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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Giant (1956) ***

Giant (1956)—was there ever a more appropriately named Hollywood production?  And, I’m not just referring to its three hour and twenty-one minute runtime, either. Director George Stevens rightly earned his second Academy Award for Best Director by capturing the vast landscape and racial complexity of Texas, while coaxing out tremendous performances from his cast. 

Edna Ferber wrote novels and plays that Hollywood liked to turn into movies: So Big (1924, 1932, and 1953), Show Boat (1932, 1936 and 1951), Cimarron (1931 and 1960), Saratoga Trunk (1945), Stage Door (1937), Dinner at Eight (1933), and The Royal Family of Broadway (1930)—to name a few, although there are others. Published in 1952, Giant was Ferber’s tenth novel. Her critique of Texas race relations in the book scandalized the Lone Star state and caused quite a stir in the literary world. As controversy was good for the box office, just about every studio in Hollywood wanted to buy the rights to it, but only George Stevens made her an offer she couldn’t refuse: he made her a producer and promised to make a faithful film adaption of her novel. As it turns out, he made as faithful an adaption as he and Warner Brothers were willing to make.  Specifically, sections of the novel that dealt with African Americans and Jim Crow were cut altogether or amalgamated into the film’s discussion of racism against Mexican Americas.  Still, Fred Guiol and Ivan Moffat’s Oscar-nominated adapted screenplay was groundbreaking not only in its treatment of racism but also in its portrayal of class and gender issues.  The story, spanning the lives of Jordan (Rock Hudson) and Leslie Benedict (Elizabeth Taylor) over a period of twenty-five years, is the solid foundation on which Stevens’ greatest cinematic effort is based.  And, while it most assuredly could have been trimmed down a bit, as there are, admittedly, a few scenes that could have been cut without the film missing a beat, it is still a spectacularly told story.

When Texas rancher, Jordan “Bick” Benedict, travels to Maryland to buy a feisty horse named War Winds he not only takes home a horse but its ornery, free-thinking owner, Leslie, as his wife. Somehow her straightforward critique of Texas history—Texans stole the land from the Mexicans—is overlooked by Bick—I’m sure her stunning beauty was the culprit.  Anyway, Leslie’s comfortable and lush, green world of Maryland is replaced by an endless landscape of dirt and dust and overbearing heat. She also has to deal with Bick’s unmarried, hard-as-nails sister, Luz (Mercedes McCambridge), who is threatened by Leslie’s presence.  When Leslie asserts her authority as the woman of the house, Luz takes out her anger on War Winds, who, thankfully, throws her from the saddle, which results in her death—problem bitch solved.  With Luz out of the way, the only thing that stands in Leslie’s way is racism, classicism, and sexism—all of which her husband displays throughout their marriage. How dare she treat their Mexican servants with respect or think that Mexicans should have decent places to live and proper medical care?  Why on earth would you be friendly and polite to a no-account farmhand like Jett Rink (James Dean)?  And, how dare you attempt to discuss either business or politics with men?  To say the first few years of marriage are rocky for them would be an understatement. Yet, Leslie’s progressive ways, not to mention her red-hot sex appeal, have a way of tempering her husband’s moods.  So what if they fight a lot? As Leslie likes to say, the best thing about quarreling is the making up afterward—which yields a set of fraternal twins, Jordy (Dennis Hopper) and Judy (Fran Bennett), and a high-spirited daughter, Luz (Carroll Baker).  Of course, after awhile they start getting on each other’s nerves—especially after Bick is particularly traumatized by the fact that his son doesn’t like horses. As a result, Leslie returns to Maryland with children in tow, while Bick has time to reconsider home on the range—alone.  And, so he finally yields to his wife and goes after her and a certain understanding is agreed upon.  You’d think that’s where the story ends, but wait, that’s only the first third of the picture.

After Bick and Leslie’s reconciliation the film jumps ahead about fifteen years, where we find the couple fully engaged in the lives of their nearly grown children.  Obviously, Leslie’s free-thinking ways ruled the nursery, because all of their children do exactly the opposite of what their parents want them to.  Instead of taking over the ranch as his father demands, Jordy goes off to Harvard and then medical school, and eventually, God-forbid, marries a Mexican girl. Judy, for her part, disregards her mother’s desire that she go to a Swiss finishing school and attends Texas Tech, where she studies animal husbandry, and then elopes with a local ranch hand (Earl Holliman).  And, Luz…well, she becomes involved with the one absolute man that both her parents universally dislike: Jett Rink. By this time, Old Jett has struck it oil rich on the Benedict land that the first Luz left to him when War Winds snapped her neck. And while Jett and Uncle Sam might have convinced Bick to use his own ranch land for oil wells during World War II, Jett is still seen as a no-good son of a bitch by Bick and as a drunken manhandler by Leslie.  You see, Leslie knows that Jett wants Luz as a consolation for herself, but she can’t really say that to her daughter. With children like these, is it any wonder that both Leslie and Bick are fully gray after only twenty-five years of parenting?

