Paranormal Activity (2007) * 1/2

Two words describe this 2007 film from writer/director Oren Peli: absolutely horrible.  I don’t care who gave it 3.5 stars out of a possible 4, I found the whole 90 minutes to be a complete waste of time.  Someone had the audacity to tell me I would be terrified because of how scary this was supposed to be—the only thing that frightened me about it is that there are actual people who think this is a horror movie.

The story is about a twenty-something San Diego couple who start videotaping (handheld and on a tripod) their every waking moment and every sleeping moment to capture whatever paranormal activity is happening in their home.  The couple is annoying and by the end of the film you hope whatever is haunting their home kills them both. The handheld camera work makes you nauseous and you pray the camera will be dropped and broken—thus ending your headache and queasy stomach. 

Paranormal Activity is the most profitable movie ever made. First made as an independent film on a shoestring budget, its film rights were bought by Paramount Pictures for $350,000 and it made over $190 million.  As if this isn’t startling enough, it has also launched a franchise and as I write this they are making the fourth installment.  Why anyone would want to watch any movie that aims to replicate this one is beyond me. 

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Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933) **1/2

(In honor of the great Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld’s 145th birthday I have reissued this post about the classic Warner Bros. musical.)

In 1933 Warner Bros. made three very successful musicals; all of which were choreographed by Busby Berkeley. I have already reviewed the two bookends, 42nd Street and Footlight Parade, so it only makes sense that I give the third (and middle one) its due: Gold Diggers of 1933. While the other two big Warner Bros. musicals of 1933 were directed by Lloyd Bacon, this one was headed by Mervyn LeRoy.

The film is based on the Avery Hopwood play, The Gold Diggers, which first appeared on Broadway in 1919. Screenwriters David Boehm and Erwin S. Gelsey adapted the story to fit the times, namely the Great Depression. If there ever was a musical about the Depression, this is it. As a matter of fact, if someone asked me who the protagonist of the film was I’d say the Depression.

It’s 1933 and times are tough everywhere, especially on Broadway. This is evidenced in the beginning of the film with the “We’re in the Money” number. Here we find Ginger Rogers in one of the tackiest costumes ever, but also very apt for the rest of the film: the idea that chorus girls are synonymous with gold diggers.

Things were great before the Depression in America and on Broadway—they were in the money! But now the Depression has set in and when you can’t pay your bills the creditors shut you down. And that’s exactly what happens to Ginger’s would-be Broadway hit. She and her four roommates are out of a job and wondering how they are going to pay the rent. Fortunately for them and their cash-starved producer (Ned Sparks) they live next door to a gifted singer and songwriter, Brad (Dick Powell), who just happens to be a millionaire. The problem is Brad can’t be “visibly” involved with the show or his family will cut him off. When the male lead goes down with a bout of lumbago, Brad has to step in which brings publicity and the wrath of his family, who believe he is being fleeced by a gold-digging woman: namely his girlfriend Polly (Ruby Keeler). Yes, Powell and Keeler are once again romantically paired in a Warner Bros. film!!! The family sends Brad’s older brother Lawrence (Warren William) and their lawyer Fanny (Guy Kibee) to investigate and buy-off Polly. This move eventually leads to the two “rescuers” finding themselves enamored with Polly’s two other gold digging roommates, Carol (Joan Blondell) and Trixie (Aline MacMahon). In the end, the only “gold digger” who doesn’t find a rich man is Fay (Rogers).

While the story is cute, it is the musical numbers that make this a highly enjoyable film. Berkeley put together four stellar numbers: the opening “We’re in the Money,” the very racy “Pettin in the Park,” the sophisticated “Shadow Waltz,” and the topical “Remember My Forgotten Man.”

Adorned in next to nothing but a few gold coins, Ginger Rogers sings “We’re in the Money” while other chorus girls dance with giant coins. This was a memorable way to begin a film and it sets up the rest of the film well. I suppose you could say Berkley launched Rogers’ musical career with this number. Yes, she was in 42nd Street, but she wasn’t the focus of any musical numbers.

