The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (Zangiku Monogatari) 1939 **

 

(Please note that in the 1001 Book, this film is referred to as The Story of the Late Chrysanthemums.)

Sometimes you watch a two-and-a-half hour film and the time flies by, but then there are films like director Kenji Mizoguchi’s The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (1939), which seem to drag on forever.  An obvious proponent of extremely long, static takes, Mizoguchi was a reflective storyteller who had a habit of making depressing movies (think Ugetsu and Sansho the Bailiff).  Recently on TCM I heard Ben Mankiewicz say that Mizoguchi was regarded as one of the three best Japanese directors ever, behind the likes of Akira Kurosawa and Yasujiro Ozu. Okay, I can accept that, but I still wish his pacing were faster and his stories a tad less stylized. 

The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums takes place in 1880s Japan and revolves around hammy kabuki actor Kikunosuke (Shotaro Hanayagi).  Protected by his famous father’s name, Kikunosuke plods along giving poor performances while everyone in Tokyo ridicules him behind his back.  The only person who has enough courage to tell him the truth about his acting is his brother’s wet nurse, Otoku (Kakuko Mori).  Every tragedy needs a good setup, and as luck would have it Kikunosuke and Otoku fall in love against Kikunosuke’s family’s wishes. Banished to first Osaka and then the provinces, Kikunosuke struggles on while developing his art at the urging of Otoku. In the process, like any good woman, Otoku completely destroys her health and happiness to ensure that Kikunosuke returns to his family as a great actor.  Without giving the ending away, let’s just things don’t end on a happy note—which is the case in just about every Mizoguchi film I have ever seen.

Self-sacrificing women saturate the world of cinema, but Otoku has to be in the top tier of the all-time greatest ever.  While her behavior irritates me beyond measure, Mori’s performance is quite good and makes the movie bearable.  Older Asian cinema is permeated with highly stylized acting which can be off-putting to many modern viewers. However, the one good thing about this style is that actors can’t hide behind bravado and over-active hand gestures.  Mori plays Otoku as a serene creature who wastes no energy on melodramatic hysterics.  When things don’t go well for her (which is 90% of the time), she patiently accepts what fate has dealt her.

My biggest complaint with The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums is Mizoguchi’s unflinching dedication to the extreme long take.  Yes, I know he is attempting to create an atmosphere of introspective reflection, but at some point it just steps over the bounds of acceptability.  I think if he had cut most of these scenes in half I would have enjoyed the film much more.  Mizoguchi’s contemporary, Ozu, was much more adept at the use of the extreme long take. 

Overall, The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums is a study in patience and suffering—both in the movie and watching it.  I didn’t hate it, but I most assuredly didn’t love it, either.

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Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965) *1/2

Where should I start: the ridiculous script, the bad acting, or the complete exploitation of women?  Director Russ Meyer’s cult film, Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965), is an adventure in everything that I despise in a film.  That said, it is not a horrible movie—it just really pisses me off.

The ridiculous story, penned by Meyer and Jack Moran, is about three go-go dancers who like to wear extremely tight and low-cut clothing and drive around the Mojave Desert in small sports cars laughing maniacally. The leader is Varla (Tura Santana), a karate chopping psychopath.  Her main sidekick is Rosie (Haji), a lipstick lesbian who I couldn’t figure out whether she was supposed to be Mexican or Italian.  The weak link in this sinister triangle, is Billie, an oversexed blonde who is constantly disobeying orders.  When they meet up with Tommy (Ray Barlow) and his girlfriend Linda (Susan Bernard) in the desert, things go too far and Varla ends up snapping Tommy’s neck.  Why in the hell they didn’t snap the beyond annoying Linda’s neck is beyond me, but for some reason they take her along on their next adventure—trying to rob an old crippled rancher.

