In the Year of the Pig (1969) ***

No matter how hard you might try to avoid inserting bias into a documentary you almost always fail.  However, that does not disqualify your overarching aim. Such is the case with director Emile de Antonio’s Vietnam War documentary, In the Year of the Pig (1969). When it was initially released in 1968 the war had started to become increasingly unpopular in the United States, and the film only added to the growing anti-war sentiment. What I find most compelling about the documentary is the parallel ‘truths’ that de Antonio exposes. As a student of history, I know all too well that policy does not always conform to reality, and that is the overriding thesis of this timely documentary.

I use this film in my American History Since 1945 class to help students understand how we became involved in the Vietnam morass. By showing why the Vietnamese hated colonialism (thanks primarily to French greed and incompetence) de Antonio builds a platform from which to spring into the American ‘advising’ period, and from there, the Gulf of Tonkin mistruths used to expand American involvement in the country.  All the while, there is that insidious insinuation that the communist menace must be stopped in Vietnam or Eisenhower’s fears of the Domino Theory would come to fruition. For most students, this film cements what they’ve read in their textbooks about how democracy can’t be forced upon countries—especially through coercion, propaganda, fear, and, sadly, undemocratic means. 

Shot in black and white, the film uses snippets of news footage to visually identify the historical context.  While this is a useful tool, it would be worthless if de Antonio didn’t also use sound bytes from various political speeches—most notably from a whole assembly of men who would occupy the presidential wing of the White House. He plays their talking points against face-to-face interviews conducted with journalists, peace activists, and members of the intelligentsia. de Antonio cleverly edits back and forth between the irrational (and short-sided) policy-speak of the politicians and that of the rational analysis of those whose are not bound by a sworn hatred of objectivity. 

Of these interviews, my favorite is with Paul Mus—he was the perfect candidate to discuss Vietnam.  A French scholar who specialized in Far Eastern studies, he grew up in northern Vietnam and was an adviser to General Philippe Leclerc during the reconquest period. de Antonio found him at Yale University, where he was specializing in Buddhist studies.  Here was a man who knew the country—its history, culture, and people.  He’d also had personal discussions with Ho Chi Minh when he served as an adviser to Leclerc. You need only listen to him discuss the Vietnam question and its people and in a very concise nutshell he explains that no matter how long America remained in country that nothing would change—the Vietnamese had dealt with would-be conquerors for over a millennia, so they knew that patience was a virtue.

Overall, In the Year of the Pig is an insightful documentary about the Vietnam question. At times, it is a bit heavy-handed (especially when de Antonio uses American patriotic music ironically or shows American soldiers dead and injured on the battlefield).  Still, taken as a whole, I find it to be one of the most well-done and educational documentaries ever made about the Vietnam conflict. 

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Tokyo Story (1953) **1/2

 

How can a film be so simplistic but also so elegant?  This is the question you ask yourself after watching director Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story (1953). Everything about this nuanced Japanese film seems so natural: the acting, the cinematography, and the story.  For Ozu there is no climatic conclusion—only a slight transition to the next stage, whatever that may be (the audience is left to decide). Whenever I watch Ozu’s work I feel as though I have spent a few hours maneuvering along the philosophical realm of his (and my) mind.  As such, I have never been disappointed by any of his movies—as a matter of fact, I have found most of them quite delightful (if not slightly depressing, too).

The story is about an elderly couple’s (Chishu Ryu and Chieko Higashiyama) decision to take a trip to Tokyo to visit their far from home adult children.  They obviously have a good relationship with their youngest daughter, Kyoko (Kyoko Kagawa), who still lives at home, so you expect this will be the case with their other three children.  Yet, once they arrive in Tokyo and start being shuffled from one place to the next you realize, as they do, that their adult children are too busy with their own lives to truly embrace the fact that this might be the last time they see their parents alive.

Their oldest son, Koichi (So Yamamura), is a doctor who obviously doesn’t spend much time with his wife and two sons.  His oldest son is disrespectful and outright rude to both his parents—a sure sign that something is amiss regarding filial piety (a tenet of Confucianism). While Koichi may seem preoccupied with his patients, at least he is respectful towards his parents, which is more than I can say about their oldest daughter, Shige (Haruko Sugimura).  Confucius would have had a stroke if he heard some of the things Shige says to her parents. Plus, she’s exceedingly cheap—always worrying about how much their visit it costing her. 