“Pettin in the Park” is one of the raciest numbers I can think of from this era. Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler sing the number—Keeler also performs a stellar tap dance—while a creepy baby played by Billy Barty escapes from his stroller and harasses chorus girls. In the number a rainstorm happens, and the women go behind a screen and remove their clothes in silhouette. When they emerge they are wearing metal garments, which make it difficult for the men who want to “pet.” Thus, creepy baby finds a can opener. The number is overtly sexual and would have never been allowed only a year later when the Hays Code was put into full effect.

Powell and Keeler also sing “The Shadow Waltz.” In this number Keeler and Rogers (with a whole bevy of girls) dance around with glow-in-the-dark violins. It is visually stunning to watch, but it is not one of my favorite Berkeley numbers. Which is kind of ironic since he (and a number of the girls) almost died while making it when an earthquake hit the studio. Still, the precision in which Berkeley timed these waltzing ladies is a sight to behold.

The final number of the film is the most memorable: “Remember My Forgotten Man.” Joan Blondell sings her little heart out in this number which criticizes America for forgetting the heroes of WWI during the economic turmoil of the Depression. The number opens by parading hundreds of forgotten men across the stage as Blondell, playing a hooker, sings about the dire circumstances facing the common man. The song talks about the emasculation of men and what it not only does to them but their women as well. In my opinion, this is THE musical number of the Great Depression. The lyrics say it all:

Remember my forgotten man,
You had him cultivate the land;
He walked behind the plow,
The sweat fell from his brow,
But look at him right now!

And once, he used to love me,
I was happy then;
He used to take care of me,
Won't you bring him back again?
'Cause ever since the world began,
A woman's got to have a man;
Forgetting him, you see,
Means you're forgetting me
Like my forgotten man.

The number was inspired by the Bonus Army’s disastrous march on Washington D.C. in 1932. Over 43,000 people marched to the capitol demanding payment for WWI benefits that were promised to them in 1924. Hoover ordered the army to forcefully remove the marchers and at least two people were killed. The song is awe-inspiring and Blondell’s performance is spectacularly raw and evokes strong emotions in me every time I watch it. This number is the main reason that I watch this film every time it is shown.

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Sexuality & Wild Reeds (1994) **

André Téchiné is a highly regarded and respected French director, who has helmed some of the best films to come out of France in the last thirty years.  Many critics consider his 1994 Les Roseaux Sauvages (Wild Reeds) a masterpiece.  It won Césars (a French Oscar) for Best Film, Best Director, Best Screenplay (Olivier Massart, Gilles Taurand, and Téchiné) and Most Promising Actress (Élodie Bouchez). Yet, while Téchiné holds a special place in my heart for still giving Catherine Deneuve good roles when other directors overlook her, I can’t bring myself to agree that Les Roseaux Sauvages is as grand as some claim it to be.  To me, it’s an average film about young people discovering themselves (primarily sexually) in a pastoral setting.

The story takes place in Southwest France just as the Algerian War is coming to an end in 1962. Four students from different backgrounds are studying for their baccalaureate exams while dealing with their own personal problems. Bouchez plays Maïté Alvarez, the daughter of one of the school’s teachers (Michèle Moretti). Both mother and daughter are strident communists and oppose the French occupation of Algeria. Madame Alvarez actually has a nervous breakdown when one of her former students is killed in the war, which leaves Maïté alone to cope with both her exams and her odd relationship with François (Gaël Morel). 

Why is the relationship odd, you ask? Well, for starters François is gay and lusts after both Serge (Stéphane Rideau) and Henri (Frédéric Gorny), two young men at his boarding school. For some reason, Maïté is perfectly fine with the situation and seems to welcome the idea of being with someone who’s not interested in her sexually. She actually says to him, “I don't care what you do with others. What's between us counts much more.” I watch a lot of French movies, so this doesn’t seem as bizarre to me as it might to someone unfamiliar with what film scholars refer to as ‘French queer cinema’.  Still, even I was a bit perplexed when Maïté first made an emotional connection and then later a sexual connection with Henri—an Algerian-born French exile who stands for everything she is against and whom she only met because he thought about burning down a building she was in. And then, taking Gallic romanticism to its brink, she pushes away the man she obviously desires (and could possibly love) to remain the companion of her gay boyfriend. Perhaps you’ve seen the end of this and asked yourself the same question as me: did she really end up in a sexless marriage with François?  Oh, how depressing a thought!