There’s a reason most people outside of the cult film scene have never heard of any of the actors who appear in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!—they were all horrible actors.  I’m sure Meyer was trying to create cartoonish characters when he put this movie together, but at some point it just passes the point of kitsch.  Of particular grievance is Stuart Lancaster as the lecherous crippled old man and his aptly named son The Vegetable (Dennis Busch). Watching these two attempt to deliver their inane lines went beyond the pale. 

But the absolute worst thing about Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! was the complete exploitation of the female form.  The film begins with the three women dancing in a go-go club with beyond disgusting men urging them on, and it only gets worse from that point on.  I am not exaggerating when I say I kept waiting for one of Varla’s nipples to appear out of the front of her low-cut shirt—you see everything but the nipple.  Billie gets two outfits—both of which you might see on any night on the Sunset Strip.  Oh, and I forgot, we get to see two of the women take showers in the middle of the desert.  Once you get past the slutty clothes, then you move to the sexual innuendo that is not only aimed at them but that comes out of their pouty mouths as well. Yes, they give as good as they get, but it is still unpleasant to hear no matter if a male or female is saying it. 

All that said, I can’t rate Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! as one of the worst films that I have ever seen.  It is an area of movie limbo for me.  It was bad on all levels, but still somewhat watchable. I expect this has to do with the fact that there is some semblance of a plot and that the characters are just so outrageous that you can’t help but watch.

Overall, I definitely would not rank this as one of the films I had to see before my death.  Everything about it is bad—yet, somehow still watchable. And, the theme song by The Bostweeds is pretty memorable.

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Shame (2011) **1/2

Director Steve McQueen’s Shame (2011) is a taut drama about sex addiction. It rightly earned an NC-17 rating in the U.S. There is an abundance of full frontal nudity and a few pretty explicit sex scenes.  It won several film festival and critic’s awards but didn’t earn one Academy Award nomination.  Personally, I am conflicted about the film as a whole.  It goes without saying that both Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan give riveting performances, but something just didn’t click for me.  I expect this has a lot to do with my inability to connect with the characters and my complete distaste of weak people.

Brandon Sullivan (Fassbender) is a New York advertising executive who is addicted to really smarmy sex.  You know you have a problem when it takes several trash bags to clean out your porn and sex toy collection.  He is literally thinking about sex every waking minute of his life. He’s a good looking guy, so he has no problems finding women willing to sleep with him, and that suits him fine. Yet, when he attempts to start a normal relationship with a co-worker (Nicole Beharie) he can’t conduct a sexual relationship with her because it’s not based on perversion.  Simply put, Brandon needs therapy.

Psychological issues obviously run in the family because Brandon’s sister, Sissy (Mulligan), is just as screwed up as he is.  I wonder what their parents were like?  A serial suicide attempter and a straight-up slut, Sissy is a depressed lounge singer.  You need only watch her raw, emotional rendition of “New York, New York” to know something just isn’t right with her.  Plus, she and Brandon have some strange, almost incestuous relationship that is extremely volatile.  While it is never said whether something sexual has ever transpired between them, it is somehow implied—McQueen leaves it up to the viewer to decide.

While both Mulligan and Fassbender give gripping performances, the pace of the film is painfully slow.  There are several long reflective scenes in Shame that make an hour and forty minute film seem much longer than its runtime.  Still, the way McQueen introduces just how depraved Brandon’s addiction is is done quite cleverly.  In the beginning it is just hinted at, but slowly as Brandon becomes engulfed in his depravity, the scenes become slowly more graphic until he hits bottom and goes on one of the longest sex sprees in cinematic history—even porn stars take a break!

While I was annoyed by the slow pacing of Shame, what really kept me from loving it was that I couldn’t connect with either Brandon or Sissy.  They are such weak, needy people, that I couldn’t really feel any sympathy for either one of them.  I’m sure this says something about me as well, but I despise people and film characters who are weak-willed.  To me, it’s a form of self-absorption to allow oneself to be completely engulfed in anything that does harm to oneself.  I can find neither sympathy or empathy for Brandon and Sissy, and that takes a lot of the shine off Shame for me.