I expect the only true student of Confucianism that they visit is their widowed daughter-in-law, Noriko (Setsuko Hara). In Confucianism there is something called Ren. In this a person attempts to achieve a peaceful existence by being altruistic, which in turn, leaves everyone they encounter with a good feeling. Noriko exudes Ren, and you adore her for it.  As a single woman, she has the least amount of money and comfort of the three children the couple visit. Yet, she is more than happy to take time off work and spend time and money on them.  For her it is an honor to be in their presence—something that cannot be said of Koichi and Shige. 

On their way back home they briefly visit their youngest son, Keizo (Shiro Osaka), when the mother becomes ill.  Keizo is fond of saying, “No one can serve their parents beyond the grave,” but he, like his other siblings, is not an adherent of Confucianism. When it become clear that their mother is going to die it appears that even this is an inconvenience to her children.  Again, it is Noriko who is asked to make sacrifices so that the others can carry on with their own lives.  The pivotal moment in the film comes when Kyoko is so outraged by her sister and brothers behavior that she tells Noriko how disgusted she is. In a calm, peaceful manner Noriko explains the bitter truths of life.  Upon these revelations, Kyoko asks, “Isn’t life disappointing?” Noriko’s simple answer, “Yes, it is.”  Ah, Ozu, I love you! 

Cinematographer Atsuta Yuharu didn’t really have to work very hard on setting up complicated camera shots.  Heck, there was only one tracking shot in the entire film.  Ozu was a fan of a low, static camera. His tatami shot style found the camera at a very low height (often below his characters’ eye levels), usually about one or two feet off the ground.  He wanted the viewer to feel as though they were in the middle of his scenes, which created an intimate relationship between the viewer and the story.  This is probably why his films seem so personal. 

As for the acting, with any Ozu film it must be naturalistic.  There is no place for histrionics in an Ozu story.  While I despised her character, Haruko Sugimura deserves to be recognized for playing Shige so well.  She delivers her lines with both malice and obliviousness, and does a fine job of employing facial expressions.  Of course, the star of the picture is Setsuko Hara. Ozu had a habit of using the some stock actors, and Hara was a particular favorite.  While she was noted for her flawless beauty, it was her ability to touch the hearts of viewers with her light and refined acting style that most endeared her to moviegoers. 

Overall, I enjoyed Tokyo Story. Ozu and I both enjoy philosophizing on the effects society has on the familial unit.  Still, the film is a tad too long and drags in a few places.  Nonetheless, this is an excellent representation of the artistic style and vision of one of the greatest directors in Japanese cinema. 

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Pinocchio (1940) **

When your favorite character in a film doesn’t have one line then you know you just weren’t that enthralled.  Such was the case with Walt Disney Pinocchio (1940), where I much preferred Figaro the cat to every other animated being in it.  Plus, the story, by today’s standards, is just too pedophilic for me: single, old man builds a boy puppet and wishes that it were a real boy and then a fairy grants his wish.  I’ve obviously been irrevocably scarred by the times in which we live, but did they really have to call the amusement park where the stupid, bad boys are taken Pleasure Island? 

Walt Disney’ second foray into fairy-tale themed feature-length animation was based on Carlo Collodi’s 1880s novel, The Adventures of Pinocchio.  Gepppetto (Christian Rub) is a lonely wood carver who lives alone with his cat, Figaro, and his goldfish, Cleo. One night after putting the finishing touches on a puppet he makes a wish upon a star that the puppet become a real boy.  After Geppetto falls off to sleep a fairy (Evelyn Venable) visits the cottage and partially grants his wish. From the fairy dust emerges Pinocchio (Dickie Jones), a living puppet who must earn human status by being “brave, truthful and unselfish and able to tell right from wrong”. He is assigned a conscience—a cricket named Jiminy Cricket (Cliff Edwards), who sounds and looks like Fred Astaire.  His Odyssian (my word!) quest for boyhood and knowing the difference between right or wrong finds him: duped by a fox named Honest John (Walter Catlett); kidnapped by a money-hungry marionette manipulator (Charles Judels); taken to a den of childhood sin by a man who wants to turn him into a jackass for the salt mines; and, swallowed in the belly of a sperm whale appropriately named Monstro. In the words of Dorothy Gale, “"Oh! Oh! Jiminy Crickets!"