Okay, so let’s get this out of the way right now: contrary to popular opinion, James Dean is NOT the best thing about Giant. In my opinion, judgment of his performance is colored by the fact that he died a few weeks after his scenes wrapped and months before the movie was released.  Don’t get me wrong, he does an admirable job of playing an anti-social, ill-mannered non-conformist—the same role he pretty much played in all three of his films (East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause being the other two)—but he is not what makes Giant tick. That responsibility rests solely on the delicate shoulders of Elizabeth Taylor, who finally was allowed to show that she was indeed a gifted, ADULT actress who deserved to be given substantial roles.  Stevens gave Hudson the choice of picking either Taylor or Grace Kelly as his leading lady in Giant.  For his part, Stevens didn’t think the 23-year-old Taylor had the emotional range required for Leslie and wanted Kelly for the role. Thankfully, Hudson chose Taylor—who, in my opinion, could act circles around Kelly.  It’s not easy playing a character who ages over twenty-five years during a movie, and especially when you are so highly regarded for your beauty, as Taylor was.  Yet, she expertly depicts the various periods of life her character encounters in the story. In the beginning, her Leslie is flirty and precocious but also a young woman who knows what she wants, namely Bick.  In the early stages of her marriage she comes off as caught between two worlds or selves—the woman Bick wants her to be and the woman she knows she is.  Leslie’s ability to stand up to her husband, and Texas for that matter, in a defiant but polite manner without appearing as a sort of Pollyanna or saint-like figure is a direct result of Taylor’s deft acting abilities. 

My two absolute favorite scenes in Giant take place in the Benedict’s bedroom. This is fitting, of course, because this is probably the one place that she always got her way.  The first scene follows the aftermath of her defiant speech to Bick and his friends about them being cavemen and that women have enough sense to discuss politics and business.  When he comes up to the bedroom she pretends to be asleep but when he purposefully throws his boots on the floor to wake her up, she serenely pretends like she has forgotten her daring scene.  But he hasn’t, and so to appease him she apologizes for being rude to his friends, but that’s not enough for Bick and he says, “I'm asking you right now when you are gonna settle down and behave like everybody else.” Her answer of “never” sends him toward the adjoining room, where he plans to sleep.  But Leslie knows how to control Bick and she simply says, “You knew what a dreadful girl I was when you married me. I did not deceive you, sir. From the first moment I couldn’t have been more unpleasant,” and then she just sits there staring at him smoldering with unbridled sexuality.  The next morning, having completely decimated all of her husband’s strength by her wanton ways, she casually mentions, oh by the way, that she’s pregnant. 

The second memorable bedroom scene isn’t based on sex, though. No, this one is all about a class that all successfully married people eventually graduate from: Spouse Psychology 101. Nope, by the time the Benedict’s are approaching middle age and sleeping in twin beds, Leslie can’t really rely on sex to impose her will on Bick anymore. Instead, when he believes he is manipulating her into agreeing to allow their daughter not to go to school in Switzerland but in Texas by saying, “I wonder if we love them enough to do what's really right for them,” Leslie knows what he’s doing and lets him have just enough rope to hang himself before dropping the hammer by informing him to brace himself because there’s another sacrifice to be made: Jordy wants to go to Harvard and then Columbia medical school. Priceless…and all done in the comfort of her twin bed.

For its time, the film’s straightforward look at racism against Mexicans was rather bold—not as bold as it was in the novel, but still bold nonetheless. However, Leslie’s insistence that Mexicans be treated with dignity isn’t necessarily the same as saying that they deserve to be treated as equals, either. Still, by the end of the movie, when Bick gets his ass kicked by a racist diner owner who makes comments about his daughter-in-law and grandson, it is clear that Stevens is making a statement about racism in general, when he has the diner owner toss a sign on Bick which reads: “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone”.  Was it an all-out attack on Jim Crow? No, but at least it was a start.

Overall, Giant is an entertaining film that dares to take on such things as racism, classism and sexism.  While it would have benefitted from a bit more editing, fine performances from Elizabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson, and James Dean elevate the overall effectiveness of the movie.  In particular, Taylor is mesmerizing as Leslie—how on earth she wasn’t nominated for a Best Actress Oscar is beyond me.