The other sexually complicated relationship is between Serge and François. There is absolutely no question that François is gay—even if he does go on dates with Maïté to see films like Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly and Demy’s Lola—but it’s not so clear whether Serge is gay or bi-curious.  It is Serge who first initiates François into the sexual world, but it’s a one-time thing.  For the rest of the film Serge talks about sleeping with girls and his brother’s widow, while François pines after him.  At one point, François considers becoming involved with Henri and says to Maïté, “I admit it. I want to sleep with Serge. I want to sleep with Henri. What if another one comes along next week? It's awful. What will become of me?” I don’t think Téchiné ever makes it clear who or what Serge is—he’s a sexually ambivalent being.  Does Serge tell François to forget about their encounter because he’s not interested or is it because he isn’t willing to share with 1960s French society who he is? 

For (then) relative screen newcomers, all four actors give steady performances.  Not surprisingly, Bouchez’s career has turned out to be the more highly regarded of the group. Her portrayal of Maïté is melancholic and simple.  The underlying self-resignation that her character is forced to carry clearly shows on her face.  Of the three men, I most enjoyed Gorny’s Henri. In someone else’s hands Henri’s brooding and recalcitrance personality could have descended into a caricature of the angry young man myth. Gorny provides an even and steady depiction of a character who you find yourself both disliking and rooting for.  In reality, Henri is the only character who shows his true self, and I suppose that’s why I liked him so much. 

Overall, Wild Reeds is an interesting coming-of-age story that focuses on its characters’ sexual awakenings.  It makes you reflect on how difficult the transition from adolescence to adulthood truly is.  Yet, to me, it is far from a masterpiece.

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Children of a Lesser God (1986) **1/2

What makes Children of a Lesser God (1986) a compelling film is its superb acting and unique storyline.  There are no stunning visuals or intricate shot designs—it’s purely a cinematic dissection of the age-old battle between love, acceptance, and individuality. It was nominated for five Academy Awards: Best Picture, Best Screenplay (adapted from Mark Medoff’s stage play of the same name), Best Actress (winner Marlee Matlin), Best Actor (William Hurt), and Best Supporting Actress (Piper Laurie).  Matlin’s win made Oscar history on two fronts: she was (and still is) the youngest actress to win Best Actress (21 years old) and she is the only deaf person to win an Oscar. Her performance, both raw and unflinching, is reason enough to make you watch. 

Hurt plays a newly arrived teacher at a school for the deaf. His Jim Leeds is an educator who employs unusual teaching techniques to help his deaf students learn how to speak.  Matlin’s character, Sarah Norman, is a former student of the school who works as a custodian.  Strong-willed and emotionally guarded, Sarah refuses to learn how to speak, and this causes a few mild confrontations between them. Eventually they become romantically involved, which enables director Randa Haines to rip away any preconceived notions you may have had about deaf people being mild-mannered and chaste.  In addition, you get a front row seat to the total deconstruction of what it means to be (or not) accepted by the one you love. 

There have been many unusual love stories in the annals of cinematic history, but this one has to be right at the top. Here we have a deaf woman who uses sex as both a defense mechanism and as a way to emotionally connect.  There’s one particular scene which is jarring in this respect. After having one of their many arguments, Sarah almost demands that they have sex. For some odd reason she thinks it will bring them closer together, but what it actually does is pulls them further apart—it’s the breaking point in their relationship. As anyone who has ever been in love knows, there is a balancing act between being one with another person while retaining your own personhood. How much, if any, are you willing to change for another person?  In Sarah and Jim’s case, he just can’t accept that she won’t learn how to speak and she can’t accept that he wants her to change for him.

