The Shining (1980) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) takes a job as caretaker of the Overlook Hotel for the winter. A struggling alcoholic who has been sober for five months, he plans to work on his latest “writing project,” while his wife, Wendy (Shelley Duvall), and son, Danny (Danny Lloyd), stay with him in the enormous hotel. Before the employees leave, a cook, Hallorann (Scatman Crothers), recognizes in Danny a shared extrasensory ability. Hallorann’s grandmother referred to ESP as “shining,” which the young boy handles by creating Tony, who lives in Danny’s mouth, talking to him and sometimes showing him pieces of future events. Danny can sense that the cook is afraid of Room 237, and Hallorann warns Danny to stay out of the room.

Jack had been informed by the hotel manager of the preceding caretaker, Charles Grady, who murdered his family with an axe before killing himself. Days pass, and Jack sleeps late, repeatedly tosses a ball against the wall, and nods off at the typewriter. As Jack’s behavior becomes progressively more antagonistic towards his wife and son, Danny has visions of mysterious sisters, bloody corridors, and the word “redrum” scrawled on a door. Soon, Jack is seeing people at the hotel, like the bartender, Lloyd, who serves him drinks, and it seems only a matter of time before the agitated writer picks up an axe.

Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining was not generally well received upon its 1980 release in theaters, but like several of Kubrick’s films, The Shining has, over time, garnered more fans and favorable reviews. Kubrick was well known for his rigorous shoots during production, a perfectionist for every shot of his films. His movie prior to The Shining, Barry Lyndon (1975), took an astounding 300 days to complete filming, whereas production for The Shining reportedly lasted over a year. Perhaps because of his lengthy shoots, Kubrick was never genuinely considered an “actor’s director,” as the actors sometimes were simply objects within a highly detailed construct (e.g., the privates standing at attention in 1987’s Full Metal Jacket or Alex and his droogs sitting at the milk bar in 1971’s A Clockwork Orange).

In The Shining, there are seemingly endless shots of far-reaching hallways and characters framed in vast, nearly empty rooms. Something as simple as Wendy bringing Jack his breakfast becomes an arduous task of rolling a service cart for a prolonged distance. Many horror films enclose characters within confined spaces (such as George A. Romero’s 1968 ghoul opus, Night of the Living Dead), but The Shining takes an alternate approach. There is plenty of room to move in the colossal hotel, but, like with so many of the hotel’s elements, it’s pure deceit. The isolated hotel is covered in a severe snow storm, so Danny and his mother can run, and they can even hide, but there truly is no escape.

There have been numerous readings of The Shining, with some critical writings or essays viewing the film as an allegory. While a literal translation of the film’s plot is not likely feasible, it is possible to focus more on its base components. Jack Torrance is either conversing with and being manipulated by ghosts or his mind is disintegrating (not unlike Jack Clayton’s 1961 The Innocents or its source text, Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw). Theories can support either belief, but Kubrick’s infamous concluding shot, closing in on a simple photograph, adds a new element to any potential interpretation.

The Shining was based on the Stephen King novel of the same name, which was adapted by Kubrick and author Diane Johnson. King has been vocal over his dissatisfaction with Kubrick’s film version. The author was most critical of the casting of Nicholson, believing that audiences would immediately see Nicholson as the mentally unstable character, as opposed to watching a man slowly fall apart. In 1997, King adapted his novel and produced a three-part miniseries directed by Mick Garris and starring Steven Weber and Rebecca De Mornay. The television version was filmed in part at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, the hotel which inspired King’s original novel. Kubrick filmed some of the exteriors for the 1980 film at the Timberline Lodge in Oregon in lieu of the Stanley Hotel, another source of contention for King. (The interiors were filmed at Elstree Studios in England.)

The film’s Steadicam operator, Garrett Brown, invented the Steadicam, which he initially called the “Brown stabilizer.” He first utilized the Steadicam in Bound for Glory (1976) and won great acclaim for Rocky the same year, following Sylvester Stallone up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. His design originally covered the area from the operator’s waist to head, but he was able to employ shots in The Shining at knee height (accomplished by utilizing a wheelchair), as the camera travels behind Danny on a Big Wheel in the Overlook’s hallways. The tracking shots in Kubrick’s film are extraordinary. They are fluid and follow Danny so closely that it gives the impression of being pulled against one’s will, intensifying the dread of the boy turning a corner, as one can never tell what will be standing there.

Soon after its initial theatrical release, Kubrick pulled the film and cut the ending. The final shot was the same, but there was a preceding scene that did little to explain the events of the movie. If anything, it unnecessarily piled on further intricacies to a labyrinth of ideas. There are apparently production shots, but the filmed scene reportedly no longer exists.

Wendy Carlos and Rachel Elkind composed a score for the film (Carlos had also written the Moog synthesizer music for Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange). However, very little of their music was used, as Kubrick opted for already existing classical music to cover most of the film’s soundtrack. In 2005, Carlos released the original material written for The Shining, with Rediscovering Lost Scores, Vol. 1 and 2 (also featuring selections from A Clockwork Orange and 1982’s Tron).