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Bringing Up Baby (1938) ****

It is difficult for me to understand how director Howard Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby (1938) ended up being a monumental flop—it’s absolutely hilarious. Yet, it was panned by reviewers; snubbed by Oscar; and, neglected by moviegoers. Things were so bad that Katharine Hepburn had to buy out her RKO contract and Hawks was dropped by RKO—which cost him the right to direct Gunga Din (1939), which went to George Stevens. However, in the end Bringing Up Baby had the last laugh, as it is now considered one of the best American comedies ever made. What I adore about Bringing Up Baby is its breakneck pace and its clever dialogue—plus you can’t go wrong with a Grant-Hepburn pairing supported by the likes of May Robson, Charlie Ruggles, Fritz Feld, and Walter Catlett.

Dr. David Huxley (Cary Grant) is on the brink of completing the four-year process of reconstructing a brontosaurus when a missing intercostal clavicle is found.  In addition, David is about to secure a $1 million donation to the museum from Elizabeth Random (Robson) and he is getting married to Ms. Swallow (Virginia Walker).  Life is good for David—that is until his golf ball is stolen by a flighty, oblivious young woman named Susan Vance (Katharine Hepburn). Kleptomania is Susan’s disease: she not only steals David’s golf ball but his car as well—with him standing on the running board. When you think about it, Susan is a small-time crook in the making. Let’s see, she steals a golf ball, two cars, a purse, David’s clothes, and a leopard in less than two days.  It only makes sense that she would also want to steal Ms. Swallow’s fiancee, too, right?

Even with David wearing his glasses, Susan soon falls in love with him—although when she break his glasses she also likes to mention just how good-looking he is without them (perhaps this is where they got the Clark Kent/Superman, idea?). And, who wouldn’t—he is played by Cary Grant!  Susan and David do make a handsome couple, but David wants none of Susan’s craziness.  Throwing rocks at lawyers, stealing countless things, and having a pet leopard named Baby would seem like deal-breakers to most people, right? Well, it’s a 1938 Hollywood comedy—guess how it ends?

Howard Hawks should be lauded for his ability to pull the whole production together (although it did run overschedule and over budget) whilst working diligently to curb Hepburn’s nerves about her comedic abilities.  Everything about Hepburn screamed drama, and to be plunged into a harebrained screwball comedy was unnerving for her—especially after a series of flops. Initially she started the production overacting in an attempt to be funny, but Hawks cured her of this by bringing in Walter Catlett to coach her.  Catlett acted out Hepburn’s scenes with Grant and showed her that just being herself and allowing Grant to play his character as it was intended was enough. Hepburn was so indebted to Catlett that she asked he be given the role of Constable Slocum—which he was rewarded with. 

The script by Dudley Nichols and Hagar Wilde is full of double entendres and witty dialogue.  The censors knew there was something very wrong about Bringing Up Baby, but they just couldn’t put their finger on it. It could have been that David was searching for a lost bone or explaining that he thought a certain bone went in the tail but was rebuffed by Mrs. Swallow when she said, “You tried it in the tail yesterday, and it didn't fit.” And then there’s the “gay” thing. Grant has the unique honor of introducing the term “gay” into popular culture when he was dressed in a frilly woman’s negligee and explained his appearance to Mrs. Random by saying, ““Because I just went gay all of a sudden!”

Of course, the best lines are reserved for David and Susan’s stint in Constable Slocum’s jail.  When Hepburn begins her mobster moll act and does her best impression of Barbara Stanwyck in Ladies They Talk About (1933) it is hysterically funny—especially when you consider Hepburn never played such a role in her entire career. And then there’s the nod to The Awful Truth (1937):

Susan: You mean to say you don't remember 'Jerry the Nipper' ?

David: Constable she's making all this up out of motion pictures she's seen!