While Hurt gives one of his finest performances here, the movie belongs to Matlin.  With no voice to verbally express her character’s emotions, she relies on facial expressions and body language. It’s always clear whether Sarah is bemused, frustrated, angry, or happy—the way in which she signs and the look on her face is all you need to see.  Of course, the most powerful moment in the film comes when she finally allows Jim (and the audience) to hear her voice.  Every time I hear it I am startled. The scene up to this point is already so emotionally charged that when that sound comes hurtling out the core of her being you are stunned.  It is literally painful to hear—let alone to watch Matlin in such an agitated state of despair when she does it.  This is one of the most emotionally raw moments I have ever seen captured on film. 

Personally, I’m not a big fan of how the movie ends, but it didn’t infuriate me like some others (like Four Weddings and a Funeral). As such, I am willing to overlook this one qualm and reflect fondly on the other two-thirds of a superbly acted and written film.

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8 1/2 (1963 ) **

Most critics refer to 8 1/2 (1963) as legendary Italian director Federico Fellini’s masterpiece. Upon release it was lauded as a brilliant film and received several prestigious awards, most notably an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film.  I suppose I’m in the minority when it comes to adoring it.  You see, I don’t really do avant garde, and that’s what Fellini’s 8 1/2 is. I much prefer his La Strada (1954) and The Nights of Cabiria (1957) to his later work because I think his earlier films say something about humanity.  That’s not to say that I found 8 1/2 to be horrible and lacking a message—there are many things that I liked, but there were a few elements I found, at times, tiresome.

This is Fellini’s most personal work—a self-reflection of his status as a director and as a man.  The protagonist (and antagonist—can you be both?) is Guido Anselmi (Marcello Mastroianni), an obvious alter-ego of Fellini. Guido has come to an impasse in his directing career, where he doesn’t know if he has anything else left to say.  He finds himself overcome with doubt as he struggles to finish a new and costly production.  Lacking inspiration, he escapes into past memories of his past to find something to pull him out of his self-doubt.  At times it is difficult to know if Guido is in the past or the present, as the dream world and reality converge (this is where the surreal Felliniesque world comes into being).  I am not the biggest fan of jumbled narrative, but it isn’t too overwhelming here if you pay attention—if you don’t, then things can go off the rails.  There’s a scene where Guido shoots himself—it took me a minute to realize he only dreamt it, at least I think that’s what happened.

The movie’s look is sleek and stylish.  Shot in black and white 35-millimeter film by cinematographer Gianni Di Venanzo, who employed the spherical cinematographic technique, the overall look is unique and visually stunning.  In addition, I found the costume design outstanding.  Each strange character has a wardrobe perfectly matched to their personality.  In particular, the women’s clothing is the most defining.  The purer the character’s motivations the more simple but still chic the clothing is, as is the case with Anouk Aimee’s Luisa (Guido’s wife).  The more vexing and morally corrupt characters find themselves clothed in almost ostentatious couture, such as Sandra Milo’s Carla (Guido’s mistress). 

Piero Gherardi won an Oscar for his costume design, but he was also responsible for the set designs—all of which are striking and perfectly Felliniesque. In particular, the scenes at the health spa are eye-catching and memorable. The bathroom scene, with the three vanities and mirrors symbolizes that Guido doesn’t know who he is anymore. And, the sauna scene symbolizes his clouded state of mind and, perhaps, his insignificance.

I never know how to judge the acting in older Italian films—especially Fellini’s—because the sound was dubbed in after filming was completed.  It’s one of those strange nitpicks I have: how can you emote when you don’t know exactly what you’re saying (Fellini had a habit of writing a lot of dialogue after filming was done)?  Still, Mastroianni plays his Guido as a world-weary complex man well. I also enjoyed watching Aimee’s portrayal of a fed up but somewhat apathetic wife.  Claudia Cardinale, who plays Guido’s muse, floats in and out of the picture, but doesn’t really make her presence known until the film is almost over.  She has the best, and most insightful, line of the film (which she repeats more than once): “Because he doesn’t know how to love.” Now, I could have done without Milo and her grating character Carla.  Of the two versions of this film (I’m speaking of the Rob Marshall quasi-remake Nine (2009)), I’ll take Penelope Cruz’s Carla every time. 