Though they are often referred to as “twins,” the ghostly Grady sisters in The Shining are simply dressed alike, as the film explains that the two girls are different ages. The well known line -- “Here’s Johnny!” -- was an ad-lib by Nicholson. Clearly a play on Ed McMahon’s introduction of Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show, Stanley Kubrick, who had been living in England for a number of years, reportedly did not comprehend the reference. Carson would later incorporate the scene in an introduction to one of the show’s anniversary specials.

The Shining is one of my favorite horror films. I’m a Kubrick fan, and although he didn’t concentrate on the horror genre, the famed director was able to create scenes of sheer intensity and disturbing imagery that sears itself into the viewers’ minds. It’s a movie that, if nothing else, makes me glad that I cannot afford to stay at a gigantic posh hotel.

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The Black Cat (1934) **

Without a doubt the most unusual horror film to come out of Hollywood in the 1930s was Universal Studio's’ The Black Cat (1934). How does one go about creating such a unique film? You take two renowned horror stars (Dracula himself, Bela Lugosi, and Frankenstein’s monster, Boris Karloff—in the first of seven films they would appear in together), add a dash of a director (Edgar G. Ulmer) heavily influenced by German expressionism, and then you mix in some strange amalgamation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Black Cat” and “The Fall of the House of Usher” with necrophilia and satanism, and , finally, you top it off with an an eye-catching art deco set design by Charles D. Hall. Never mind that the story is difficult to understand (Universal ordered massive changes to the original cut due to its risqué plot),this is just too bizarre a film to miss.

Predating The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) by more than 40-years, The Black Cat finds two young lovers caught in the middle of a sadistic chess match between a mad architect/scientist and a depressed doctor. Dr. Vitus Werdegast (Lugosi) is returning home to Vizhegrad (Hungary) after spending the last 15 years in a Russian prison camp (Kurgaal). On the Orient Express (no Poirot doesn’t show up), Dr. Werdegast meets Joan (Jacqueline Wells) and Peter (David Manners) and immediately notices that Joan looks a lot like his lost wife. He tells them that he is on his way to visit an old friend, famed architect Hjalmar Poelzig (Karloff), at his mansion, which just happens to be built on a cliff overlooking the “greatest graveyard in the world” at Fort Marmorus. Really? Could there be a more ominous setting?

Later, when the bus they are travelling on crashes into a ravine, Joan is injured and it is determined that the couple should accompany Dr. Werdegast and his servant Thamal (Harry Cording) to the mansion. And this brings us to the best part of the film—the set design of Poelzig’s digs. Everything is ultra-modern, from the lighting (entire walls light up) to the super-sleek curved staircase.  Photographer John J. Mescall uses every inch of the set design and beyond-clever lighting to create some outstanding visual elements—you have to see it to truly appreciate it.

In a rather strange poke at Dracula (and Lugosi?), Poelzig is first introduced to the audience rising rigidly from his bed.  With a widow’s peak and dramatic sense of style (he wears a priest’s robe), Poelzig looks like the kind of man who would commune with the devil. It soon becomes apparent that Werdegast and Poelzig aren’t really BFF’s. Evidently Poelzig betrayed his countrymen in WWI and ran off when the Russians came. What Werdegast really wants is to find his wife (Karen) and daughter, and he thinks Poelzig might know where they are. Well, yeah, he does—he married Karen after telling her Werdegast was dead. Ah, the plot thickens…

As if this news wasn’t enough, Werdegast must deal with a reappearing black cat. For a normal person this wouldn’t be a big deal, but Werdegast is deathly afraid of them—did I mention he’s a psychiatrist…yeah, you’d think he could engage in some self-analysis to overcome this fear. Nope…instead he chooses to regard them as, and I quote, “the living embodiment of evil.” Ah, Werdegast, there are eviler things in the world—just ask Poelzig, who has a cellar full of dead women encased in glass. One of these women happens to be Karen (Lucille Lund) and when Poelzig reintroduces the “couple” it is not a happy time. Werdegast attempts to shoot Poelzig, but before he can pull the trigger another black cat saunters in and immobilizes the doctor.

Later, we learn that the doctor’s daughter, Karen (Lucille Lund…yeah, just go with it) is now Poelzig’s wife…a secret he chooses to keep from the doctor. One secret he doesn’t have a problem sharing, though, is that he plans to use Joan in a satanic black mass ritual. Of course, he is willing to challenge the doctor to a game of chess for Joan’s soul. Too bad for Joan that the doctor isn’t Bobby Fisher… Ah, and so let the Bach toccatas begin—really, Poelzig plays them on his creepy organ right before he kills Karen for sassing him. And, then the fun really begins!

Although it isn’t Halloween, Poelzig decides to host a satanic cult party at the fortress and Joan is the guest of honor. Organ music, broken Latin, black-tie attire, and a human sacrifice as the ultimate party game—who’d want to miss out on that! Well, Joan for one…I won’t spoil the ending for you, but lets just say it is a blast.

