Seconds (1966) **1/2

Based on David Ely’s 1963 novel of the same name, Seconds (1966) is a disturbing science fiction—and, I would go as far as to say horror—film about a man who completely takes on a new identity to escape his meaningless suburban lifestyle.  Director John Frankenheimer, along with cinematographer James Wong Howe, depicts a stark vision of a world where lives can be created or taken by an underground company headed by a man who looks and sounds a lot like Harry S. Truman (Will Geer).  The story itself is so bizarre that it is frightening, and Howe’s voyeuristic cinematography and Jerry Goldsmith’s eerily haunting score only heighten the troubling plot. 

On his nightly commute from his New York banking job to his suburban home in Scarsdale, Arthur Hamilton (John Randolph) is given a scrap of paper with an address written on it. Later that evening he receives a phone call from a man claiming to be his dead best friend, Charlie (Murray Hamilton), who attempts to convince him to change his life.  What happens next is a series of shockingly matter-of-fact conversations between Arthur and the “Company”.  It seems that they can help him extricate himself from his empty existence, in which he no longer shares intimacy with his wife (Frances Reid), sees his married daughter, or enjoys his job.  All he has to do is set up a trust worth $30,000 to handle his transition—a cadaver must be procured for his “death”; extensive plastic surgery must be performed; and, his new identity must be established. Trust signed, Arthur goes under the knife and several weeks later Tony Wilson (Rock Hudson) emerges.  He chooses artist as his new career, and the company sets him up in a beach house in Malibu and assigns John (Wesley Addy) as his adjustment advisor (and servant).  When it appears that Tony isn’t transitioning as they would like, they send in a woman (Salome Jens) to help the process along, as well as some other “reborns” to monitor his behavior. Unfortunately, Wilson doesn’t adapt to his new life and returns to New York to see where he went wrong with his wife and to ask the Company for a redo, so to speak.  Without giving the ending of the movie away, I will say that the last five minutes of the story are startling and uneasy to watch.

There’s something about black and white film that makes psychologically disturbing movies even more frightening.  Howe’s cinematography creates a cold, austere atmosphere for Seconds, which expertly matches the disturbingly detached narrative.  Cinematically, the most important theme created by Howe and Frankenheimer is the distortion of reality. Their use of a fisheye lens to capture Arthur/Wilson’s distorted sense of being creates a mode of expression that a standard lens could not achieve. Additionally, the use of extreme close ups (so close you can see the character’s pores) elevate the tension/anxiety level and are almost jarringly uncomfortable to look at.  In one particular scene, after Arthur has spoken on the telephone to Charlie, Arthur is framed in a tight close up shot which depicts his unease and unhappiness. This shot is then followed, in rapid succession, by a medium and then a long shot, which emphasize Arthur’s isolation. Another scene that I especially enjoyed was when Wilson returns home and picks up a picture of Arthur, while standing in front of a mirror, and his face is reflected across the glass of the picture frame and the two faces of the same man are captured. 

Of course, such disturbing images deserved to be set to an equally disturbing soundtrack. While it has a sound all its own, Jerry Goldsmith’s soundtrack seems to pay homage to Bach’s Baroque style. Filled with imposing organs, melodic strings, and eerie 60s electronic music, the soundtrack is just as disquieting as the film’s subject matter.

Seconds did not do well at the box office or with critics.  Some found the idea ridiculous that John Randolph’s Arthur could be transformed into Rock Hudson’s Wilson. This is a valid complaint, as Hudson was nearly a half foot taller than Randolph and ten years younger, too.  Moreover, audiences weren’t quite prepared to watch Hudson in such a dark film—especially not after seeing him in a string of light romantic comedies.  Personally, I was equally impressed by Hudson and Randolph’s performances. Randolph expresses his character’s disillusionment and resignation quite effectively—so much so that you actually do feel sorry for him.  And, Hudson, for his part, is quite memorable in the last few scenes of the film, where he displays a gamut of emotions: regret, hostility, and horror.  

Overall, while I must admit that the story is a bit far-fetched, it is also so disturbing that I couldn’t help but be drawn into it.  It also helps that it was expertly filmed and that the soundtrack only enhanced the terror of the narrative. 

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Three Colors: Red (Trois couleurs: Rouge) *** 1994

The third installment in director Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colors Trilogy, Red (1994), is by far the most philosophical and entertaining of the group.  I am a fan of films that interconnect the seemingly unconnected—this is why I so adore directors/producers like Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu and Alfonso Cuaron—and Three Colors: Red not only artfully pulls together what appears to be two independent stories but also seamlessly unites all three movies of the trilogy together in one fell swoop. Kieslowski was justly rewarded Oscar nominations for Best Director and Best Original Screenplay (along with co-writer Krzysztof Piesiewicz) for his cinematic interpretation of the bonds of fraternity.  How on earth this wasn’t one of the five nominees for Best Foreign Language Film is beyond comprehension (although if it had been nominated it wouldn’t have won, as even the film that should have won, Before the Rain, was somehow beaten by Burnt by the Sun—personally, I believe that international politics had a lot to do with this outcome…oh, stop, this is not what this review is about…). Thankfully, the Academy did nominate Piotr Sobocinski for his brilliant cinematography, which only elevates the complexity of this intricately woven together story.