Yet another thing that stands out about the picture is the music. Composer Nino Rota was Fellini’s favorite composer, and he does a wonderful job of choosing and crafting music for every scene. His circus-inspired composition “La Passerella” is a perfect way to start off (and end) a film about a ringmaster (Guido the director) who is constantly juggling his many responsibilities (and women). I also thought using Wagner’s “The Ride of the Valkyries” was an inspired choice-what better music is there about overindulgence and psychological distress? Rossini’s overture to “The Barber of Seville” and Tchaikovsky’s “Danse des Mirlitons” from the “Nutcracker” are also used.

Overall, 8 1/2 is not my favorite Fellini endeavor.  I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it, either. 

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Things to Come (1936) **

Author H.G. Wells is perhaps the most famous futurist in literature.  When you think of early science fiction his name, along with Jules Verne’s, probably pops into your mind.  Therefore, it is only fitting that one of the first science fiction films, Things to Come (1936), is based on his novel The Shape of Things to Come (1933)—Wells actually wrote the film’s screenplay. While the film is strong on visuals and ideas, it is weak in narrative and characterization.  That said, it is fascinating to see what people thought the future would look like in 2036 (a mere 24 years from now).

Let’s get the weak elements out of the way first: narrative and characterization. The story predicts that WWII will break out on Christmas Eve 1940 and will last for 25 years. During this time the environment will be contaminated and civilization will crumble.  Set in fictional Everytown, England, the story focuses on how people use technology to create a superior form of civilization. The film is only 100 minutes long, but it covers 100 years of history—this alone makes it difficult to develop a traditional story arc.

It also creates a problem when dealing with characterization. No one can live forever—even in Wells’ science-fiction world—so you have multiple generational characters (played by the same actors) with whom you are unable to connect with on a personal level.  You really don’t care what happens to any of the characters, but you sure do want to see what gadgets the future holds. I like to think that the acting, by such well-known thespians as Raymond Massey, Cedric Hardwicke, and Ralph Richardson, was so bad because the actors couldn’t flesh out their characters.  In particular, Richardson and Massey are the most egregious perpetrators of overacting, and their lackluster performances take a little shine off the overall production.

Yet, while the film has its weaknesses, it is strong when it comes to ideas. Wells was a well-known socialist, and this film is a testament to that.  He predicted WWII would come to England in December 1940 (he was only off by 15 months) and that major cities would encounter devastating blitzes.  Some might argue that he wasn’t that far off in saying that the war would last for 25 years, as WWII might have ended in 1945 but the Cold War continued for another 45 years. Wells infuses the film with his own ideology by writing lines like: “If we don’t end war, war will end us” and “We don’t approve of independent sovereign states.” In his world-utopian vision, Wells creates a Brotherhood of Efficiency (which he also calls Wings Over the World), where the community is more important than the individual.  Quiet frankly, it is an idealized communistic society that conquers nature and then uses it to expand knowledge and peace.  The fact that England was in the midst of the Great Depression and Hitler was making Europe extremely nervous when this film was released might have made such ideas more acceptable to viewers. Had the film been made ten years later I don’t know if it would have found a distributor in England, and I doubt if it would have even made it across the pond to the United States.  But of course, the U.S. did like the idea of sending people to the moon, so they might have liked that part of the film.

What makes this film stand out the most is its overall visual presentation.  From the blitzed-out city blocks to the underground city of the fantastic future, it is easy to appreciate the craftsmanship it took to first design and then built such spectacular sets.  Yes, there are a few giggle-worthy moments when it’s obvious that you are looking at a remote-controlled tank or plane, but such small hiccups are easily overlooked when you look at the overall picture and remember that it was made in 1936.  I remember the first time I saw the underground city—I was just amazed how much detail went into it.  I couldn’t help but think that this design put Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1926) to shame.  Oh, and as if this set alone wasn’t spectacular enough, they built another one for a space rocket that would travel to the moon.  I can’t imagine how director William Cameron Menzies and producer Alexander Korda kept to their 240,000-pound budget. Think about it, they did end their film by saying, “All of the universe or nothing—which will it be?”