Let’s get the important things out of the way—the animation (for 1940) is spectacular.  From the intricacies of the cuckoo clocks to the ethereal quality of the Blue Fairy, the animation set the bar quite high for future films.  Compared to what we see today it might seem a bit crude, but effects animation (focused on movement, not on character) was a burgeoning art form and abstract animators like Oskar Fischinger did some amazing work in Pinocchio: the rainstorm, the fairy’s dust from the wand, and the entire sea/whale sequence are standouts in effects animation.

Now, I’m not a psychologist and/or a Freudian, but I wonder what Freud would have made of Pinocchio had he lived long enough to see it.  Let’s get past the Geppetto issue and look at some other elements that make the film suspect.  Pinocchio is made of wood. When he gets excited his nose grows and it looks like a phallus. Honest John looks and sounds like a pimp. Pinocchio is locked in a cage by Stromboli until he needs to use him again.  At Pleasure Island they ply the boys with candy, cigarettes/cigars, and booze.  The whale that he must enter to save Geppetto is a sperm whale. Do you see where I’m going here?  Ah, if only I were still an innocent child I might be capable of not reading too much into such things! 

Overall, Pinocchio should be recognized for its revolutionary animation contributions. Figaro is adorable and Jiminy Cricket’s “When You Wish Upon a Star” is memorable. Personally, the story does nothing for me other than creep the hell out of me.  Having reviewed three Disney films now (Fantasia and Dumbo are the others) I’ve come to the uncomfortable conclusion that adults should not revisit the beloved films of their childhood. 

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Fantasia: Not Your Child’s Disney (1940) **1/2

Mushrooms, fairy dust, nudity, intoxication, murder, witchcraft, and satanism are not words that pop to mind when someone mentions Walt Disney.  Yet, all of these elements appear in Disney’s Fantasia (1940). Ah, but there’s more—it’s an experimental, stereophonic movie, too.  I can’t imagine that many children (then and now) are pleased to learn that Mickey Mouse is only in the film for a few minutes and then the rest is music, music, music—and, worse yet, classical music!  Thankfully, I am not a child, and so I have a slight fondness for this revolutionary piece of cinema.

Ben Sharpsteen was the supervising director of this massive project. He worked with ten others directors and over sixty animators, not to mention conductor Leopold Stokowski and the Philadelphia Orchestra, to create a film so unlike anything the movie-going public had ever seen that some didn’t know how to react.  Pauline Kael called it “grotesquely kitschy”, while Bosley Crowther observed that “Fantasia dumps conventional formulas overboard and reveals the scope of films for imaginative excursion”. I can see both Kael and Crowther’s points, but I tend to side more with Crowther.  For me, Fantasia is an artistic visual interpretation of the power of classical music.

The film is broken into eight segments, each set to a specific classical music piece.  While I could have done without Deems Taylor as the master of ceremonies, I know that some viewers needed his introductory comments.  Plus, some of the background information he provided was somewhat interesting.

The first section of the film is set to Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and is perhaps the most abstract of the eight segments.  I don’t know if I would have started off like this, as it might have been too disorienting for some. Still, I love this piece of music and I enjoyed it being used in such an unusual way.  The second part is a reinterpretation of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, with an emphasis on the changing of the seasons. On display are such things as fairy dust and dancing mushrooms—friends of hallucinogens rejoice!  I find these two sections delightful and a nice way to begin the program.

And, then comes Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice in the third act.  This is probably the most famous part of the film, but in reality it is the least imaginative.  Somehow composer Paul Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice doesn’t have the same power as the works of the other composers featured. The final section before the intermission is my least favorite. Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring is used to exhibit the earth’s creation and the early life forms that evolved from it.  I expect this was the most controversial part of the movie—saying the earth was billions of years old and that something crawled up out of the sea could be a problem for Bible literalists.  What I don’t particularly like about it is I don’t think the music fits the images presented.  For me, these are the two weakest sections of Fantasia.