Unique in every sense, The Black Cat is high camp without being a camp film (is that possible?). Lugosi and Karloff play well off one another, but I wasn’t shocked to learn that neither received an Academy Award nomination for their performances in this film.  Still, I was a bit miffed that neither Charles D. Hall or John J. Mescall were recognized for their outstanding set design and photography.

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The Thing (1982) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

When I first saw this movie in 1982, I left convinced that John Carpenter had produced a complete misfire (especially in comparison to the classic 1951 version). But I’ve come to learn over the years that some movies age well, or perhaps they grow better because we’ve aged and our tastes have changed. John Carpenter’s The Thing is definitely one of those films for me. It's now required viewing on the first snowy day of winter and has become my favorite among the director’s work.

The Thing opens in intriguing fashion with a helicopter chasing—and trying to kill—a lone Husky in the desolate Antarctica snow. The dog runs to the U.S. National Science Institute No. 4, a remote research station. In a bizarre series of events, the helicopter crew is killed and the dog is taken in by the research station’s residents. But this is no ordinary dog. It prowls the station’s corridors stealthily as if stalking its prey. It spies silently on the residents. It’s afraid to join the other dogs, which snarl at the newcomer viciously.

Seeking an explanation for the helicopter crew’s unusual behavior, McCready (Kurt Russell) and Doc (Richard Dysart) trace its origin to a Norwegian research facility. They discover frozen corpses and a strange, partially buried “thing” that could be human. Back at the U.S. station, an alien creature reveals itself for the first time by mutating out from inside the Husky (a fairly gory scene). With the creature’s ability to imitate other life forms established, the film’s premise is finally set into motion.

If the alien can be anyone of the research station’s crew, how can it be stopped? The seriousness of the situation worsens when one of the scientists models the alien’s ability to infect humans. He determines that if the “intruder organism” reaches the general population, it could take over the planet in 27,000 hours from first contact.

The plot is supposed to be closer to John Campbell’s short story "Who Goes There?" than 1951’s The Thing (see Aki's nifty review from earlier this month). But, truth to be told, this is a mystery masquerading as science fiction. A murderer is among a group of people at a remote location—isn’t that the plot of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians? The twist here is that the killer can reveal itself and then hide again by assuming another identity. The film’s best scene is when McCready devises a test for revealing the alien’s identity. This tense setup also recalls the classic mystery climax where the detective calls together all the suspects and unveils the murderer.

Subsequent viewings of The Thing allow one to appreciate its smaller pleasures: Ennio Morricone’s suspenseful electronic score (which has a definite Carpenter sound to it); an open ending that actually works (usually I loathe them); and Kurt Russell’s solid performance (less cartoonish than in Carpenter’s Escape from New York and Big Trouble in Little China).

Still, it’s the remote locale and the “who is it” premise that makes The Thing so entertaining for me. Other films have featured aliens who could take human form (most notably, the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and cult classic The Hidden)—but this one remains my favorite.

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Blade Runner (1982) **

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

In 2019, the Off-world colonies are utilizing androids known as replicants as slave labor. When several of the Nexus-6 models escape, four of the replicants are believed to have made it to Earth, where their presence would be a violation of the law. Deckard (Harrison Ford), a former blade runner, part of a unit commissioned to detect and kill replicants (an act which has been termed “retirement”), is enlisted to track down and retire the renegade androids. In the course of his investigation, Deckard learns that replicants, for fear that they might develop emotional responses and make them harder to identify, were given a four-year lifespan. As Deckard draws closer, the apparent leader of the replicants, Batty (Rutger Hauer), seeks a way in which to prolong his existence.

Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982) is a sci-fi film with a clear focus on humanity and questioning what makes a being human, a characteristic it shares with its source text, Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? A number of movies of the science fiction genre deal with what the genre title suggests: an advancement in technology and an extraordinary future. Scott brings the human element into the film, implying that the world of the future is not a product of technology and is instead defined by the people who reside within it. Blade Runner doesn’t simply show its audience what it hasn’t yet seen; it shows us what hasn’t been seen and what has already been abandoned. The future is not technology at its prime. It’s technology in various stages, some of it fresh and new, and some of it in decay.

The movie opens with a beautiful view of a city, with huge, overpowering buildings and vehicles in flight. Scott then takes the viewers into a dark, ordinary office room, where the only thing apparently unconventional is the Voight-Kampff device, a machine used for detection of replicants. As a man (Brion James) undergoes an assessment, the blade runner administering the test, Holden (Morgan Paull), seems to be indifferent to not only his test subject but the machine itself. Considering that the device is almost hidden in shadow in a room of low lighting (the Voight-Kampff is usually regulated with little light), technology is certainly not highlighted. Most of the futuristic machinery is presented in this manner, exemplified by Deckard yawning during a 10-second elevator ride to the 97th floor of his apartment. The world is populated by people who have become accustomed to all of this. The science is not new to them, almost as if Scott were attempting to drop the “fiction” from science fiction.