If you haven’t seen this yet, it is definitely worth a look for the visuals alone. Block out the overacting and just concentrate on the wonderful, futuristic world that is created—holograms, flat-screen televisions, space exploration, etc. 

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Dumbo Does Debauchery (1941) **

Have you ever watched a film as a child and then later as an adult?  What your childhood memory usually holds for you is not exactly a full representation.  Upon adult reintroduction you notice all sorts of things that just flew right over your kiddie head.  This is what recently happened to me while watching the Walt Disney animated classic, Dumbo (1941).  Who knew a Disney film could have so much debauchery!

If you have a child, know a child, or once were a child yourself, you no doubt have seen Dumbo.  Yet, as I believe it is possible that aliens walk amongst us, let me do a quick synopsis. Dumbo is a baby elephant who has inordinately large ears which make him both clumsy and the object of ridicule.  When his mother is locked up for trying to protect him, Dumbo finds himself shunned by the other elephants. His only friend in the world is a mouse named Timothy who is always trying to find ways to make Dumbo a star. Reduced to the ultimate humiliation of becoming a clown, Dumbo’s redemption is found in the most unlikely place—his ears! At this point, aliens, if you want to know the rest you’ll have to watch the film—world domination will have to wait for 60 minutes.

Now, let’s talk about the wickedness of the movie.  Am I the only one whose mind just jumped into the gutter when Timothy overhears the circus owners discussing how they need a climax for the show and Tim yells, “You’re a climax , Dumbo!”  Here we have a film that begins with storks delivering animal babies and a train that chants “I think I can” when going up hills and steaming through tunnels, and soon thereafter we have characters screaming they need a climax. I read in the credits that Ben Sharpsteen was the director, but by this scene I thought it was a Lubitsch film!

And then there is the uber-famous “Pink Elephants on Parade” sequence—when did drunken hallucinations become a common Disney theme?  First, they have the clowns tearing into the hooch (by the way, isn’t this a stereotype?), and then they have Dumbo and Timothy inebriated and seeing dancing pink elephants!  If the film had been made 20 years later I would have sworn there was LSD in that bucket of booze. Psychedelic colors, hallucinogenic images—it was a hippie fest before there were hippies.  Oliver Wallace and Ned Washington even wrote a tripped-out song for the sequence, with lyrics like:

Look out! Look out!
They're walking around the bed
On their head
Clippety cloppety
Arrayed in braid
Pink elephants on parade
What'll I do? What'll I do?
What an unusual view!
I could stand the sight of worms
And look at microscopic germs
But Technicolor pachyderms
Is really much for me

Is this really a positive message to send to children?  Oh, but how many adults really knew (some very personally) what Disney was trying to say: recapture your youth and have a big glass of gin after you put your kid to bed!  Thankfully, I have no children, so I’ve never been asked to explain why Dumbo and Tim were blowing bubbles and seeing creepy pink elephants; yet, I wouldn’t have minded hearing such an explanation being given. 

Another wicked thing about the film, at least I have been told, is the crow scene.  Some say it was racial stereotyping to have black crows singing a song that was reminiscent of a minstrel show. Granted, naming the head crow Jim Crow was not an Einstein moment, but the last time I checked most crows are black. In addition, the crows were played by African American men from the Hall Johnson choir, so I don’t know that this equates to stereotyping. Now, if they had Bing Crosby singing the track in blackface there might be an issue, but I didn’t find anything shocking about black men singing “When I See an Elephant Fly”.  As I stated above, if anyone has a grievance against Disney about stereotyping it’s the clowns! I have it on high authority that not all clowns are drunkards—just the ones my parents would hire for birthday parties were, or so my mother says. 

And, finally, the last wicked thing is that magic feather. Why was it black?  Was Disney encouraging children to dabble in the black arts, “Light as a feather, stiff as a board…” Is this how this creepy slumber party “game” got its start? 

Hopefully, after reading this analysis you too will give Dumbo a new viewing. Perhaps you will gain a new appreciation for the wonderful world of Disney, too. 