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On the Waterfront (1954) ***

Many modern day viewers of director Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront (1954) don’t really know what the film is truly about because they are unfamiliar with such things as the Red Scare and method acting.  Yet, for students of film history, there is no doubt that On the Waterfront is Kazan’s own personal defense of his naming of names at the HUAC hearings and his belief in the Method acting (although he’d probably not refer to it as such)technique.  Perhaps he and screenwriter Budd Schulberg deserved the derision they received for giving the HUAC Committee the names of their friends and colleagues, but that does not negate the fact that they created one of the best dramatic films of their generation.  The twelve Academy Award nominations that On the Waterfront received were not a reward for Kazan’s being a “loyal American”—they were earned by mesmerizing actors (Best Actor winner, Marlon Brando; nominated Best Supporting Actors, Lee J. Cobb, Karl Malden, Rod Steiger; and, Best Supporting Actress winner, Eva Marie Saint), a visionary cinematographer (Best Cinematography winner, Boris Kaufman), a gifted editor (Best Editing winner, Gene Milford), a creative art director (Best Art Direction winner, Richard Day), an innovative composer (Best Score nominee, Leonard Bernstein), a daring producer (Best Picture winner, Sam Spiegel), a brilliant screenwriter (Best Screenplay winner, Schulberg), and a revolutionary director (Best Director winner, Kazan). Deride and despise Kazan’s personal actions if you must,  but don’t hate the film because it’s an apologetic allegory of Kazan’s actions; instead, embrace it for the striking movie that it is.

The story, based on Malcolm Johnson’s Pulitzer Prize winning Crime on the Waterfront article series that appeared in the New York Sun in 1949, confronts mob corruption in a longshoremen union.  Johnny Friendly (Lee J. Cobb) is a menacing union boss who will stop at nothing to keep control of his cash cow—the longshoremen whom he exploits, bullies, and terrorizes.  When one of the longshoremen, Joey Doyle (Ben Wagner), starts talking to the Crime Commission (Kazan’s stand-in for HUAC), Johnny enlists his lawyer and right-hand man, Charley “The Gent” Malloy (Rod Steiger), to get his brother, Terry (Marlon Brando) to lure Joey unto the rooftop of his building, unaware that Johnny’s goons intend to throw Joey off of it.  A former boxer who seems a bit dim-witted, Terry finds himself filled with remorse over Joey’s death. This remorse is only exacerbated after Joey’s sister, Edie (Eva Marie Saint), becomes the object of Terry’s affection and the local priest, Father Barry (Karl Malden), encourages the men to speak out about the union’s corrupt and murderous practices.  Terry must decide if he should remain D&D (deaf and dumb) or take a stand against what he knows is wrong, even if some of his friends, and even his brother, are brought down by his “ratting”. 

So, obviously Terry’s dilemma is a stand-in for Kazan’s decision to give the names of “known” Communists to the HUAC Committee.  It does irk me a bit that he chose a union organization, be it a corrupt one, to represent Communism, but since unionism is synonymous to some to socialism/communism I suppose it made sense to Kazan and Schulberg (even though Arthur Miller did write the first screenplay, titled The Hook, so maybe this was just a coincidence). Whatever the case may be, the fact remains that both Terry and Kazan “ratted”, but, at least in Terry’s case, for a good reason—Kazan, of course, believed he was justified as well.  Perhaps it was in bad taste to make a film that attempted to justify ruining the lives of friends and colleagues, and I expect that is why Kazan’s name, who’s been dead for over ten years now, is still hissed at today by some.  Yet, there’s more to On the Waterfront than Kazan’s own personal allegory.

On the Waterfront is considered the masterpiece of Method acting.  Kazan, along with Cheryl Crawford and Robert Lewis, founded the Actors Studio is 1947, which followed the teachings of Konstantin Stanislavski, a Russian dramatist. Method acting, as Stanislavski’s teachings later became known as, emphasizes that a performer stay in the moment and that the internal was more important than the external.  There is no room for over-the-top gestures and emoting in Method acting. Instead, actors/actresses draw on their subconscious memories of pain and pleasure to create a character, which they shape with precisely defined mannerisms, voice inflections/tones, and body language.  As such, the performer can develop characters that transcend labels, such as hero/heroine, damsel-in-distress, villain, or clown. While Kazan and two of his earliest students, Brandon and Malden, had already achieved success with A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) both on the stage and screen, it was On the Waterfront which cemented the “new” acting style and convinced many critics that there was a method to the madness—there was a reason why Brando sounded inarticulate and slouched about. 

Clearly, Brando is the star of the film.  No actor played inner turmoil better, and no character had as much as Terry Malloy.  Still, Malden’s turn as Father Barry is probably my favorite performance in the film.  The Jesus on Calvary speech he gives in the hull of the ship after Dugan (Pat Henning) is killed is filled with such indignant rage that it raises the hair on my arms each time I see it.  I also really enjoy the few scenes that we get to see Steiger in—at this point in his career he was still a nuanced actor and not a complete ham, as evidenced by his turn in The Specialist (1994).