In the same vein, the world itself has outlived its vitality. Underneath the buildings and bright lights is the subterranean society, the people of the city hiding from the rain, where the sun rarely shines. But inside those buildings are vast, empty spaces, and those flashing lights are little more than advertisements, typically endorsing the Off-world colonies. There is a scene in the film where a replicant, Pris (Daryl Hannah), asks Sebastian (William Sanderson) about his illness, and then questions if it is the reason he is still on Earth, which he confirms. This more than insinuates that Earth is comparable to the seemingly deserted machines and buildings, that life on the colonies established on other planets is preferable. The film can be regarded as a critique of consumerism, that the idea of substance holds more weight than any actual substance.

Humans attempt to survive in this forlorn, barren world, but who are the humans? More to the point, it seems, what is the definition of humanity? Replicants were designed to be identical to humans, save for emotional response. But the short lifespan safeguard was ineffective, as the escaped replicants truly want one thing: to live. Survival and fear of death are base components of humanity. And while the deadpan Deckard shows little emotion, the replicants, in addition to fear, express anger, apparent confusion, and, it seems, happiness. However, an audience can identify more with Deckard, a world weary man just trying to complete his job. Blade runners have been trained to detect a replicant by lack of empathy, but in the film, the replicants’ emotional resonance is what ultimately reminds viewers what they are: artificial. Batty’s smiles are maniacal, Pris’ trepidation when meeting Sebastian gives the impression of having been learned, and Zhora (Joanna Cassidy) has a perpetual expression of anticipation, as if she were continually seeking the proper way to react.

Many of the actors in the film have an appropriate stoic quality, particularly James, Sean Young, and the outstanding Edward James Olmos as Gaff, who assists Deckard in the investigation. Some of the actors portray characters known to be replicants, but others are not necessarily androids, and it is difficult not to wonder about their humanity or lack thereof. In fact, Scott directly addresses the idea of Deckard himself possibly being a replicant (a concept taken from the novel), in a small but significant sequence that was excised from the original theatrical version. Ford underplays Deckard but to great effect, and having garnered success with the first two Star Wars films (1977 and 1980), as well Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), he proved that he was a versatile and capable actor.

Sci-fi novelist Dick was supposedly upset with early drafts of the screenplay. However, he was pleased after seeing a rewrite and viewing an advanced cut of Douglas Trumbull’s special effects (David Dryer completed the project as “special effects supervisor”). The author died a few months before the film’s release, and Blade Runner was dedicated to him. The title of the film was taken from Alan E. Nourse’s 1974 novel The Bladerunner, as well as a screen treatment by fellow novelist William S. Burroughs. In Nourse’s book, “bladerunner” refers to someone running medical supplies (e.g., scalpels) on the black market. As the treatment was not chosen for further development, Burroughs adapted it into a novella, Blade Runner (a movie), in 1979. The rights to both titles were purchased for Scott’s film.

It’s interesting to view the technology envisioned in 1982 with technology of today. While some of it seems dated (hefty monitors vs. today’s flat screens, etc.), other aspects are equivalent to modern standards. In one scene, Deckard examines a photograph by enhancing the image to better see the picture. The device that he uses not only employs voice recognition, but Deckard also gets a printout of the enlarged image. Later, Deckard makes a call to Rachael (Young) on a Vid-Phōn, a videophone version of a public phone booth.

The 10th year anniversary of Blade Runner was celebrated with a “Director’s Cut.” The cut that was shown to test audiences in 1982 was screened in 1990 and 1991 and purportedly inspired this version, which reinstated the aforementioned cut sequence, removed Deckard’s voice-over, and changed the studio-altered ending (which opted for a more upbeat conclusion). While the voice-over worked in establishing a film noir tone for Blade Runner, it was intrinsically superfluous and detracted from the solid cinematography and beautiful score, courtesy of Vangelis (who had just won an Academy Award for 1981’s Chariots of Fire). The studio ending likewise was out of place, shifting the overall feel of the movie. While the “Director’s Cut” was completed without Scott’s involvement, the director authorized the “Final Cut,” which was released in 2007.

Blade Runner is a film of humans and non-humans alike examining what it means to be human. The blade runners expose the replicants by revealing an absence of emotion. The motto of the Tyrell Corporation (the corporation responsible for replicants) is “More Human Than Human.” Do the replicants, then, try too hard to be human? With implanted memories and a desire for longer life, the replicants do a fairly good impression of humans. “Quite an experience to live in fear, isn’t it?” Batty asks of Deckard near the film’s end, and perhaps this is the fear of which Batty speaks: that humanity is a learned trait, and that something other than humans is doing a better job of it.

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A Christmas Story (1983) ***

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Getting something for someone who has everything hardly seems possible. But imagine what it's like to be someone who only wants one thing, and your longing is being thwarted by a constant threat of shooting your eye out.