Perhaps it is a coincidence that Red takes place in Geneva, Switzerland, but I like to believe Kieslowski chose this setting because of the Geneva Convention, which established the standards for the humanitarian treatment of war.  No, this isn’t a movie about war, but it is, in some way at least, about how laws and society determine what is ethically and socially acceptable.  As in the first two films of the trilogy, Red abounds with isolated, lonely characters.  Valentine (Irene Jacob), a student, model, and pleasant and innately good person, is separated from her family and her pathologically jealous boyfriend. However, quite by accident, her world is changed by running over the dog of retired Judge Kern (Jean-Louis Trintignant). When she returns the dog to him, Kern seems not to care and she takes on the responsibility of nursing the dog back to health. When the dog runs away, Valentine returns to Kern’s house on the off chance that’s where the dog has gone. It also gives her a reason to return the excess amount of money that Kern sent to her to pay the dog’s vet bill. Of course, Kern knew that she would do this, because he understands that she is driven by her interpretation of what is right and what is wrong. Upon this visit, she learns the Kern eavesdrops on all of his neighbor’s phone conversations. She is repulsed by not only his actions but also by how he views the world. When she threatens to turn him in, Kern says that it will make little difference if she does, because in the end all of his neighbors’ (and perhaps society) lives will eventually turn into hell anyway.  She doesn’t turn him in, but she does cry for him—and she leaves the dog with him, too. Obviously Valentine has an impact of Kern, because he writes confessional letters to all of his neighbors who then proceed to bring civil action against him.  Upon reading about the case, Valentine returns to Kern’s to swear that she didn’t turn him in and learns that it was Kern himself who did so.  And, thus, one very unlikely friendship develops. 

The twist to the plot is that there is a parallel story that runs throughout the movie that only starts to come together after Kern explains to Valentine (in an absolutely inspired setting: a dark red theater with red chairs) how he came to be such a wretched man.  Like Auguste (Jean-Pierre Lorit), a young man studying for a judgeship (and the man who lives across the street from Valentine), Kern had dropped a jurisprudence book that when picked up was opened to a chapter which provided the answer to the most crucial question of the exam. And, as Auguste is deeply in love with a woman who betrays him (Frederique Feder), so was Kern.  He was so desperately in love with her that he followed her across the English Channel but she died in an accident.  Strangely enough, Auguste will follow his woman across the English Channel, too, but Valentine will also be on the ferry crossing.  When a disastrous storm strikes, only seven people survive: six of them look quite familiar to anyone who has seen the entire trilogy.

Red, of course, is the dominate color. It’s in every shot, either as an object, as a background, or as a lighting element.  As mentioned above, perhaps the most striking use of the color is the set design of the theater. For me, Kern’s description of the events that destroyed his faith in man and in himself is deeply personal. He allows Valentine to see inside him—his metaphorical flesh--which is symbolically enveloped by the sea of red which encompasses the entire theater. 

The second most memorable use of the color red is almost shockingly clever.  Early in the movie, Valentine does a photo shoot for a billboard ad for chewing gum.  In the scene, the photographer instructs her to stand in profile and think of the saddest thing she can think of.  The backdrop of the photograph is an endless swath of red.  Up goes the billboard and occasionally it makes an appearance when Auguste or Kern notice it, but it seems to hold no larger meaning.  That is, of course, until the end of the film, when Valentine is rescued from the ferry and news cameras catch a extremely sad looking Valentine’s profile in a backdrop of, you guessed it, red. 

Obviously, I have droned on enough about why I prefer Red’s story arc to that of its trilogy mates, Blue (1993) and White (1994), but plot is not the only superior quality that Red has. Unequivocally, Red is the best acted of the three films. I‘m not trying to take anything away from Juliette Binoche’s turn in Blue, because she gives a haunting performance, but she didn’t have the luxury of working opposite Jean-Louis Trintignant.  Unfortunately, American audiences, in general, have no idea who Irene Jacob is.  Very early in her career she made two very important movies, Au revoir, les enfants (1987) and The Double Life of Veronique (1991), as well as Red, that found her poised for international stardom, but after a number of lackluster movies her film career pretty much evaporated, sans a few minor roles in a number of crappy productions.  This is a shame because in Red she gives a multi-layered performance that shows her ability to display emotional depth. Additionally, she is not overshadowed or overwhelmed by working opposite one of the greatest French cinematic actors ever, Jean-Louis Trintignant.  Unlike Binoche, who absolutely dominates every scene she is in with Benoit Regent, Jacob is evenly matched with Trintignant.  Their conversations about what is ethically and socially acceptable are so well done that the viewer feels as if they are the one eavesdropping on the private conversation of one of their own neighbors.

Overall, Red benefits from gorgeous cinematography, good acting, and a tightly-woven intricate story. If I were to levy a complaint about it, it would be that the idiotic phone conversations between Valentine and Michel (the jealous boyfriend) could have been cut without much notice. 

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Three Colors: Blue (Trois couleurs: Bleu) 1993 **

 

I find it odd that the editors of the 1001 Book only selected two films from director Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colors Trilogy (Blue, White, and Red), as they are all connected in their exploration of the ideals of the French Revolution (and the French tricolor flag)--liberty, equality, and fraternity—and have overlapping themes.  Of the three films, I prefer Red (1994) because of the story arc and Irene Jacob’s phenomenal performance.  That’s not to say that Blue (1993) isn’t good or that Juliette Binoche isn’t compelling as an emotionally withdrawn widow, but the plot is not nearly as interesting as Red’s. And, while I found White (1994) to be the weakest installment of the trilogy, it probably should have made it onto “The List” as a matter of principle, since all of the movies from the Toy Story Trilogy and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy made it even though each of these trilogies had a weak link, too.

