The Not So Magnificent Ambersons (1942) **1/2

 

(For a detailed examination of the now infamous saga of the making of this film please visit Jim Lane's Cinedrome—it is a long read but highly educational and entertaining.)

If you enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington you will be disappointed with the 1942 film version.  There, I got that out of the way right off the bat.  Dense and at times verbose, the novel is a nostalgic look at the end of the Nineteenth Century.  We read about a world on the cusp of urban sprawl and the advent of something called the horseless carriage (today we refer to it as the automobile).  One family, the Ambersons/Minafers, represents the antiquated Nineteenth Century viewpoint; while another family, the Morgans, symbolize the forward-looking progressiveness of the Twentieth Century. I can’t really fault Orson Welles’ adapted screenplay for falling short—the book is over 700 pages, so it was a monumental task—but I can’t deny that there is a big disconnect between the film and the novel.  Who knows, perhaps it was the absolute ludicrous happy ending that was tacked on at the film’s conclusion that makes me uncomfortable.  I suspect this is one of the many reasons so many people revere Gone with the Wind (1939)—it stays true to the book’s ending.  Nevertheless, while I’m not a huge fan of The Magnificent Ambersons narrative, I do believe the overall production has many things to admire.

The set designs, particularly the ones at the Amberson mansion, are spectacular. Rightly nominated for an Academy Award for Best Art Direction, the mansion set was constructed like a real house, where walls could be manipulated in such a way so that a camera could appear to seamlessly pass through them in one continuous take. The now famous ballroom sequence showcases the artistic brilliance of both the set designers’ and Welles’ virtuosity.  Employing his love of deep focus and high angles, Welles (along with his Oscar nominated cinematographer Stanley Cortez) did something unheard of in 1942—he attempted to capture one continuous scene for several minutes without a cut/edit.  Later filmmakers, such as Luchino Visconti and Alexander Sokurov would pay homage to Welles with their respective films The Leopard (1963) and Russian Ark (2002). In addition to the ballroom scene, there are countless ingenious shots captured on the mansion’s multi-tiered staircases and long hallways.  While Welles could never make up completely for the the film’s narrative deficiencies, his visual artistry is still a marvel to watch.

One of the many reasons The Magnificent Ambersons fails to completely deliver a rewarding cinematic experience is that there aren’t any likable characters (sans, perhaps, Lucy).  In the book, you root for Isabel (Dolores Costello) and Eugene (Joseph Cotton) and feel somewhat sorry for Lucy (Anne Baxter) and Fanny (Agnes Moorehead).  In the movie you find yourself searching for chemistry between Isabel and Eugene and you absolutely detest Fanny and George—of course, this is the one thing that Welles got right: George Minafer (Tim Holt) was an unlikable character in both the novel and in the film.  At least in the book he gets his true comeuppance, whereas in the film he is given a most undeserved happy ending.  Still, the strange maliciousness that Welles’ instills in Moorehead’s Fanny is hard to reconcile with how the character is portrayed in the novel, which is more pathetic than anything.  Somehow Moorehead received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress, but I can’t say why, except that she makes the viewer thoroughly loathe her character. Overall, most of the actors look like they are sleepwalking through the film.

Perhaps I’m being a bit harsh when it comes to the acting. What actor could be viewed as at the top of their game when more than an hour of the original film was edited out and additional scenes were inserted and tacked on to pull everything together?  It also doesn’t help that the actors found themselves shot in what can only be described as uneven lighting.  It is obvious what shots Welles and Cortez are responsible for and what scenes were reshoots helmed by stand-in director Robert Wise.  There is a subtle way to use light and shadow and then there is an overbearing (but still flat) way of using these devices.  There are several scenes where you just ask yourself why is the picture shot in such dark tones—are they trying to cover something up? 

Overall, The Magnificent Ambersons is a study in conflicting styles.  Its would-be greatness is dramatically diminished by haphazard editing—you just can’t cut 131 minutes down to 88 minutes and expect it to work.  Still, there are glimmers of cinematic brilliance in the production design, and these alone save the film from complete infamy.