Christmas is fast approaching, and young Ralphie Parker (Peter Billingsley) has but one thing on his mind: an official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle. But it turns out that everyone -- at least the people in authority -- believe that a simple BB gun is dangerous. Along the way towards that beautiful 25th day of December, Ralphie is burdened by numerous obstacles: leg lamps, ridiculously long lines to see Santa, a Christmas theme for his class, the Queen Mother of all dirty words, and the evil, yellow-eyed bully, Scut Farkus. But the Red Ryder is Ralphie's ultimate goal, and if he and his meatloaf-hating little brother and triple-dog-daring pals can make it to Christmas, maybe there will be something waiting for him under the Christmas tree... you know, aside from a pink bunny costume.

Upon initial theatrical release, Bob Clark's A Christmas Story (1983) did not fare well and received mostly negative critical responses. It certainly didn't help that he'd directed the raunchy comedy, Porky's, the previous year, with a sequel released mere months before A Christmas Story. (Clark had also helmed two notable horror films in the early '70s, Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things and Black Christmas.) But thanks to TV broadcasts, Clark's film eventually became a holiday favorite. Many sequences, such as when Ralphie is helping his old man change a flat tire and lets slip the F-dash-dash-dash word, are memorable and frequently quoted by fans.

Clark's movie is wonderful, a sweet and touching story told from the perspective of a young boy. The cast is topnotch, with Billingsley breathing life into one of the most lovable cinematic characters of all time. Darren McGavin and Melinda Dillon, portraying Ralphie's parents, are likewise outstanding. The rest of the supporting cast, from Ian Petrella as Randy and even Zack Ward as Scut Farkus, is terrific, and the actors all have their time to shine.

The movie is loosely based on a book by author and radio personality Jean Shepherd, In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash. Shepherd narrates the film (presumably an adult Ralphie) and even has a cameo in the film, as the man who tells Ralphie and Randy that "the line [to see Santa] ends here... it begins there." Ralphie mentions a specific Red Ryder gun (including a "compass in the stock and this thing which tells time" -- he's referring to a sundial), and although Shepherd clearly recalls such a model, no such gun had previously existed. (The Daisy "Buck Jones" model had a compass and sundial, but not the Red Ryder.) Director Clark also has a cameo. He's the neighbor standing on the street with the Old Man as he finds the perfect window spot for his "major award."

A sequel, My Summer Story, was released in 1994. Like A Christmas Story, the script was based on stories from Shepherd's book. Clark returned to direct, and Shepherd was once again the narrator. The cast, however, was almost completely replaced, with Kieran Culkin (Macaulay's brother) as Ralphie and Charles Grodin and Mary Steenburgen as his parents. The film performed poorly at the box office and has since fallen into obscurity.

A Christmas Story is obviously about more than just Ralphie's quest for an official Red Ryder... well, you know the rest. It's a snapshot of childhood, a healthy slice of life that many people would love to have back. So while we can never be kids again, we can certainly have fun watching Ralphie, who will forever remain that little boy, wholesome and squeaky clean, and not just because he had his mouth washed out with Lifebouy soap.

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The Vanishing (Spoorloos) 1988 ***

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

A Dutch man, Rex (Gene Bervoets), and his girlfriend, Saskia (Johanna ter Steege), are on holiday in France. They stop at a gas station for a rest and to refuel, and sitting in his car is a man (Bernard-Pierre Donnadieu) who affixes his arm with an artificial cast and sling. When Saskia enters the station for drinks before the couple hits the road again, she does not return. Rex searches the area and questions the gas station manager and employees, but there is no trace of the woman. Three years later, Rex is consumed by his search for Saskia. Though he has a girlfriend, Lieneke (Gwen Eckhaus), her companionship cannot outweigh his obsession. Rex has received postcards from someone claiming to know what has happened to Saskia, but when he waits at a specified meeting place, there is no one. When Rex finally makes an appearance on television to tell the story of Saskia’s disappearance, Raymond, the man from the gas station years ago, approaches him, saying that he can tell Rex of his girlfriend’s fate.

George Sluizer’s 1988 film The Vanishing (aka Spoorloos, the original Dutch title) is an elegantly complex feature, most notably for an early introduction to and subsequent spotlighting of the villain. Following Saskia’s vanishing, the film’s perspective switches to Raymond, a family man and school teacher, as his plan slowly materializes. He is meticulous, each of his acts another step towards his objective. What makes Raymond such an appalling character is the fact that he is thorough, mapping out every aspect and even practicing (at one point involving his daughter in a scenario, unbeknownst to her). Another frightening point is the origin of specific ideas, sometimes coming from someone else, such as his family. Raymond is, as he himself says, a sociopath, cold and detached, and his very nature is chilling. When his wife expresses concern that he may have a mistress, Raymond alleviates her worries not with charm but in a direct, businesslike manner.

Much of the film plays like curtains being drawn back, not for a shocking revelation, but rather to unveil the inevitable horror. Sluizer offers clues throughout the course of the film, not truly hiding anything. The ending may not be the preferred destination, but it is the only way. This gives deeper meaning to an early scene, when Rex and Saskia run out of gas in the middle of a dark tunnel. After retrieving gasoline, Rex drives the car out of the tunnel, visualized from his point of view. The meager light at the tunnel’s exit gradually increases, revealing to the audience what it can already see -- and standing in the light is Saskia, who is waiting at the end.