Three Colors: Blue (1993), the first entry in the trilogy, was Kieslowski’s analysis of the meaning of emotional liberty.  Binoche plays Julie, a Parisian woman who wakes up from a car accident to learn that both her husband and daughter were killed in the crash. The only way that she can deal with her sudden loss is to completely shut down emotionally. To accomplish this, she decides to shed any “baggage” that reminds her of her prior existence, and so she gets rid of everything except a blue-beaded chandelier that was in her daughter’s room.  She then moves into a half-furnished and half-finished apartment without telling anyone where she’s gone off to.  However, try as she might, she is haunted by a musical score that her husband was supposedly writing for the impending unification of Europe under the EU which she believes she’s destroyed. I say supposedly because Kieslowski’s script seems to imply that Julie is actually the composer but he never explicitly says this. Anyway, when this pesky incomplete score isn’t overwhelming Julie’s solitary moments in the swimming pool or at a café, it causes people like Olivier (Benoit Regent), who is asked by the EU Council to finish the score, to seek her out for guidance or to guilt her into helping.  In the end, Julie must decide between isolation from or unification with other people. 

Stylistically, Blue is a French art film with good acting and excellent music.  Kieslowski and his cinematographer, Slawomir Idziak, make numerous visual allusions to the movie’s title by somewhat overwhelming us with various shades of blue.  Forget that key objects, like the chandelier and the ink used to write the score, are blue, the most striking use of the color documents Julie’s emotional state.  For example, there are several scenes of her swimming alone in an indoor swimming pool that are lensed with blue filters and lighting that are aesthetically unique and pleasing, but that also convey an overwhelming atmosphere of isolation and despair. And, strangely, Kieslowski and Idziak have forever changed my visual interpretation of the color blue by making it an ominous, unrelenting terrorist of the psyche, as anytime Julie thinks of the musical score her mind drowns in a powerful shade of blue.

Of course, Kieslowski and Idziak’s aggressive use of the color blue is heightened by Zbigniew Preisner’s dramatic musical score, which sounds quite antagonistic up until it is finally completed.  This, of course, is quite clever, because the score itself becomes a character and serves as Julie’s adversary.  As Julie’s isolation grows so does the intensity of the music. It is not until the ending, and what appears to be Julie’s need to be connected to something, that the tone of the score changes.  Still, the chorus of the finale, taken from 1 Corinthians 13, sounds a little more haunting than what St. Paul probably had in mind when he wrote about the power of love. 

Binoche, for her part, is definitely haunting as a woman who refuses to grieve for those she’s lost.  Maybe that’s why the score doesn’t sound very sentimental, because Julie is incapable of mawkishness. Still, I wonder if Binoche ever got tired of playing such a tightly wound woman.  Plus, her matter of fact conversations with friends and loved ones, most notably the one with her Alzheimer-stricken mother (Emmanuelle Riva), required her to sound quite callous and unfeeling.  It was probably just as emotionally draining for her to play the part as it was for the audience to watch it—if only the story had been more engrossing and less ambiguous.

Overall, Blue is an interesting film to watch because of its cinematic elements, but the story lurks in the realm of ambiguity and drags at certain points.  Perhaps if Kieslowski had cut the entire Charlotte Very as a sex worker/exotic dancer element out of the movie things would have moved along at a brisker pace. 

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On the Town (1949) **

I’m a sucker for a good musical, but there’s one particular aspect of a Gene Kelly musical that I rather don’t like: the soliloquy dance number.  I can forgive the “Singin’ in the Rain” soliloquy because it’s absolutely breathtaking to watch, but the soliloquies in his two other notable musicals, An American in Paris (1951) and On the Town (1949),  really rankle me.  Kelly was an amazing dancer and choreographer, and so I understand that he wanted to show off his immense skills, but these interludes in the action come off, at least to me, as vanity projects that don’t always mesh with the overall productions in which they appear.  This is one of the reasons that I’m not more of a fan of On the Town—the other reason is that other than Betty Garrett’s hilarious turn as Hildy and Ann Miller’s fantastic song-and-dance number, “Prehistoric Man”, I wasn’t overly impressed by anything else. In my opinion, Leonard Bernstein’s music and Roger Edens, Adolph Green, and Betty Comden’s lyrics are rather pedestrian.  Perhaps this is musical heresy, but after Miller finishes her awesome tap dance at the end of “Prehistoric Man” I could have happily stopped watching the movie and been quite happy.

Kelly co-directed On the Town with Stanley Donen, whom he would go on to make probably the greatest musical ever, Singin’ in the Rain (1952). While they are regaled for the their innovative dance numbers, they should also be remembered as the first directors to shoot a musical number on location.  As On the Town is about three sailors who go on shore leave for one day in New York City, Kelly thought it only right that the film be shot on location.  Of course, this was not a cost-effective way to shoot a musical (or any film for that matter), especially when MGM had an entire lot of studios that had been good enough for countless other musicals, most notably, The Wizard of Oz (1939).  Yet, Kelly persisted and eventually got the green light to shoot nine days’ worth of footage of the sailors visiting various landmarks in NYC, as well as the opening (and closing) number, “New York, New York”.  Most of the sight-seeing scenes were captured by a camera mounted on the back of a station wagon, while “New York, New York” required a bit more traditional way of filming. 