My least favorite performances come from Saint and Cobb. For me, Saint’s Edie is just too hysterical in her quest to find out what happened to her brother.  I’ll admit that I have never been a fan of hers, but at least I could tolerate her in North by Northwest (1959).  In On the Waterfront I find her voice to be even more shrill than usual and her uncanny way of making you dislike an otherwise likable character almost criminal.  More surprisingly to me, at least, is that I was not completely enamored with Cobb’s turn as Johnny Friendly.  For me, there is a disconnect from his performance in the first two-thirds of the film and the last third of the movie.  Cobb was a character actor who specialized in playing menacing SOBs, so Johnny was the perfect role for him.  However, his last few scenes in On the Waterfront seem overacted and don’t come off as true to me.

As mentioned above, I thoroughly enjoyed the Christ on Calvary speech and it’s probably my favorite scene in the movie. Of course, the most quoted scene is the one between Terry and Charley in the back of the cab, where Terry says, “I could’a had class. I could’a been a contender. I could’a been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it. It was you, Charley.”  The resignation that both Steiger and Brando display in this scene is thoroughly engrossing to watch. 

And, then there are the scenes which bear the hallmarks of a Kazan picture.  The wandering camera along the shoreline as Terry talks with Father Barry, a conversation which we are not privy to, and the confession scene between Terry and Edie probably bear the Kazan signature the most.  Throughout the story guilt has been building up inside of Terry to the point that he’s ready to explode, and so when he does come clean to Edie all the audience hears is a squealing steam whistle.  For me, although some may disagree, this squealing whistle can be construed in two ways: 1) it represent Edie’s rage at what the man she loves has done, or 2) it symbolizes the burden of truth being lifted from the core of Terry’s being. Kazan was a fan of ambiguity, so you read the scene however you want, but you do it without any dialogue, as no words could really express the emotions of the characters.

So, let’s get to the elephant in the room: why did I only give On the Waterfront three out of four stars?  Reason number one, I don’t like how Eva Marie Saint plays Edie.  Reason number two, and 95% of why I always leave the film with a bad taste in my mouth, is the ending.  There is a complete disconnect in the last ten minutes of the film. When Terry goes to the dock after testifying and then every last man shuns him, I get it. But, when he confronts Johnny Friendly and all the men seem to be standing around letting Johnny’s goons beat the crap out of Terry and THEN the men refuse to go into work without Terry leading them in makes absolutely no sense to me.  Perhaps this was Kazan’s own personal vindication scene—he spoke out against Communism, found himself ostracized by former friends and colleagues (although it got much worse after people started speaking out about the evils of the Red Scare in the late 1960s), but still had the personal fortitude and courage to continue to stand up for what he thought was right.  Whatever his intent may have been, the ending is sanctimonious and unpleasant to watch—especially after the first 98 minutes had been so terrific.

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Alien (1979) ***

When I was growing up a popular dream job of adolescents was that of astronaut.  In the 1970s and 1980s the U.S. space program was a big deal and, of course, we had grown up watching films like Star Wars (1977), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), The Empire Strikes Back (1980), and Alien (1979). Yet, unlike many of my peers I wanted nothing to do with the mysteries of space. To me, anyone crazy enough to want to take a chance with the great unknown of the cosmos could have it—they were the type of people who wound end up being killed by face-hugging and intestinal-destroying aliens.  That’s right, director Ridley Scott’s second feature film, Alien, freaked me out so much that had Neil Armstrong himself stopped by my house to offer me a trip to the moon I would have declined. 

Alien was the brainchild of Dan O’Bannon who combined two popular box office genres, horror and sci-fi, to create probably the best sci-fi horror film ever made. Using a story he’d written with Ronald Shusett, O’Bannon penned the screenplay, which incorporated elements from such sci-fi movies as 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Thing from Another World (1951) with horror flicks like Halloween (1978) and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974). Seven crew members aboard the space tugboat, Nostromo, are on their way back to Earth when they receive an unknown transmission from a nearby planet which awakens them from their space-pod slumber.  Regulations say they must investigate all transmissions and so off to LV-426 (not named in this film but in later sequels) they go. They have a bumpy landing and the ship is damaged, so three crew members, Captain Dallas (Tom Skerritt), Navigator Lambert (Veronica Cartwright), and Officer Kane (John Hurt) go out to investigate LV-426 while Warrant Officer Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), Science Officer Ash (Ian Holm) and Engineers Parker (Yaphet Kotto) and Brett (Harry Dean Stanton) are left to fix the ship and monitor the expedition of the other crew members. The explorers find an underground alien egg farm and after Kane pokes one he suddenly finds his space helmet attached to an octopus-like creature.  Dallas and Lambert bring Kane and the creature back to the ship, which for some reason Ash opens after Ripley orders him not to.  The rest of the film is then a series of unfortunate events for the rest of the crew, as they attempt to get the alien off the ship.