The Vanishing was based on the novella, The Golden Egg, by Tim Krabbé, who wrote the screenplay adaptation with Sluizer. The story’s title is referenced in the film by a description of Saskia’s dream, in which she is trapped inside a golden egg, a dream that Rex also experiences during his desperate search. Sluizer, who also produced, and producer Anne Lordon won a Golden Calf for Best Feature Film at the Netherlands Film Festival. The film was the Dutch submission for the Academy Awards’ Best Foreign Language Film category but was ineligible since a great deal of spoken dialogue was in French. Actress ter Steege, in her film debut, won an European Film Award for Best Supporting Actress (the very first year that the European Film Academy held a ceremony).
Actor Jeroen Krabbé is author Tim Krabbé’s brother. The actor has appeared in a number of films, perhaps most famously in The Living Daylights (1987) and The Fugitive (1993). He also co-starred with ter Steege in Immortal Beloved (1994).

Sluizer directed a Hollywood remake of The Vanishing in 1993, starring Keifer Sutherland, Jeff Bridges, and Nancy Travis. The narrative structure is only slightly altered, with a significant change being additional screen time for the U.S. version of Lieneke (played by Travis). The most drastic revision, however, was the ending, which was compromised to allow for a more upbeat conclusion. The movie was a commercial and critical failure.

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Strictly Ballroom (1992) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Scott Hastings is a first-rate ballroom dancer with a problem: He’s a rebel with a cause—and his cause is to expand the boundaries of traditional dancing. Unfortunately, Scott’s goal doesn’t sit well with the Australian Dance Federation nor his dancing partner Liz.

When he gets “boxed in” during a competition, Scott lets loose with some energetic, flashy moves…and promptly gets disqualified. Even worse, Liz walks out on him just weeks before the most important dancing competition of the year—the Pan Pacifics—stating adamantly: “I won’t dance with you until you dance like you’re supposed to.”

Scott’s mother, who operates a small dance studio, is temporarily crushed. She immediately sets out to find a new partner for his son. Unknown to her, the ideal partner is one of her students, a shy inexperienced dancer named Fran. After class one night, Fran approaches Scott about dancing with him. Initially, he brushes her off, but Fran impresses him when she confides: “I want to dance with you—your way—at the Pan Pacifics.”

There is much to enjoy in Baz Luhrmann’s Strictly Ballroom (1992), which works as a quirky comedy, an unlikely romance, and a Cinderella story. At the heart of the film is the marvelous chemistry between leads Paul Mercurio (as Scott) and Tara Morice (as Fran). Ballroom should have done for the charismatic Mercurio what Dirty Dancing did for Patrick Swayze…but, alas, it didn’t. Still, he impresses in Strictly Ballroom, both on the dance floor and in the tender scenes with Morice. She shines , too, and offers a nice vocal on a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time.”

Indeed, Lauper’s song provides the background for one of my favorite scenes: a practice montage between Scott and Fran that has them dancing on the studio’s rooftop next to a glittering Coca-Cola sign. But then, fine scenes abound in Strictly Ballroom, as evidenced by a Pasodoble duel between Scott and another character—and a closing scene set to Paul Young’s “Love Is in the Air” that always leaves me with a smile.

There are few surprises in Strictly Ballroom, but that’s all right. It’s one of those movies where you can see where it’s headed and you look forward to getting there. And when it ends just the way you imagined, then you have that satisfying feeling inside. That, my film friends, is what a “feel good” movie is all about.

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Strangers on a Train (1951) ***

(This article is from guest contributor The Lady Eve and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

It was the middle of the 20th Century and Alfred Hitchcock's last major film had been Notorious (1946). Four years and four films later, he was in a slump. Though The Paradine Case, Rope, Under Capricorn and Stage Fright were all interesting attempts, each one had its problems and each had bombed.

For his next project, Hitchcock looked to the first novel of young Patricia Highsmith. Intrigued by its clever "criss-cross" murder plot, he bought the rights to Strangers on a Train.

Raymond Chandler was tapped to tackle the screenplay, though Czenzi Ormonde, a protégé of Ben Hecht, rewrote most of it. Cinematographer Robert Burks collaborated with Hitchcock for the first time and earned an Oscar nomination for his efforts. He was nominated again for Rear Window and won for To Catch a Thief. Dimiti Tiomkin, who had last worked with the director on Shadow of a Doubt, composed the film's nimble score. Hitchcock produced and directed for Warner Brothers.

A thriller of mature scope and depth, Strangers on a Train (1951) is also considered one of Hitchcock's most accessible films; its overwhelming success revived the director's reputation at a crucial point. It also signaled the beginning of his final great filmmaking period.

Strangers on a Train is pure and classic Hitchcock. It begins as two young men meet very cute in the first class club car of a commuter train. One is a tennis celebrity, the other a wealthy ne'er-do-well, and what seems like casual chit-chat has deadly consequences. A study in Alfred Hitchcock's mastery of visual storytelling and technical wizardry, the film bears all the hallmarks of his style...