On premise, On the Town is based on Leonard Bernstein’s 1944 Broadway musical of the same name, but Roger Edens changed or omitted several of Bernstein’s songs to appeal to a larger audience—namely he got rid of any hint of opera.  Since I have never seen Bernstein’s original vision of On the Town I cannot say which version is better, but hopefully the Broadway edition had more entertaining and engaging songs.  Still, Edens did create the most memorable number in the film, “Prehistoric Man”, so for that he should be applauded. Maybe I like risqué songs, because there’s a whole heaping load of “oomph” and “ooh la la” in the lyrics of “Prehistoric Man” and Miller sings them with such vim and vigor that you can’t help but be amused.  You add the dazzling tap dance number that she performs while singing this song (with a little help from her backup singers and dancers Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Jules Munshin, and Betty Garrett), which has a tremendous ending to it, and you easily have the best musical number in the movie.

Still, Kelly had to have his moment to shine, too, and so we get to watch him dance, for what seems like forever, the soliloquy ballet number, “A Day in New York”.  Let’s forget that it’s completely useless to the continuity of the musical—although that is also exceedingly annoying to me.  What is most irritating is that the only person, other than himself, from the starring cast who performs the number is Vera-Ellen (who, I must admit, I don’t like), even though part of the sequence includes two male and two female dancers who accompany Kelly.  To me, that’s like saying, “Hey, Frank, Jules, Betty, and Ann, sorry, but you ain’t good enough to do this routine.” And, maybe they weren’t, but that’s beside the point. By making the decision to use other dancers in that scene, Donen and Kelly purposefully chose to disrupt the overall continuity of the film. 

If I had to pick one shining bright spot, other than the “Prehistoric Man” number, in On the Town, it would have to be watching Betty Garrett’s feisty performance as Hildy. Garrett was no Ava Gardner in the looks department, but her Hildy comes across as a wanton woman nonetheless. Her unsubtle sexual innuendo toward Sinatra’s character, Chip, is undeniably worth the price of admission.  Probably the best description of Garrett’s brassy talents came from New York Times columnist Bosley Crowther, who once wrote that Garrett’s “way with a line is homicidal. What’s more she can dance and sing.” 

Overall, On the Town is, for me, a one trick pony.  When I watch a musical I want to be wowed by several great song and dance numbers. Here I only got one: “Prehistoric Man”.  This spirited routine coupled with Betty Garrett’s spunky performance is not enough to overcome what I find to be a set of lackluster musical numbers.

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The Wrong Man (1956) **

Had Alfred Hitchcock not appeared at the beginning of The Wrong Man (1956) to introduce it and to say that it was different than his other films you wouldn’t believe that the master of suspense directed it.  It doesn’t look like or develop like any other Hitchcock movie I’ve ever seen.  Yes, the Hitchcockian theme of the wrongfully accused man is the centerpiece of the story, but countless other directors also enjoyed employing this plot device.  Furthermore, the poster above is misleading, The Wrong Man is not an “adventure into terror”. Instead, it is a dark and depressing docu-drama that is based on the true story of a man arrested and tried for a crime that he did not commit. This, of course, makes it somewhat difficult for me to say that the story is boring and that the movie drags, but it so desperately does both of these things. 

Hitchcock had an unnatural fear of the police and so when he read about Manny Balestrero’s (Henry Fonda) wrongful arrest and subsequent trial for armed robbery, he was intrigued.  And, it is a rather compelling story. A jazz musician at the Stork Club makes the fateful decision to take out a loan against his wife Rose’s (Vera Miles) insurance policy to pay for her to have her wisdom teeth removed.  While at the insurance company, the overly sensitive women who work there mistake Manny for the man who’d robbed them twice in one year. The next thing you know, Manny is picked up by the police, taken on several perp walks, and then arrested for a crime that he did not commit. While out on bail, Manny and his wife try to find witnesses who can prove that he was away on vacation when one of the robberies occurred, but every lead falls through. Surprisingly, his wife has a nervous breakdown and has to be sent to an asylum while Manny stands trial. 

If you work very hard you can pinpoint some of Hitchcock’s stylistic elements. He and cinematographer Robert Burks spend a lot of time focusing on the hands of characters and inanimate objects, and there are a number of low-angle close-ups of faces—what is sometimes referred to as framing for emotion. Additionally, they shot the booking sequence from Manny’s perspective, which had the effect of involving the audience in his distress. Yet, probably the most Hitchcockian element comes when Manny is placed in a cell for the first time.  After suffering through the humility of being questioned, fingerprinted, and charged for armed robbery, Manny is completely overwhelmed by the insanity of the entire situation by the time he stands alone in his cell. To emphasize Manny’s  confusion and mental anguish the camera appears to start spinning—so much so that it is both disorienting and nauseating to the audience.  However, these few elements, along with a cracked mirror and transposed shot near the movie’s ending, is where any resemblance to a Hitchcock production ends—there isn’t even a MacGuffin that I noticed!