Without a doubt the visuals are probably the most spectacular thing about Alien.  The film earned two Academy Award nominations, one for Art Direction and the other for Visual Effects, which it won.  The massive design of the various sections of the 3-deck spaceship and planet LV-426 are pretty awesome, especially when you consider there wasn’t CGI in 1979.  And, of course, the iconic creation of the alien, as well as the creepy android, were highly unique as well. Visual Effects Supervisor Brian Johnson and Bray Studios based many of their designs on Scott’s countless storyboards as well as drawings created by Ron Cobb. What I think sets the alien creatures in the movie apart from their earlier predecessors is just how real the face-hugger, chestburster, and eventually the full-grown alien look. 

While Tom Skerritt received top-billing, everyone knows that Weaver was the main character (countless sequels have more than validated this point).  Still, for more than half the movie it seems like this is an ensemble piece, with each crew member having their own fair share of screen time.  Yet, by the time the alien is almost done running amok on the Nostromo there are only two crew members left on the ship: Ripley and Mr. Jones.  Oh, did I forget to mention Mr. Jones?  Mr. Jones is a tabby cat who plays a pivotal role in why I like Alien so much, but he’s also the reason why I don’t absolutely love it.  Please let me explain.

First, Mr. Jones has the honor of being in my favorite shot in the entire film. After being scared away while Ripley, Parker, and Brett are searching for the alien, Mr. Jones has to be found so his motion doesn’t distract the crew from monitoring the motion of the alien.  And, so Brett is sent, alone, to find the cat. This search leads to a massive chain hanging decorated quadrant of the ship. Instead of jumping into Brett’s arms, Mr. Jones hides behind a door and hisses at what one can only assume is a hiding alien.  When the alien emerges from the entangled chains the scene shifts to and focuses on the cat’s face as Brett is killed by the alien.  It’s such a simple shot, but it’s probably the most memorable one for me.

And, then there’s the most inane, idiotic thing about Alien…who in their right mind would go looking for a cat when you are trying to get materials together for an emergency shuttle escape right before you blow up the ship, and consequently, the alien?  In no world does it make any sense that Ripley, who’s seen members of her crew killed by an alien, would scour the ship for Mr. Jones—especially when you consider that she later throws his cage down right in front of the alien when she comes face to face with it.  Personally, it sort of feels like an anti-feminist statement on the part of Scott and O’Bannon: accomplished single, female space officer would rather save cat than exercise common sense.  Thus, such idiocy takes some of the shine off on otherwise tense and gripping story.

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Night and Fog (Nuit et brouillard) (1955) ***

(Warning: Some images in this post may be disturbing.)

Ten years after the end of World War II and the frightening revelation of what Nazi Germany attempted to do to “rid” the world of Jews, French director Alain Resnais made his startling short documentary, Nuit et brouillard (Night and Fog), which unflinchingly documents the horrors of Nazi concentration camps.  The images depicted in the film are startling to watch and serve as a reminder to countless generations that true evil did and does exist in human beings.

The film opens in color, with the camera capturing the grounds of Auschwitz and Majdanek.  The overgrown and deserted camps look like long-lost factory towns where people may have worked and raised families in a saner world.  However, as the narrator, Michel Bouquet, reminds us, these were places of unimaginable horror. The film transitions to black and white stock photos and newsreel-esque footage to attempt to explain how millions of “deportees” found themselves transported to and then imprisoned, tortured, and killed in these seemingly innocent looking camps.  Yes, the emaciated bodies, hollowed-out faces of the dead, and the mass graves are unfathomable and almost incomprehensible to anyone with a shred of human decency, but perhaps the most perplexing images are those of the detainees first being loaded into the trains that would take them to the camps. The sheer number of people being peacefully herded into the cars, some even waving as the train pulls away, is mind-blowing.  Of course, we, the viewer, know what is in store for these unfortunate souls, so for us it is unconceivable that anyone would get on such a train without being drug onto it.  Yet, these detainees, at least in the early stages of the deportments before horror stories started to be whispered about in the ghettos, had no idea that they were being sent to hell of earth.  Who in their right mind would have imagined the true intentions of the Nazis?

This is why Night and Fog, among other documentaries about genocide, is important.  Seemingly normal people put those deportees on the train, ran the train, declothed and deloused the deportees, took all their possessions, denied them adequate food rations and medical care, worked them to death, shot, raped and tortured them, and told them that they were going to take showers when in reality they were going to be gassed.  And, as if that wasn’t enough, they denied them proper burials, removing their teeth for silver and gold and using their bodies to make soap and other “products”—as if they were actual cattle that had arrived in cattle cars to a slaughterhouse. Perhaps one of the most telling scenes in the film is when the guards at the camps are put on trial and they say, “I am not responsible” for which the narrator answers, “Who is responsible then?” At what point did human decency leave these people? 