 

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To Be or Not To Be (1942) ****

Director Ernst Lubitsch made many great films in his distinguished career, but if I had to pick just one to call my favorite it would be To Be or Not to Be (followed very closely by Ninotchka [1939]) from 1942.  Released on March 6, 1942, almost 3 months to the day that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the movie was not well-received by critics or moviegoers. People didn’t think it was funny to make light of the Nazis when they were on the brink of world domination.  To that, I say, “Ah, nuts!”  What better time was there to make the vilest group of ideologues look completely ridiculous?  If you can laugh at them, then you most certainly can beat them!

Born to Jewish parents in Berlin, Germany, Lubitsch was well aware of the dangers of Nazism. While he came to Hollywood long before the Nazis took power in 1933, Lubitsch had friends and family back home who weren’t so lucky.  Still, some American film critics were either oblivious to the Nazis’ complete hatred of Jews or just plain idiotic when they cried foul about a Berlin-born director making a film about the Nazi invasion of Poland. Did they really think he thought people should laugh at that tragic event?  Lubitsch found the critiques to be asinine and tried to explain that he had satirized the “Nazis and their ridiculous ideology” not what happened to the Polish people. 

The one thing that critics did like about the film was leading lady Carole Lombard.  Tragically, Lombard was killed in a plane crash two months prior to the film’s release.  Today, her portrayal of Maria Tura in To Be or Not to Be is considered the finest of her career.  Yet, she almost didn’t play the part, as Miriam Hopkins was Lubitsch’s first choice. Having worked with Lubitsch on three of her best films, Hopkins was experiencing a downturn in her career when her old friend decided she was ready for a comeback. Unfortunately, at least for Hopkins but most certainly not for me or Lombard, Hopkins and lead actor Jack Benny didn’t get along from the start of production. 

The story, penned by writers Melchior Lengyel and Edwin Justus Mayer, is about a Warsaw acting troupe who find themselves accidentally embroiled in the Polish resistance against the Nazis following the 1939 invasion.  Josef Tura (Benny) and his wife Maria are renowned Warsaw actors.  He is a self-absorbed ham who happens to love playing Hamlet; while she is an incorrigible flirt who upstages her husband without even being on stage by having her male admirers come to her dressing room when Josef begins Hamlet’s famous soliloquy, “To be or not to be…” One of those admirers, Lt. Slobinski (a very young Robert Stack), is a Polish pilot who brings the entire acting troupe into his mission to intercept a double agent before vital information can be given to the Nazis.  What transpires is an outrageously funny shell game between trained killers and trained actors.

I love black comedies, and this is one of the best.  There are so many layers of ironic humor that it might take multiple viewing before you catch everything Lubitsch and his screenwriters were trying to get across. For example, while the audience finds it funny when Josef has his soliloquy—his big moment to shine—constantly interrupted by Maria’s suitors, there is another element to this as well.  While we never get to hear the whole thing, the beginning goes something like this:

To be, or not to be--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them

These words truly resonate when you apply them to the Nazi peril.  In a way, it’s almost a war cry, if you think about it.  The world was most definitely facing a sea of troubles with the Nazis!

The other shining ironic moment is when Josef, Greenberg (Felix Bressart), Bronski (Tom Dugan) and the rest of the male actors pretend to be Nazis in order to infiltrate a theater event attended by Hitler. Once safely inside, they create a disturbance which allows Bronski to impersonate Hitler himself without the Nazis knowing.  For someone so revered by his underlings, and so unmistakable to the German psyche, this seems brazenly irreverent to me.  What better statement could you make about demagoguery than this?  Is there really a difference between the Führer and a Betrüger (imposter)?  According to Lubitsch and this film, not really.

Packed with sophisticated dialogue and impeccably placed double entendres, To Be or Not to Be is a comedy for the ages.  I can also appreciate the risk that Lubitsch and Alexander Korda took in releasing this film when they did.  Perhaps the American public and film critics weren’t ready for it, but it was just the type of film that the world needed to see in the Spring of 1942.  No one is invincible, and anyone who thinks that they are deserves to be heartily laughed at. 

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