For me, The Wrong Man suffers immensely from Hitchcock’s insistence that the audience experience the entire arrest process.  I know that he wanted to put his audience in Manny’s place, but while it does have some effect, it demands that the story be told at a crawling pace, which allows distraction and boredom to creep in.  Boring is not a word that I often associate with a Hitchcock production, but The Wrong Man is indeed just that.  Plus, his matter-of-fact way of telling the story really doesn’t allow the audience to emotionally connect with either Manny or his wife.  Sadly, when Rose goes off the deep end, I found myself annoyed by her presence and the story arc, as it made the movie even longer than it needed to be.

The one good thing about The Wrong Man is Henry Fonda, who stoically portrays a character who should have been at his wit's end but never seems to lose his composure.  Emotionally restrained performances can be difficult for some actors, but Fonda does an excellent job of displaying Manny’s terror through his eyes and body language.  Plus, he capitalized on his own persona as a solid ,trustworthy person to get the audience to be even more outraged by what Manny goes through.

Overall, I am not a fan of The Wrong Man.  The story drags and is often quite boring, which is a black mark for any movie helmed by a master storyteller like Hitchcock.  Thankfully, Fonda’s performance gets me through such tedium. 

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The Big Sleep (1946) **

There is no doubt that Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall had oodles of chemistry, which jumped off the screen whenever they were paired together. And, they had a way of making risqué dialogue sound even more racier than it was probably intended. Yet, the fact remains that early in her career Lauren Bacall just wasn’t a very good actress.  Fortunately for her, she had two things on her side: her ability to project sexual tension with Bogart and a cool beauty that made her the perfect femme fatale. Strangely enough, however, she isn’t the most compelling femme fatale in director Howard Hawks’ The Big Sleep (1946)—that honor rests with Martha Vickers, who plays Bacall’s younger sister in the movie.  This is a rather disturbing fact when you consider that many of Vickers scenes were cut after Raymond Chandler, upon seeing the two women on-screen together, commented that Vickers unequivocally overshadowed Bacall.  This, of course, is a sad tidbit to know, since, for me at least, whenever Vickers made an appearance on the screen the movie always seemed to get better.  Perhaps if the film’s plot hadn’t been so convoluted and full of countless red herrings I could have overlooked the sidelining of Vickers in favor of Bacall, but The Big Sleep suffers acutely from an ill-conceived narrative.

Based on Raymond Chandler 1939 novel of the same name, The Big Sleep is a film noir detective story set in Los Angeles.  Private dick Philip Marlowe (Bogart) is hired by General Sternwood (Charles Waldron) to handle his youngest daughter Carmen’s (Vickers) gambling debts, which are a source of blackmail—but there’s more to the story than that.  Carmen is a drug addict and nymphomaniac (per the Hays Code, this is only alluded to) with a nasty temper who has a very bad habit of getting caught up in all kinds of jams.  These jams, unfortunately, also ensnare her older sister, Vivian (Bacall), into her sordid affairs.  Don’t get me wrong, Vivian is a piece of work, too, but while she might like to gamble and emasculate men, she’s smart enough not to pose for pornographic pictures (again, only alluded to) or have affairs with chauffeurs and errand boys—and, most importantly, Vivian isn’t the reason countless men meet their big sleep—death.  Marlowe, for his part, must navigate the endless webs of deceit spun by the Sternwood women to fully comprehend the corrupt and seedy world which controls their fate.  Along the way, he develops a hot-and-cold relationship with Vivian that is tempered by their mutual distrust of one another. In the end, he must make a fateful decision to free the Sternwood women from a hell of their own making.

First, let me say that The Big Sleep is not a bad movie. Yes, the plot is difficult to follow, but even I must admit that it is never boring—it is, however, irritating and meandering. Chandler, himself, admitted that when Hawks and screenwriters William Faulkner, Leigh Brackett, and Jules Furthman contacted him for clarity regarding the story’s narrative that even he could not explain all of the plot developments—this was a bad omen.  It also doesn’t help that the Hays Code restricted the screenwriters from telling the story as it ought to have been told. The novel is both more complex and perverse than what eventually made its way to the screen in 1946. Audiences would have to wait until Michael Winner’s 1978 film version of the novel to see the truly explicit nature of the book.

By far, the most entertaining thing about The Big Sleep is how far the screenwriters pushed the censors with their sexually charged dialogue and innuendo.  For example, early in the film Dorothy Malone makes a brief appearance as a bookstore clerk who spends an afternoon with Marlowe doing everything but discussing books.  Of course, none of this is shown, but it doesn’t need to be because it’s obvious what has occurred.  And, then there is probably one of the more risqué exchanges ever to get past the censors: the racehorse metaphor.

Vivian: Speaking of horses, I like to play them myself. But I like to see them workout a little first, see if they're front runners or come from behind, find out what their whole card is, what makes them run.

Marlowe: Find out mine?

Vivian: I think so.

Marlowe: Go ahead.

Vivian: I'd say you don't like to be rated. You like to get out in front, open up a little lead, take a little breather in the backstretch, and then come home free.

Marlowe: You don't like to be rated yourself.

Vivian: I haven't met anyone yet that can do it. Any suggestions?

Marlowe: Well, I can't tell till I've seen you over a distance of ground. You've got a touch of class, but I don't know how, how far you can go.