Hanns Eisler’s haunting score intensifies, if that’s even possible, the ghastly and grisly images that pass on the screen.  Decapitated bodies with their heads stacked in a bucket, mounds of bodies being pushed by bulldozers, and innumerable skeletons strewn across the grounds of the camps are beyond horrible to witness.  It is difficult for me to understand how anyone could have seen such images and then went on to commit similar atrocities in places like Cambodia, Serbia, Bosnia, and countless African and South American nations.  Is hate such a strong motivator to enact such heinous acts of evil? 

I cannot quibble that the narrator is obviously not attempting to give an unbiased accounting of what happened in the concentration camps, who could be unbiased? What happened in these places was horrible—is there possibly another side to the story? If so, I don’t want to hear it.  My one qualm with the film is that it is too short (although who knows how much more one could actually stand to watch) at 32 minutes.  Perhaps I have been spoiled (and one might even say over-exposed) by such Holocaust documentaries as Shoah (1985) and Hotel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie (1988), but a short excerpt from a camp survivor would have added even more weight to an already powerful and emotionally jarring, no-holds barred look at one of the worst facts about humankind—unspeakable evil is possible. 

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The Mortal Storm (1940) ***

Released more than one year before Pearl Harbor, director Frank Borzage’s The Mortal Storm (1940) was a Hollywood rarity—it openly criticized the Nazi Party.  Even though Hitler’s reign of terror in Germany and parts of Eastern Europe went unchecked for over six years before the start of WWII, Hollywood, for the most part, stayed quiet on the subject until the U.S. entered into war with Japan, and then Germany, in 1941. So, when MGM distributed The Mortal Storm in June of 1940 it caused a slight buzz—especially in Nazi Germany, which not only banned the movie but all MGM films in the fatherland. This fact alone makes the movie special, but the story and acting also make this one of the most important pre-WWII anti-Nazi films ever made in Hollywood.

Based on the 1938 Phyllis Bottom novel of the same name, The Mortal Storm takes place in Bavaria (Germany).  The story begins on January 30, 1933. This date is important to the plot for two reasons: 1) Professor Viktor Roth (Frank Morgan) is celebrating his 60th birthday and 2) Adolf Hitler is named Chancellor of Germany.  Professor Roth has a beautiful family and is a distinguished scientific university professor on this date. The film sets out to show that the extremism of Nazism can destroy anything in a very short amount of time. You see, Professor Roth is non-Aryan (for some reason the story doesn’t come right out and say Jewish, even though we do see Professor Roth wearing an armband in a detention center which has a letter “J” on it) and believes in free thought and scientific evidence. These things don’t play well with the Nazis—the movie seems to indicate that they dislike Professor Roth’s science more than his religion, yet somehow they tie both together, as he refuses to denounce his belief that there is no difference between the blood of one human being to another, so I can somehow overlook the side-stepping of the Jewish question.

What makes the story compelling, however, is how Nazism can irreparably fracture relationships.  While I can’t completely wrap my mind around why Professor’s Roth’s two stepsons, Otto (Robert Stack) and Erich (William T. Orr), would join the Nazi Party in the first place (although they are von Rohns, which indicates that they are of noble descent, so that could be why), I think Borzage does a good job of showing their confliction between family and Party loyalty. For them, I think, it’s not the anti-Semitism that appeals to them but the idea of Germany regaining its status in the world.  Still, the closing scene of the film, which finds Otto walking silently through his empty family home, which has been destroyed by the philosophy his Nazi armband represents, is quite moving.

Of course, it is the complicated love-triangle between Professor Roth’s daughter Freya (Margaret Sullavan) and Fritz (Robert Young) and Martin (James Stewart) that is at the center of the movie.  In the beginning, Freya and Fritz are happily in love and become engaged. While Martin is disappointed by this, he’s more concerned with the Nazis taking over Germany.  He’s a lot like Professor Roth—he thinks people should be allowed to think for themselves and not be forced to join political parties they don’t agree with.  Fritz, on the other hand, is a follower—he thinks the Nazis can rebuild the glory of the German Reich.  This, of course, puts Martin at odds with his childhood friends, Fritz and the two von Rohns, as well as what seems like their entire village.  His audacity of standing up for a non-Aryan school teacher, Professor Berg (Granville Bates), and his refusal to join the local Nazi party puts a target on his back.  And, Fritz’s hardline stance destroys his relationship with Freya, who gravitates toward Martin as a result.  The pivotal scene of the film, which I won’t completely disclose, spotlights how destructive Nazism can actually be for lifelong friends.