[Irene Dunne refers to Cary Grant as 'Jerry the Nipper' in The Awful Truth]

Susan: Oh, I suppose I saw you with that red-headed skirt in a motion picture ?

And, then there’s Baby and George (another transplant from The Awful Truth and of course The Thin Man series). In what other film can you see a leopard and a Wire Fox Terrier playing with one another?  For the most part, Hepburn was unafraid of the leopard—she wore enough perfume to choke even a $5 dollar hooker to keep that leopard at bay.  It was Grant who was petrified of the cat and who had to have a stand-in for most of his scenes with the leopard.  Which only adds to the humor of watching Susan literally dragging the mean leopard to the police station.

Overall, I am a huge fan of Bringing Up Baby. Hepburn and Grant have wonderful chemistry and make you like their two divergent characters.  The film moves along quickly and has tons of great lines, which, when put all together, makes for a brisk screwball comedy.

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Fight Club (1999) **1/2

(I’m pretty sure there are spoilers in this post.)

The first rule about Fight Club (1999) is that you do not talk about Fight Club. The end…

Since that wouldn’t be a very constructive blog post, I suppose I must talk about director David Fincher’s highly creative and unusual movie, which was adapted from the 1996 Chuck Palahniuk novel of the same name.  Edward Norton plays an unhappy white-collar worker who suffers from insomnia and consumerism. His entire life is focused on having a condo completely decorated in IKEA and covering up safety defects for the automobile company for whom he works.  He can only feel anything when he goes to disease support groups—even though he doesn’t suffer from any physical affliction.  When the disaffected Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter) starts attending the same meetings (even one for testicular cancer), Norton’s character relapses and returns to his insomniac ways.  Marla and Norton’s characters are emotional wastelands, who both despise and commiserate with one another. 

And, then there’s Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt).  Tyler is a sociopath who is one part philosopher and three parts madman.  Tyler and Norton’s characters meet on a plane and begin living with one another after Norton’s apartment explodes.  They live in a cesspool of a dilapidated house and start an underground fight club.  Tyler uses the club to recruit men to his Project Mayhem, which consists of making bombs with chemicals used in soap and then planting them in credit card buildings.  Eventually, Norton’s character realizes how insane Tyler is and tries to stop him, and this is when the film really gets interesting.

Make no mistake, Fight Club is a graphically violent film. Watching people have their faces beaten to pulps is not a pleasant experience.  There is lots and lots of blood and the occasional skull blown out by a bullet hole.  If you have a weak stomach, this is not the movie for you, because the fight scenes are quite realistic and the blood looks like blood. 

Fincher and cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth used Super 35 to film Fight Club. It gave the movie and unusual look, which played well against the fact that most of the scenes were filmed at night.  It is a gritty looking movie, which on a second viewing has so much to offer.  Why on a second viewing, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you, but this is where the spoiler comes into play—and it’s a BIG one.

Tyler Durden and Norton’s character are the same person.  Yeah, it was sort of like The Sixth Sense (1999) when you realize that Norton’s character has created an imaginary persona to release him from his unhappy life and to launch him into a world of chaos.  As such, when you watch Fight Club for a second time you pick up on all of Fincher’s inserted visual clues. Those odd flashing splices that you couldn’t totally make out before Tyler enters the film—that was Norton’s subconscious beginning to insert Tyler into the frame.  Why does the screen sort of shimmer when Pitt is in a scene (yes, he’s hot, but so is Helena Bonham Carter in a dark, weird way)?  It’s Norton’s mind.  Why are all the un-Tyler scenes flat and somewhat bland—this is Norton’s reality.  It is a highly inventive way to present two different cognitive states. 