Vivian: A lot depends on who's in the saddle.

This exchange alone is enough to make me suffer through the film’s ever winding and unwinding plot. And, of course, then there’s also those brief moments when Vickers lights up the screen.  From her first exchange with Marlowe, “You’re not very tall are you"?”, to her would-be seduction of him, Vickers is electrifying.  It can’t be said too many times, The Big Sleep would have been a much better film with more of her in it. And, even worse, the second most interesting woman in the film isn’t even Bacall, but rather Sonia Darrin, who plays every scene she’s in with a compelling level of intensity sorely lacking on the part of Bacall.

Overall, The Big Sleep is the type of film you wish were better because it does have some redeeming qualities. Yet, it suffers from a labyrinthine plot and a less than stellar leading lady. Thankfully, the dialogue was entertainingly witty, and occasionally Vickers or Darrin popped in and made the film much more interesting.

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Mrs. Miniver (1942) ****

On most days I wouldn’t trade my parents for anyone, but if the stars aligned absolutely perfectly and I could pick my own I would choose Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) from To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) and Kay Miniver (Greer Garson) from Mrs. Miniver (1942). For me, they are the epitome of good parenting.  Thankfully, they both have now found their way into the 1001 Book—he was an original and she was just added in the Tenth Anniversary edition.  To say that I adore director William Wyler’s Mrs. Miniver would be an understatement. I don’t care that it’s sentimental and propagandistic, or that I can’t in all good conscience rave about its cinematography or art direction (although they were good in their own right).  Besides the fact that Mrs. Miniver was one of  the most important war films made during WWII, it is also one of the best pieces of ensemble acting to come out of the studio system—starting with Garson’s spell-binding performance in the title role and ending with Henry Travers’ engrossing turn as Mr. Ballard.  Some may disagree, but in my opinion Mrs. Miniver is truly one film that deserves to be seen before one’s death.

Based on Jan Struther’s 1939 book of essays, which described a middle-class British woman’s concerns over Britain possibly going to war, Mrs. Miniver was William Wyler’s unapologetic answer to American isolationism. The Academy Award winning screenplay was written by Arthur Wimperis, George Froeschel, James Hilton, and Claudine West over a period of more than one year. It was the product of constant rewrites which were dictated by America’s ever changing views on the war. Wyler, a German Jew, vehemently thought that Nazism was a scourge upon humanity and believed that the United States should join Britain in repelling the German menace.  Unfortunately, many Americans and their elected representatives believed that the country should stay out of a war that did not concern them.  As such, Wyler knew that no conventional war movie, with soldiers, tanks, and guns, would aid in changing the minds of ordinary Americans, and so he made a motion picture about a small British village ravaged by total war (more specifically the Blitz). 

People understood that bombs fell on battlefields and soldiers died in war, but seeing everyday, ordinary country Brits, women and children and the elderly, being tormented, and in some cases killed, by German aerial bombs was a whole other matter--this was how Wyler planned to present Mrs. Miniver to American audiences. Although the film premiered six months after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the U.S. entered the war, it still had a powerful message for all audiences, which was delivered by the village vicar (Henry Wilcoxon) in the somber but rousing final scene: “This is the people's war! It is our war! We are the fighters! Fight it then! Fight it with all that is in us, and may God defend the right.” Yes, this speech was pure propaganda, but in the words of British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, it was “propaganda worth a hundred battleships." For his part, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered that the vicar’s entire speech be printed on leaflets and dropped over Europe and he had the Voice of America broadcast it on several different occasions.

The reason Mrs. Miniver was so inspiring to Americans and Britons alike is that the Miniver family and their village were ordinary people attempting to survive in extraordinary circumstances. The story begins by demonstrating that the Minivers are everyday middle class people who want nice things for themselves and their children. Like most women, Kay (Garson) buys frivolous things that she doesn’t need just because she wants them and then attempts to hide the purchases from her husband, Clem (Walter Pidgeon), who also purchases things he doesn’t need. They have two young children at home (Christopher Severn and Clare Sandars) and a son, Vin (Richard Ney), who occasionally comes down from Oxford to enlighten them about how much he is learning about the world.  They have a cook (Brenda Forbes), a housekeeper (Marie De Becker), and a social club to go to on weekends. Quite simply, they are your typical middle class British family. Duty and responsibility mean something to people like this, and so when war does come they do as they are expected: they abide by blackout regulations; they build and stock a bomb shelter; Clem joins the Home Guard and risks his life to aid the evacuation at Dunkirk; and, Vin voluntarily enlists in the RAF.  Moreover, they do all of these things without complaint. Nothing is insufferable—not bombs falling on their home; not a shot down German soldier demanding food; and, not the death of a loved one. As long as they remain strong, resilient, indefatigable people who are willing to fight for their way of life there is nothing that can destroy them—as long as there is a will there is a way. And, of course, this turned out to be true, since it was the British stiff upper lip which resolved itself not to give in when German bombs reigned down on the nation for more than eight months.