The intermission serves as the fifth segment, but it really isn’t anything more than a quick music tutorial about what instrument sounds like what.  The sixth section is usually the most divisive.  Set to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, it takes place on Mount Olympus and we see colorful mythological creatures cavorting with one another.  I expect this is where Kael found the adjective ‘kitschy’, and, it is, but it is also a fun interpretation of Beethoven’s work.  I am especially fond of the Iris section and the covering of night section.  Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours is perhaps the most well regarded part of Fantasia. Hippos in tutus paired with vampire-esque alligators are inspired choices for a retelling of an Inquisition-based ballet.

Yet, of all of the sections of the film, the last is my favorite.  I love dark Russian composers and I think Modest Mussorgsky is one of the best. His Night on Bald Mountain is both hypnotically eerie and thrillingly exciting, and when paired with Schubert’s Ave Marie, a wonderful dichotomy of the sacred and the profane is expressed. Many viewers have said this part of the film is the one that stays with them the longest—some because it gave them nightmares! For me, I always play Night on Bald Mountain at my Halloween celebration because it is the perfect choice for the night of lost souls.  The animation fits splendidly with Mussorgsky’s music.

Overall, I enjoy watching Fantasia. The film is uneven at times, but that is to be expected when so many directors are involved.  What makes this movie special is its artistry and  innovation.  However, this is not a film that everyone will enjoy—most notably children and adults with short attention spans.

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The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) **

Prior to 1938 Warner Brothers Studios didn’t make big-budget films. They were known for their low-budget gangster films and weepies.  All of this changed when they gave The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) a $2 million budget and made the big leap to Technicolor.  Luckily, they made $4 million at the box office; unfortunately, I found their use of Technicolor to be an assault on good taste.

Carl Jules Weyl won an Academy Award for Best Art Direction for his castle and forest creations, and a well-designed archery contest. Who am I to argue with the Academy? Perhaps they have higher sensory perception than me, because it was especially difficult for me to enjoy Weyl’s set designs when I was optically defiled by Milo Anderson’s costume designs.  There, I said it—the costumes are beyond horrible.  I expect that someone at Warner Bros. told Anderson that they were spending a helluva lot of money on Technicolor and that he’d better make one damn colorful film.  This is the only legitimate reason I will accept as to why he chose to dress grown, virile men in bright greens, reds, and yellows.  There are many reasons the historical period this story takes place in is called the Dark Ages! 

The Robin Hood story is well known.  While King Richard the Lionheart (Ian Hunter) is off fighting the ‘infidels’ in the Crusades his debased younger brother Prince John (Claude Rains) engages in such nefarious acts as over-taxation and murder.  John favors the Normans and persecutes the Saxons (no history lesson will be provided as to why).  Along with his henchmen, the Sherriff of Nottingham (Melville Cooper) and Sir Guy of Gisbourne (Basil Rathbone), the Prince plans to usurp the throne and decimate all those who stand in his way—notably Robin Hood (Errol Flynn) and his band of merrymen, who are ensconced in Sherwood Forest.  As a result, arrows fly and swords clash, and the fate of England rests in the hands of men wearing tights and extremely bright colors.

It is the fight scenes that set this film apart. Relying on an enormous cast of extras, directors Michael Curtiz and William Keighley do an excellent job of staging their action sequences.  The story moves at a whirlwind pace, which is expertly managed by Ralph Dawson’s Academy Award winning editing.  Who doesn’t like watching Flynn shooting arrows at his enemies while riding on horseback or trying to avoid capture inside Nottingham Castle?  Of course, with any film where Flynn and Rathbone are sworn enemies there must be a swordfight—and this does not disappoint.  The most spectacular shot in the entire movie takes place when they finally cross swords along the stairways of Nottingham Castle. Interestingly enough, what makes the shot so great is that it is done in shadow (with neither men colorfully displayed for all to see)—just black shadowed images! 

Oh, and there’s a love story!  The King’s ward, Maid Marian (Olivia de Havilland), comes off haughty in the beginning, but Robin Hood in his gleaming green glory eventually turns her head (HOW couldn’t she notice him?).  Thankfully, de Havilland doesn’t look nearly as bad as her male counterparts in Technicolor. Still, there was a point when I began wondering if we’d ever see her without a veil.  Fortunately, we do eventually get to see that she has hair!  Her wardrobe, however, leaves one to wonder if tapestry was for more than walls in the 12th Century?  Her scenes are wonderfully complemented anytime Una O’Connor makes an appearance as her nurse Bess. For my money, O’Connor is one of the best things about the entire movie. 