For me, the standouts in the film are Stewart, Sullavan, and Maria Ouspenskaya (who plays Martin’s soft but steely mother).  Other than Gregory Peck, I don’t know of any other actor who could so expertly play the moral center of a film like Jimmy Stewart. The Mortal Storm is probably one of Stewart’s most nuanced good guy portrayals ever—there are no railings against wrong or manic cries for justice. Instead, he simply and soft-spokenly explains how he feels about Nazism.  And, while I’m not a huge fan of Sullavan, she is markedly compelling as Freya.  Her conversations with Fritz regarding the end of their relationship and her inquiries about the whereabouts of her father show that given the right material that she could pull off depth of character.  Finally, while she only had a few scenes, Ouspenskaya made the most of them.  You can see where Martin got his wisdom and countenance from, as Mrs. Breitner is not afraid to stand up to injustice.  The scene where she has Martin and Freya drink from the bridal glass is heartbreakingly stellar.

Overall, I think The Mortal Storm is a historically important Hollywood film. While it is practically forgotten today, it was an extremely important movie in 1940.  Yes, it was, by all accounts, a box office failure and critics thought it was dated, but it did something that most Hollywood films didn’t—it exposed the destructive nature of the Nazi Party in Germany—not as a war movie with soldiers and tanks, but as a film about the destruction of a family.

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Lawrence of Arabia (1962 ) ***

Director David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962) is an epic, three and half hour-plus film about how T.E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole) unwittingly won Saudi Arabia for the British military during World War I.  On the one hand you could say the production was grand and the cast renowned, but on the other hand you could say the film was too long and comprised solely of men—there are only brief sightings of women.  As such, the film often drags and has a primarily testosterone infused plot—even if there are some homoerotic themes to be found.

The film was nominated for a whopping 10 Academy Awards and won seven: Best Picture, Art Direction, Cinematography, Editing, Sound, Original Score, and Best Director.  While it garnered two acting nominations, I must say that I was not overly impressed by anyone in this dream cast other than Alec Guinness and Omar Sharif. For me, O’Toole gets a bit hammy in this and Anthony Quinn’s performance is just the epitome of overacting.  Perhaps Sharif had an advantage on most of the cast, as he was actually from the Middle East (Egypt), but his performance as Sherif Ali is engaging and believable, and he deserved his Best Supporting Actor nomination. While Guinness may not have been from the Middle East, he is particularly memorable as King Faisal. I expect he took great pride in doing so well in a role that was originally supposed to be played by Laurence Olivier.

Whenever I think about Lawrence of Arabia I remember an endless desert, camels, and trains being blown up.  The sheer size of the production is mind-boggling, which is one of the reasons I think it is still so highly regarded by film critics.  Filming with a cast of thousands, comprised of both people and animals, in the desert was a monumental task for Lean.  Of course, Lean was no stranger to large productions (The Bridge on the River Kwai and Oliver Twist), so he knew quite well how to be the ringmaster of such a massive circus.  He benefitted greatly from having one of the greatest British cinematographers, F.A. Young, doing the heavy lifting.  Really, it’s not the story that makes Lawrence of Arabia such a memorable movie—it’s all about the images captured by Young. And, these striking images paired with Maurice Jones’ unforgettable score make the perfect pairing. 

In a post-colonial world, Lawrence of Arabia can be a troubling film.  It was actually banned in many Middle Eastern countries (sans Egypt) because of the way it depicted Arabs. The whole idea that Lawrence was some sort of messianic figure to the Arabs somehow infantilizes them.  Also, the depiction of Arabs as gullible savages did not play well in newly emancipated Arab nations.  While no one should ever condone terrorism, there is a reason many in the Middle East don’t like Westerners—you ask them to help you free themselves from the yolks of the Ottoman Empire with the promise of self-rule and then take them over yourselves to plunder their resources (mainly petroleum and gemstones) and there is bound to be some animosity. 

Overall, Lawrence of Arabia is a masterful work of brilliant cinematography.  The story is somewhat interesting, but if you are a student of history the blatant inaccuracies in the movie can be unpleasant to endure. Fine performances from Sharif and Guinness, at least, temper this unpleasantness. 

 

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Amour (2012) ***

So, so depressing—that is the best way I can describe director Michael Haneke’s Amour (2012).

For close to two hours I sat in abject misery watching Emmanuelle Riva’s character slowly descend into physical and mental incapacitation after suffering a series of strokes, while her husband (Jean-Louis Trintignant) helplessly watches.  I’m not actually sure what age group this film appeals to—most under-thirties probably would be bored, while everyone else probably endured the film with a complete sense of dread and depression. 