It’s difficult to imagine anyone else other than Greer Garson playing Mrs. Miniver, but MGM first asked Norma Shearer and then Ann Harding to play the role.  Both women declined because they didn’t want to play a mother who had a grown son. Garson, who was younger than both of those women, also had concerns but Louis Mayer convinced her to take the part and the rest is, as they say, history.  Her soft but steely turn as one of cinema’s most courageous and determined mothers and wives not only earned her her only Academy Award, it also made her the biggest female star at MGM. Her stoic countenance, regal beauty, and effortless ability to convey her character’s thoughts with one look were perfect for the character of Kay Miniver.  For me, her performance is flawless, which as a Bette Davis fan is somewhat disheartening because I so love Ms. Davis as Charlotte Vale in Now, Voyager (1942), but there is no doubt in my mind that Garson rightfully earned the 1942 Best Actress Oscar statute over Davis. 

Mrs. Miniver, of course, would not have been nearly as effective as it was without its stellar cast. Obviously Garson’s Oscar-winning performance is the star of the show, but Teresa Wright, Dame May Whitty, and Henry Travers are also standouts in the production.  Wright, who deservedly won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, portrays Mrs. Miniver’s daughter-in-law Carol not as a hysterical war bride but as a realistic young woman who wants to enjoy her happiness, no matter how brief it may be.  As for Whitty, her Lady Beldon required her to humorously represent the old guard while also demonstrating indignation at what the world had devolved into  due to war.  And, then there is Henry Travers, the renowned character actor.  Perhaps the most touching scene in the movie is when he first shows Mrs. Miniver the rose that he wants to name after her.  In this, he must display pride, nervousness, and affection for both his rose and Mrs. Miniver.  It’s such a quiet and nuanced scene and the perfect way to first introduce Mrs. Miniver’s many wonderful qualities to the audience. 

Although I know it’s pure propaganda and overly sentimental at times, for me Mrs. Miniver is one of the best wartime movies ever made.  I am exceptionally happy that the editors of the 1001 Book finally inducted it into its table of contents—now, if only they would remove some of the absolutely horrible films that they insist remain on the list.

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Henry V (1944) **

Obviously I have been spoiled by Kenneth Branagh’s cinematic Shakespearian vision, not to mention producer Sam Mendes’ absolutely phenomenal Shakespearian endeavor, The Hollow Crown, because, hard as I try, I can’t bring myself to enjoy Laurence Olivier’s Henry V (1946).  Yes, yes, I know that Branagh and Mendes owe a debt of gratitude to Olivier for being the first director to make one of Shakespeare’s plays into a film that was both artistically and commercially successful, but the artifice of Henry V, not to mention some hamminess on the part of the cast, rubs me the wrong way.  Additionally, I am a purist at heart, and if you are going to do Shakespeare then do Shakespeare—don’t cut scenes or pieces of dialogue because the Prime Minister wants you to make a morale boosting propaganda movie! 

When William Wyler declined an offer to direct Henry V (he didn’t want to tell Olivier how to do Shakespeare), the task fell to Olivier.  With the backing (at least partly) of the British government, Olivier and fellow screenwriters Dallas Bower and Alan Dent went about trimming the play into a “manageable” two hour and sixteen minute production. The nastier side of Henry’s (Olivier) personality was cut—no one gets hung (especially not his friend Bardolph!) and no French towns need worry about being raped and pillaged at the hands of the English, and, under no circumstance, is the real ending of the play mentioned: that less than three years after his victory at Rouen Henry was dead and that his son, Henry VI, would eventually lose France in what became known as the Hundred Years’ War.  As much as these omissions rankle me, I must confess that I was happy to hear Princess Katharine (Renee Asherson) and Alice (Ivy St. Helier) actually converse in French. I can only imagine how irritating this may have been to working class English viewers—and God forbid, American audiences! 

It’s a colorful film, that’s for certain. Shot in three-strip Technicolor, the sets and costumes absolutely and vibrantly pop off the screen.  Of course, this herein is one of the reasons why I take issue with Henry V.  The movie begins with a sweeping shot of London, circa 1600—which was accomplished not by CGI but by miniature models—and then the Globe Theatre, where a production of Henry V is about to take place.  For the next thirty minutes we see the play acted out in front of a rather boisterous audience, and occasionally we see the backstage happenings.  Perhaps it was intended as such, but the acting during this section of the film is almost inconceivably overacted by complete hams.  Thankfully, the acting does seem to get better when the production clearly transitions from “inside” the Globe Theatre to a soundstage (Denham Studios), but the film still looks and sounds like a stage play.  Paul Sheriff and Carmen Dillon’s sets were primarily based on manuscript illustrations from the Très Riches Heures (a French prayer book), and, while colorful, appear exceedingly fake.  Olivier, for his part, did have the good sense to realize that a cinematic version of the Battle of Agincourt should not be filmed on a soundstage. As such, this being a patriotic, morale boosting endeavor, the battle scenes were shot at the Powerscourt Estate in Wicklow, Ireland—which happened to be a neutral nation in WWII.  Needing more than 700 cheap extras and land that had yet to be touched by modernity, Olivier spent six weeks at the estate for ten minutes of actual footage.  Once the battle is concluded, we turn back to the artifice of the French court—probably fitting, but nonetheless irritating. 

