularly the stretch from Spartacus (1960) to Eyes Wide Shut (1999). [4] At least, that's what I'm told. I haven't seen it.[5] Shepperton Studio in England, to be precise.[6] Scrapped because Peter Sellers was so funny the rest of the cast couldn't keep a straight face.[7] It earned Sellers his first Academy Award nomination for acting, following a nomination for the Live Action Short The Running Jumping & Standing Still Film (1960). He would later be nominated for his quietly brilliant turn in Hal Ashby's Being There (1979). Of course, he is best known as Insp. Jacques Clouseau in the original Pink Panther films. starring: Peter Sellers, George C. Scott, Sterling Hayden, and Slim Pickens written by: Terry Southern & Stanley Kubrick & Peter George, from the novel by George directed by: Stanley Kubrick NR, 93 min, 1964, UK

Lucas McNelly runs the film collective d press Productions. Both his films and his writings about film are enjoyed by audiences worldwide.