Overall, I was not overly impressed with The Adventures of Robin Hood. It was a passable adventure story, with some nicely staged action sequences.  The story itself was not especially compelling; and, the acting could not be classified as nuanced (which is a shame because there were some pretty good performers in it).  And, the garish use of color to extol the virtues of Technicolor was jarring to every optic nerve I have.

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Grand Illusion (La Grande Illusion) 1937 ***

Director Jean Renoir’s Grand Illusion (1937) has the distinct honor of being the first foreign-language film nominated for a Best Picture Oscar.  What sets it apart from other war movies about WWI is that there is not a battle to be seen. Instead, it examines the social-psychological world of POW camps—where battlefield enemies become friends, and religion and class take a backseat to survival.  In an outside world composed of chaos and depravity, the prisoners and jailers of the POW camp engage in a concocted world of grand illusion. At its core Grand Illusion is a humanistic film about social class, religion, and duty/honor.

When Lieutenant Maréchal (Jean Gabin) and Captain de Boeldieu (Pierre Fresnay) are shot down over German territory they become the dinner guests of Captain von Rauffenstein (Erich von Stroheim), the same man who was responsible for their plane going down. As officers, they are treated as honored guests and not enemy combatants—this is von Rauffenstein’s code of honor.  When the Frenchmen are transported to the first of several camps (they like to attempt escapes), they become members of a microcosm of French society. Officers from all walks of life and social class are roomed together—the only things that unite them are their language and nation.  For Renoir, that is enough.

In a European society plagued by blatant anti-Semitism, it is remarkable that Renoir would make one of his principal characters Jewish.  Lieutenant Rosenthal (Marcel Dalio) serves a dual purpose for Renoir. First, Rosenthal is used as the key humanistic figure in Grand Illusion. He is from a wealthy banking family, but he has no pretensions when it comes to his family’s status or riches.  When he receives care packages from home he more than willingly shares his items with everyone. Which goes to the second purpose that Rosenthal serves in the story: an ardent rebuff of Jewish stereotypes and a response to the rabid anti-Semitism taking place in 1937 Nazi Germany (one of the many reasons it was banned there). 

Of all of the relationships in the movie Captain von Rauffenstein and Captain de Boeldieu’s is the most compelling.  For those who do not know, when you see a ‘von’ or a ‘de’ in front of someone’s last name it almost always indicates aristocratic lineage.  Both men are from proud aristocratic families, where men willingly devote their lives to military careers.  They come from a world that above all else complies with duty and honor. To outsiders their behavior might seem haughty and affected, but they know no other way to behave.  Manners and respect must be shown at all times—even to those who are labeled enemies on the battlefield and those who do not belong to their own social class.

The conversations between Rauffenstein and Boeldieu are riveting to watch. These men know that when the illusory polite world of the POW camp ends at the close of the war, so will their refined, aristocratic world. Rauffenstein himself can see this when a common man like Maréchal and a Jew like Rosenthal are recognized as officers just like he and Boeldieu.  Surrounded by those so unlike themselves they seek comfort in one another, which makes Boeldieu’s extreme sacrifice for Rosenthal and Maréchal all the more painful for Rauffenstein. When Renoir has Rauffenstein cut his prized geranium after Boeldieu dies it says more than ten pages of dialogue could ever express.  Just as Citizen Kane (1941) had its Rosebud, Grand Illusion has its geranium.

Stylistically there isn’t an extreme amount to focus on, but that doesn’t take away from the film. Christian Matras cinematography is not what I would describe as breathtaking and there isn’t an overabundance of complex lighting, either.  Still, he employs close-ups to their greatest effect and cleanly comprises his frames.  And, Joseph Kosma’s score does a nice job of setting the melancholic feel of the film. 