Okay, so after reading the above, you’re probably thinking: what’s the big deal with three different set designs, I think it’s clever. No, what’s clever is what happens when Dorothy transitions from black-and-white tornadic Kansas into the Technicolor world of Oz in The Wizard of Oz (1939)—this makes sense.  What happens in Henry V makes absolutely no sense at all, other than as a somewhat plausible way for Olivier to somehow work in the Shakespearian narrator.  And, did he REALLY need to do this?  Moviegoers knew that they were going to see a cinematic version of a Shakespearian play, would it have really surprised them to see and/or hear a narrator pop up every so often to transition the story from scene to scene or act to act?  Probably not. It all looks so colorfully fake, fake, fake and then, for a brief moment, a touch of realism creeps in and then back to the fake, fake, fake! Oh, I must stop talking about this, as I can feel my agitation growing…

While it’s bizarrely interesting to look at, Laurence Olivier’s Henry V is probably one of my least favorite film adaptions of Shakespeare’s plays.  I’d rather watch Orson Welles’ MacBeth (1948), which was a hot mess itself, a hundred times before watching Olivier’s Henry V. Yes, Welles bastardized the play and made insane additions to it, but, my God, it was so more intriguing to watch! 

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Written on the Wind (1956) **

Of Douglas Sirk’s many heralded melodramas, Written on the Wind (1956) is probably my least favorite.  Yes, the Technicolor is as bright as ever and Sirk, generally, draws out  good performances from his cast, but the story and most of the characters fall flat for me.  If you take away Dorothy Malone’s scintillating performance, there is nothing compelling about the film.

Based on Robert Wilder’s 1945 novel of the same name, Written on the Wind opens with a bang—literally. A drunken man, who we later learn is Kyle Hadley (Robert Stack), tears across a Texas road toward his family’s estate and stumbles into the house. As leaves blow inside the open door, we see a woman, who we soon learn is Kyle’s sister Marylee (Malone), slam the door shut. A few moments later, we hear a shot ring out and we see Kyle stagger back outside with a gun in his hand, where he proceeds to crumble to the ground dead.  And, then the wind blows again and turns a calendar back more than a year—Sirk’s not so clever way of saying he’s going to show us the events that led up to Kyle’s last fateful night.  It all began when Kyle’s best friend Mitch (Rock Hudson) brought a pretty secretary to lunch who caught Kyle’s eye. The heir to an oil fortune and a world-class playboy, Kyle doesn’t care that Mitch saw Lucy (Lauren Bacall) first—what he wants he gets.  And, so he turns on the charm by flying her to Miami in his private plane and stocking a luxury suite with fine clothes for her. When she informs him that she’s not a tramp he marries her after knowing her for only one day.  This was undoubtedly a mistake on Lucy’s part, because she soon learns that her new husband not only suffers from anxiety, depression, and alcoholism, but that he also has an inferiority complex when it comes to Mitch—the man his father (Robert Keith) adores and calls his second son.  It also doesn’t help that her sister-in-law, Marylee (Malone), is a world-class bitch and whore who is obsessed with Mitch—who happens to only have eyes for Lucy. When Kyle learns that he has weak sperm and that he may never be able to father a child he goes into a tailspin, which is exacerbated by Marylee’s insinuations that Mitch and Lucy are having an affair.  Oh, it’s so soapy—even for Sirk!

Once again, Russell Metty was Sirk’s cinematographer of choice for Written on the Wind. Over a period of seven years, Metty and Sirk worked together on ten films. There’s a reason that of the more than 30 films that Sirk directed in his career that his most highly regarded ones had Metty as their cinematographer: Magnificent Obsession (1954), All That Heaven Allows (1955), Imitation of Life (1959), and Written on the Wind. Metty’s deft understanding of how to use light/shade and angles to superbly capture the mood of a scene was the perfect compliment to Sirk’s brilliance when it came to visual composition. Most of their films had a reoccurring visual motif (for example, their endless use of windows in All That Heaven Allows) which they employed throughout the picture. Written on the Wind was primarily about psychologically fractured people, so Sirk and Metty used several mirror shots to depict characterization.  Additionally, I suppose they wanted to make a statement about how empty and sterile the lives of the Hadleys were because they used a lot of glaringly bright lights and garish colors—gone was the matte world of All That Heaven Allows, replaced by full enamel, ala Magnificent Obsession.

My overall disregard for Written on the Wind stems from the fact that I could never bring myself to care about what happened to the characters. About twenty minutes into the film it becomes obvious that the most entertaining and engaging person in the movie, Marylee, is doomed to end up unhappy, so it’s irritating to watch Mitch politely pine for the beyond boring Lucy, who spends most of her time fretting over her overacting (on so many levels) husband.  Sure, Marylee’s a tramp and a manipulator, but her pathological desire to have Mitch love her is far more exciting to watch than both Bacall and Hudson’s mediocre performances.  Of course, they may have only appeared to be sleepwalking through this movie because Dorothy Malone was completely on fire throughout it.  Malone deservedly won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her turn as a bitter woman who vehemently and defiantly acts out as a result of being constantly rebuffed by the man that she loves. Her testimony scene at the inquest is nothing short of brilliant—full of rawness, honesty and vulnerability.  It irks me beyond measure that this most pivotal scene has absolutely no chance of changing the inevitable ending of the film—boring and boring ride off together while the most electrifying person is doomed to an empty life of unhappiness.

Overall, I’m not a big fan of Written on the Wind. It’s not a bad picture, per se, but it is irritatingly predictable and cursed by the fact that every character other than Maryann is beyond boring.  Thank you, Dorothy Malone, for making it somewhat palatable.

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