There are spectacular visual set pieces, among them...1) Bruno stalks Miriam at a fairgrounds and, in a stunning shot, strangles her on a secluded island, 2) Guy makes a stealthy visit to Bruno's darkened home where a large growling dog adds even more suspense, 3) An intense tennis match is cross cut with scenes of Bruno's harrowing journey to plant evidence, 4) a carousel disaster comes to a breathtaking climax.

Prominent historical sites appear; Washington, D.C., landmarks are woven into the scenario with the Jefferson Memorial in a stark cameo.
There is an "innocent man accused" theme and a powerful doppelganger motif.

Though there are no marquee names, the cast is solid. Farley Granger fleshes out handsome, guileless and beleaguered tennis star Guy Haines; Laura Elliott (Kasey Rogers) is delicious as his estranged wife, Miriam; Marion Lorne stands out as Bruno's discombobulated mother. Leo G. Carroll is credibly senatorial as a U.S. Senator and Patricia Hitchcock gives one of her best performances as his quirky younger daughter.

Alfred Hitchcock once told Francoise Truffaut, "...the more successful the villain, the more successful the picture. That's a cardinal rule..." The bold, unforgettable performance of Robert Walker as psychopathic Bruno Anthony is proof positive of that rule. Remarkably, Walker had mostly been cast as male ingénues up to then.

Like Joseph Cotten's Uncle Charley in Shadow of a Doubt, Walker's Bruno is a glib, self-possessed charmer - who is also a remorseless killer. Walker is riveting onscreen. His Bruno is confident, slick, erratic...and very, very creepy. His smooth veneer barely masks a simmering rage. With a voice that ranges from sensual as velvet to cold and hollow as tin, his eyes glitter, glare, caress.

From the moment Bruno is first seen in the club car insinuating himself into Guy's life, to his final seconds of life, when he mercilessly implicates Guy with his dying breath, Walker dominates and energizes the film. Pat Hitchcock once observed that for all her father's genius, it was Walker's daring performance that 'made' the picture.

Walker died tragically at age 32 less than two months after the film was released. He had appeared in more than 30 films in his career, but it was only Strangers on a Train that allowed him to unleash the devastating range of his talent. Farley Granger later reflected, "he was great in the film; his potential was limitless, his career was just beginning to take wing."

Robert Walker's life had been short and often troubled, and his early death sent shock waves through Hollywood. In time, though, it became clear that he had a bit of good fortune after all; his greatest role, his single virtuoso performance, was preserved within one of Alfred Hitchcock's finest films.

British film critic and historian David Thomson noted in a piece on Strangers in 1999, Hitchcock's centennial year, that Walker's was "...a landmark performance. You see it now and you feel the vibrancy of the modernity...he had had that one chance..."

 

 

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Black Orpheus (Orfeu Negro) 1959 **

French director Marcel Camus had a novel idea about a retelling of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice: stage it in Rio de Janeiro during Carnival and use an all-black cast.  It was a risky proposition, especially when you consider that it was filmed primarily on location with streets full of people, but it worked out spectacularly. Black Orpheus (Orfeu Negro, 1959) went on to win the Palme d’Or at the 1959 Cannes Film Festival and the 1960 Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.

Our hero, Orfeu (Breno Mello), is an engaged and handsome Rio trolley driver. His fiancee, Mira (Lourdes de Oliveira), is a beautiful but jealous woman with anger issues. When an innocent, country girl, Eurydice (Marpessa Dawn), comes to the city to escape from a man who is trying to kill her, she catches Orfeu’s eye and Mira’s ire. It is a tragic love story shot in a beautiful, vibrant location, with an  outstanding soundtrack full of samba music.

From the opening scene of the film, where white Greek statues transform into rhythmically inclined black men, Camus shatters any preconceived notions the viewer might have about this being another traditional film about the Greek legend. That’s not to say that the story is totally stripped of its tradition, as many of the characters are named after those in the original story.  Of course, there is Orfeu (Orpheus) and Eurydice, but there are other Greek references, such as Hermes (Alexandro Constantino), who is always ready with directions, and a janitor who serves as Charon, ferryman of Hades. In addition, there is a dog that represents the three-headed dog of Hades, Cerberus, who guards the dead at the morgue (Hades).

Though told in a modern way, with more colorful characters and music, the story is the same. Eurydice is a woman running away from death, and when it comes, the man who loves her wants to bring her back at any cost. Camus and his costume department benefit greatly from the Carnival setting, as clothes can be used both symbolically and stylistically. For example, the man who has come to kill Eurydice is dressed in a creepy skeleton costume. This works, of course, because costumes are a part of Carnival. And the theme of life and death that goes along with Carnival is stressed in a convincing way.  No one would find it strange that Death (dressed in a skeleton costume) would wield a knife at a Carnival celebration.

In addition, the theme of Fate is paramount in this film. As most know, the Fates (according to Greek mythology) decide how long one lives—when it is time to die, no one can outrun their destiny.  It was fated that Orfeu would meet Eurydice and fall in love. It was also fate that no matter how fast Eurydice ran from death, either from the creepy skeleton or the jealous Mira, eventually the time would come for her to die—even at the accidental hands of the man who loved her.