Without a doubt, the story is poignant and the performances are powerful, but I’ve come to a point in my life where watching emotionally draining films with no life-affirming moment or resolution just rub me the wrong way.  Facing immortality—yours or a loved one’s—is difficult enough in the realm of reality, why must it be faced so brutally in the fictional world as well.  Yes, art imitates life, and the best art touches on our humanity, but when there is no glimmer of hope at the end of anything, in this case a film, what really is the use?  It’s like reading Thomas Hobbes and Friedrich Nietzsche at the same time while swigging a bottle of gin and swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. 

All of that said, the mere fact that Amour elicited such a strong emotional response from me tells me that Haneke and his cast did a spectacular job in telling one of the most emotionally raw stories about death that I have ever seen.  While I did not enjoy watching the film, I was mesmerized by it—yes, this IS possible.  I didn’t check several times to see how much longer I would have to endure the agony because the movie was asinine—I did it because I wanted to know when I would finally be able to stop watching such heart-wrenching filmmaking. 

This in itself is surprising, as most of Haneke’s work (Cache {2005}, Funny Games {1997}, The Piano Teacher {2001}, and The White Ribbon {2010}), at least for me, is anger-inducing.  All of his films, this one included, are uncomfortable to watch.  His films are usually filled with mentally unstable people who do extremely irrational things in very calm manners.  As such, he presents cinema that is jarring and exhausting to watch. Yet, Haneke’s Amour has something new in it—heart.  While he would never allow sentimentality to creep into one of his movies, Haneke does permit the viewer to feel some empathy for his characters this time. Still, there is some Haneke callousness in the presentation of the couple’s daughter, Eva (Isabelle Huppert), and a nurse who is fired for abuse, although we don’t see it. 

Overall, Amour is a gripping story that I hope I never watch again. 

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It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) ***

It is a myth that the suicide rate increases between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  However, the “most wonderful time of the year” is not always so wonderful for everyone.  Christmas cards, crowded stores, wrapping presents, and mounting debt can weigh heavily on the psyche. And, then there are those who have lost loved ones or feel as though they haven’t any loved ones at all.  For these people, the holiday season is a torturous time, full of regrets and sorrows.  What-ifs, should-haves, and if-onlys play cruel tricks on those who carry around ghosts and faded dreams in their troubled minds.  I suspect this is the reason that It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) has endured as a Christmas tradition for more than fifty years. Everyone—yes, everyone—has a little of George Bailey running around in their subconscious.  As a wise person once told me, circumstance touches everyone—no one is immune.

I enjoy watching It’s a Wonderful Life every Christmas season because I can relate to George Bailey (James Stewart). An adventurer at heart but a duty-bound person in reality, George and I both made life-altering decisions based on the cards circumstance dealt us—even if that deck was full of jokers we played the game by the rule of responsibility; I expect many others can say the same.

For those unfamiliar with George’s story, it is a simple one. From a very young age George exceeded expectation: he saved his brother (Todd Karns) from drowning and prevented his drunken pharmacist boss (H.B. Warner) from accidentally poisoning someone. When his father (Samuel S. Hinds) died of a stroke he forwent a trip to Europe and then college to head the family’s struggling building and loan company. Instead of spending $2,000 on his honeymoon he used it to stave off a run on the bank.  He invested in a town, Bedford Falls, and a group of people that at heart he wanted nothing more to do than to escape.  Along the way he married a girl (Donna Reed) he knew worshipped him, and agreed to live in a ramshackle house filled with children that required he continue in a job he hated in a town too small for his ambition. And then a bit of ironic circumstance slapped poor George in the face: his undoing was to come at the hands of his own obedience to duty and responsibility.  This, no doubt, was the last bitter pill that George could allow himself to swallow, and so he took it believing that at least he did what was best for others.  Ah, but what would have life been like for all those who benefitted from George’s benevolence and self-sacrifice if he had never existed?  It takes an angel (Henry Travers) seeking his wings to show George that what he viewed as a failed existence was of significant importance to so many others.  

In the end, It’s a Wonderful Life, is a redemption tale. Upon release some critics found the movie too sentimental and said that it idealized an unrealistic world.  By this time just about any film from director Frank Capra was labeled as overly-sentimental by many critics (perhaps you are familiar with the term “Capra-corn”?), and so many overlooked the universal theme of circumstance—it touches everyone.  And, so this corny film that lost $525,000 in 1946, now draws millions of viewers every Christmas. I’ve heard many people say that they watch it to remind themselves that perhaps they didn’t live the life they wanted, but at least they lived the life they got.  They, like George Bailey (and myself), endure the circumstances of life. Perhaps you are not a religious person—you are the perfect candidate for this film which Capra made to combat atheism—but there is one particular Bible verse that applies to this movie. It is written in James 5:11 that “we count them happy which endure”.  Happily, the spirit of It’s a Wonderful Life continues to endure today. 

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