The acting is good, but not great.  Bonham Carter is a particular favorite of mine, so just about anything she does is fine by me.  Her Marla is flippant and morose at the same time.  Norton and Pitt play extremely well off one another—as they know they are playing two different sides to one man.  There is a psychotic twinkle in Pitt’s eye throughout. And, it is a delight to watch Norton transform his character from a boring pencil pusher to an all-out badass.  My favorite scene comes when he blackmails his boss into paying him to work from home. In it, you see the complete disintegration of Norton’s character.

Overall, I liked Fight Club. Still, the story is a bit far-fetched and the film is way too gratuitously violent for my liking. 

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Olympia (1938) **

There is no doubt that director/producer Leni Riefenstahl was a tool of Hitler’s Nazi regime.  Yet, that does not negate the fact that her two-part documentary of the 1936 Olympic games held in Berlin, Germany, Olympia, “Festival of the Nations” and “Festival of Beauty” (1938), is a monumental cinematic spectacle.  She employed technical elements never seen before—extreme close-ups, tracking shots, and highly inventive camera angles—which were later used by the likes of Orson Welles and Carol Reed. That said, the overall tone of the film is still hindered by Nazi propaganda and racism. 

Part One, “Festival of the Nations”, opens rather ostentatiously, with Riefenstahl directly comparing German athletes to Greek gods.  This lends itself to the idea of the superiority of the Aryan race, so this isn’t a good way to endear your movie to viewers familiar with the vile tenets of Nazism and Hitler’s Mein Kampf. And, I suspect the all-but-naked (and in some cases, really naked) human specimens were a bit racy for 1938.  Anyway, unlike the last few Olympics, with their 10-hour opening ceremonies, Olympia just has a parade of nations.  Still, from a historical perspective the viewer gains keen insight into which countries were allies (or unwilling ones, too) of Hitler in 1936 by whether they give the Nazi salute or not. Thankfully, the American athletes do not.

After the mini-geopolitical lesson has commenced, we then move to the track and field games.  Again, even though it would have been much better if at least one of the 100,000 spectators in the stadium had aimed a bullet Hitler’s way and saved countless lives, the film is of historical importance because we get to see one of the greatest athletes ever, Jesse Owens, dominate every event he participated in by winning four gold medals.  Racial superiority took a slap in the face when that Ohio State Buckeye visited Berlin.  I watched the German version, so it was easy to tell when the announcer was miffed that both Germans and the entire white race kept losing to a black man. 

Anyway, all blatant bias aside, Riefenstahl and her crew of hundreds do an excellent job of capturing the athletic prowess of the track and field competitors.  Watching in slow motion bodies contort in feats of strength and speed allows one to gain an appreciation of just how much skill goes into being a top-tier athlete.  My one complaint, which really shouldn’t be one since she was doing revolutionary things, is that I can hear the ticking of the film spool/speed whenever the camera slows down.

Part Two, “Festival of Beauty” oddly enough starts with naked German men in a bath house scrubbing each other’s backs and laying back in ecstasy as the steam washes over them. For such a homophobic nation, this seems like a less than Nazi way to begin the second part of your documentary.  That said, this section of the film focuses on gymnastics, regatta, swimming, diving, and military sport—although the Pentathlon makes its way into this, too. Why it wasn’t in the first part with the other track and field events is a mystery to me. 

While it focuses more on the aesthetic effects of sport, “Festival of Beauty” is also a showcase of athleticism.  I could have done without the Eventing section, with horses being hurtled over extremely perilous ravines and obstacles.  With each passing fall and unseating of uniformed rider, I became convinced that at any moment one of the officers was going to whip out a pistol and put down a horse.  However, in complete opposite of this inhumane brutality, was the diving section of the film.  This is a thing of beauty to watch, as Riefenstahl made the divers appear as though they were flying through the air.

Overall, Olympia is probably the greatest documentary about the Olympic games ever made.  It is unfortunate that there has to be an undercurrent of Nazism and racism running throughout it, though.  And while it is a visual treat, its 3+ hour runtime can be daunting to the casual sports enthusiast. 

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