I suppose a lot of people prefer the happier elements of the film, when the young couple fall in love and there is a lot of dancing and singing. I , myself, enjoy Orfeu’s descent into the underworld. When he calls to Eurydice through song and a voodoo ritual, and she appears in the form of an old woman and begs him not to look at her before they reach  the upper world, it is heartbreaking—especially when he looks at her and her spirit disappears forever. Watching Orfeu carry his beloved’s body back to his burning house is an eerie experience as well.

Quite simply, it is a heartbreaking tale of lost love.  There is a smoldering quality to the passionate love affair between Orfeu and Eurydice. And the foreboding nature of the samba drums is at times unbearable. Anyone familiar with the Greek legend knows what the outcome will be, but that doesn’t make it any less brutal when it does come. For a primarily unknown and untrained cast, the acting is rather good, especially Marpessa Dawn as Eurydice. Overall, a visually stunning film and a story that absolutely rips your heart out—and then watches it beat in rhythm to the pulsating drums of its soundtrack.

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Shadow of a Doubt (1943) **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor The Lady Eve and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Shadow of a Doubt (1943) was Alfred Hitchcock's fifth American film and the first of his films that he believed truly depicted America. Hitchcock's "first draft" attempt at this had been Saboteur (1942), but he hadn't had the cast he'd wanted, he felt the script was weak and that he'd been rushed into the film before he was ready...none of this was the case with Shadow of a Doubt.

The narrative was based on a story called "Uncle Charlie" by Gordon McConell. For the adaptation, Hitchcock got Thornton Wilder, convinced that the author of Our Town possessed the concept of small-town America he wanted for Shadow of a Doubt. Wilder, who helped Hitchcock select Santa Rosa, California, as the setting, wrote a prose outline of the story before being mobilized into World War II. Hitchcock then turned to screenwriter Sally Benson, another writer deeply steeped in Americana. Her "5135 Kensington Avenue" stories had been the basis for Meet Me in St. Louis.

The opening scenes of Shadow of a Doubt make it clear that the man we come to know as Charles Oakley (Joseph Cotten) has sinister secrets and a dark side, so when he descends on pristine Santa Rosa and his sister's family, the Newtons, we already know that something is quite wrong, but we don't what it is. Oakley is handsome and smooth. His voice is velvet and his manner is insinuating; he has seen the world and flaunts his style and money with confidence. When he comes to stay with the Newtons, their staid community is bedazzled and responds by immediately embracing him.

Santa Rosa, scene of much location work, is blissfuly serene, a spotless tree-filled little town of quaint houses with broad porches, lush flower beds, friendly neighbors, fussy librarians, crusty traffic cops, immaculate churches, a stately and bustling bank and every trapping of the ideal American town in the 1940s.

At the heart of the film is a doppelganger motif personified by young Charlie (Teresa Wright) and her Uncle Charlie. They are admitted "doubles," she was named for him and adores him; he obviously favors her. The two Charlies seem to have a psychic link, share a restless spirit and other traits. But one of the pair is pure while the other is corrupt, and the two eventually come to an unbridgeable abyss and a stand-off. Teresa Wright delicately renders Charlie as an intelligent and decent girl impatiently verging on womanhood. Intuitive and strong, she has her mettle tested and must grow up quickly and profoundly when she realizes her beloved uncle is a cold-blooded killer. Uncle Charlie, intricately wrought by Cotten, is a ruthless sociopath of indecent charm. His view of humanity is far beyond cynical: "Do you know the world is a foul sty? Do you know if you ripped the fronts off houses you'd find swine?"


Wright and Cotten contrast and play off each other beautifully; their scenes together are rock solid. Backing them up is an excellent supporting cast that includes Hume Cronyn making his memorable film debut as the Newton's eccentric next-door-neighbor; Henry Travers, cozy and congenial as small-town-dad Joe Newton; Patricia Collinge, note-perfect as fluttery and sentimental Emma Newton. Also very watchable are Edna May Wonacott as the cheeky little sister and Wallace Ford as a detective on Oakley's trail.

Shadow of a Doubt has been called Hitchcock's first fully-realized masterwork. I'm not so quick to write-off his direction and overall imprint on Rebecca, but agree that Shadow of a Doubt, multi-layered and meticulously orchestrated, is among his very best films. The juxtaposition of a simple and complacent American small town with the lethal killer creeping toward its heart is neatly executed, and the early kinship that becomes a battle-to-the-death relationship between the two Charlies ensures that the dramatic tension never eases up.

What are your impressions of Hitchcock's vision of America in Shadow of a Doubt? Any comments about his style and technique or technical aspects of the picture? Which of the performances are standouts for you and why? Does it seem to you that the film is referencing the international situation of the time? What other films owe a debt to this one? ...And have you heard about or noticed the repeated use of "twos" or "doubles" (starting with the two Charlies) in Shadow of a Doubt?

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