Overall, what I most admire about Grand Illusion is the story and the acting. Never before was von Stroheim’s stilted and mannered acting style more called for than in the role of Rauffenstein—for that alone, Renoir should be lauded.  If I have one complaint with the film it is that it goes on about 20-minutes too long.  For me, the movie could have ended after Boeldieu’s death and a closing shot of Rosenthal and Maréchal crossing the Swiss border.  Still, I expect that Renoir was trying to make a statement about the universalism of compassion and love, and so he needed to show that a German woman (Dita Parlo) could give shelter to and eventually fall in love with a Frenchman.  C'est la vie…

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Cabaret (1972) **

As a child I was mesmerized by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz (1939).  Perhaps it was Dorothy’s childlike innocence and sweet voice that made me love that film so much.  The same cannot be said for Garland’s daughter Liza Minnelli’s Oscar-winning effort in Cabaret (1972), in which she plays a character who definitely doesn’t sing sweetly and is far from innocent.  Just let me say it: I have never enjoyed watching director’s Bob Fosse’s Cabaret—mainly because I don’t like Minnelli. 

Throughout her career Minnelli has played frantic, nervous women who seem on the verge of mental collapse. As such, I feel like she’s playing the same character over and over—herself! Now, I’m not saying that she didn’t deserve the Oscar she won for her portrayal of Sally Bowles—the competition was rather weak that year, sans Maggie Smith—but there’s a reason her film career went in the toilet after the Arthur movies: lack of range.  What works on Broadway doesn’t always translate to the big screen—just ask Nathan Lane and Carol Channing.  With that said, let us now discuss the film that unjustly won Fosse a Best Director Oscar over Francis Ford Coppola (yet another gripe I have with this movie).

The story takes place in 1931 Berlin, during the waning years of the Weimar Republic. With Nazism on the rise and the Depression in full swing, we find our story set in a seedy cabaret and in the rooms of a rundown boarding house.  Sally Bowles (Minnelli) is a performer at the Kit Kat Club, but wants to be a movie star. In between sidling up to customers with deep pockets she looks for a chance meeting with G.W. Pabst or Emil Jannings.  While she might not encounter any German film luminaires, she does come across bi-sexual Brit Brian Roberts (Michael York), who has just arrived in town to tutor Germans on the art of the English language. After convincing him that he must stay at the boarding house where she resides, Sally does her best to turn Brian into a heterosexual. This effort is complicated when rich aristocrat Max (Helmut Griem) comes into their lives. Both Sally and Brian become romantically involved with Fritz; thus, creating one of the strangest love triangles in film. The plot becomes further complicated when Sally become pregnant—who is the Baby Daddy? Who cares…

I never read Christopher Isherwood’s 1951 play, I Am a Camera, so I don’t know how prevalent the rise of Nazism was in it.  For me, there is an odd disconnect in how Fosse brings Nazism in and out of his story. There is the subplot romance between Fritz (Fritz Wepper) and Natalia (Marisa Berenson), where he is afraid to admit he is a Jew but must to marry the woman he loves, and we see a few people get beat up by Brown Shirts, but I don’t know that I agree with how Fosse inserted these elements into the overall film.  They often seem like afterthoughts, or worse, social conscience plot contrivances.

The only thing that I mildly enjoy about Cabaret are the musical numbers—and even those are less than one would like.  Joel Grey won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his role as the master of ceremonies at the Kit Kat Club. He performs in almost all of the crass musical numbers, and serves as some omnipresent third eye in the Brian/Sally/Max saga and the rise of the Nazis. Most of the songs satirize the Nazis—hence, why some warned Cabaret might turn out to be Fosse’s Springtime for Hitler—and are smartly composed.  Still, when I watch a musical I want to be wowed by memorable lyrics and/or spectacular dance numbers.  Other than Minnelli’s final rendition of “Cabaret” I can find no song that I remotely found stayed with me after a few hours of seeing and hearing it.  Sure, Rolf Zehetbauer, Jurgen Kiebach, and Herbert Strabel do wonderful jobs with the film’s art direction (they won Oscars), but atmosphere alone does not make me love a musical number. 

I expect many disagree with my assessment of Cabaret. Okay. For me, it is a mildly entertaining period musical.  While it might have superior artistic merit when you compare it to that other 1970s musical, Grease (1978), it is far less enjoyable to watch.  Heck, I enjoyed Fosse’s All That Jazz (1979) more than this—and that wasn’t a particular favorite, either.  Perhaps that’s it: I just don’t get Fosse. And, when you couple this cognitive defect with my overall dislike of Minnelli, you get a less than resounding review of a film that so many people seem to admire. 

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