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My Left Foot (1989) ***1/2

Many years ago I came to the conclusion that Daniel Day-Lewis is the best actor of his generation.  His ability to fully immerse himself in whatever role he is playing is legendary.  When watching one of his films I don’t see Day-Lewis, I see his character.  The sheer intensity of his portrayals is gripping and spellbinding—and without a doubt unmatched by any other actor today. I suspect Leonardo DiCaprio learned many things when he worked with Day-Lewis on The Gangs of New York (2002), but I think the most important was the idea that you should only do quality work.  DiCaprio took a page out of Day-Lewis’ book and stopped making one inane film after another and concentrated on picking films for which he could be proud.  Day-Lewis has made less than twenty-five feature films in his career (most highly regarded), which only goes to prove that quality is always more important than quantity.

I have a difficult time deciding which of his two Academy Award wins for Best Actor (he has been nominated four times) is the best.  His menacing portrayal of Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood (2007) is powerfully mesmerizing, and his turn as Irish artist and writer Christy Brown in My Left Foot (1989) is inspiring.  Of the two, Christy Brown is the embodiment of a controlled performance. Not just any actor could have played a character born with cerebral palsy and who was unable to speak clearly throughout most of the film, but Day-Lewis does it beautifully.  While Day-Lewis could never master using his left foot as Christy Brown did to write and paint (Day-Lewis used his right foot instead and the scenes were shot through a mirror), he nailed the body rigidness and facial expressions. Although the performance is completely controlled, it also appears natural and believable. 

Of course, Day-Lewis (and the film) greatly benefitted from working with two accomplished actresses. Brenda Fricker won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role as Christy’s devoted mother, Bridget Brown.  The real Mrs. Brown gave birth twenty-one times (ah, to be an Irish Catholic!), so she was an often harried woman but she did as much for Christy as possible.  Fricker does a nice job of showcasing Mrs. Brown’s resilient nature and her unabashed love for her special son. She and Day-Lewis really do a sensational job of exposing just how deep and abiding their two characters love and respect one another.

Oddly enough, Fiona Shaw is often overlooked in My Left Foot, which is a shame because this is one of her better film roles (she is primarily known for her stage work).  She doesn’t have as much screen time as one might like, but she makes her character, Dr. Eileen Cole, memorable in her few scenes.  Dr. Cole plays a much more significant role in the book than the film, but I think that screenwriter and director Jim Sheridan wanted to focus more on the mother-son relationship than that of the patient-doctor one. Still, Shaw does get to shine in her brief appearances; one of which is in the memorable restaurant tantrum scene.   

Besides the overall fine acting, the film itself is inspirational.  To watch a young boy (played beautifully by Hugh O’Connor) struggle with an almost paralyzing disease struggle to matter in the world is life-affirming.  Here we have a boy who everyone thinks is mentally handicapped but who is really a brilliant individual—his determination to persevere and be recognized by both his family and society is beyond admirable.  When he first writes “Mother” on the family floor and his entire family realizes he’s not “retarded” you get a little catch in your throat.  When you watch him descend into despair (and alcoholism) as a young man when he realizes that romantic love is beyond his reach (at least until the end of the film), you feel truly sorry for him.  And, seeing him learn how to control his impaired speech by reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy “To Be Or not To Be” is a testament to the human spirit. I think most people enjoy films about overcoming obstacles and the fact that this is a true story only makes it even more compelling.

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Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953) ***

In January 1953 President Truman announced that the United States had developed a hydrogen bomb. Later that same year, 20th Century Fox released its own double-barreled bombshell, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, starring Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe.  Christmas had obviously come early for men across America.

Based on the 1925 Anita Loos novel, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes: The Illuminating Diary of a Professional Lady, and the 1949 stage musical starring Carol Channing (really!), this Howard Hawks directed film is as raunchy as a musical could possibly be in 1953.  Start with the risqué costumes, then gasp at the double-entendre laced dialogue, and finally delight in the outrageous song lyrics and choreography—it’s a cornucopia of hysterical crassness. 

Long before actresses were expected to weigh 95 lbs. women actually had curves in the movies.  Voluptuous is the best word to describe Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe—they had curves in all the right places.  Costume designer Travilla (read Christian Esquevin's article) did a spectacular job of showcasing the assets of his leading ladies.  From the very first scene, where the ladies sing “Just Two Little Girls from Little Rock” wearing red sequin gowns with slits up to the hinterlands and suicidal plunging necklines, you know this is a film about sex.  Even when they aren’t wearing their showgirl outfits their clothes are form-fitting and sexy.  Of course, the most iconic outfit is the dress that Monroe wears when she performs “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Often imitated (think Madonna) but never surpassed, Monroe looks sensational—and like she’s eaten a few meals in her life.  Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I have often wondered if this dress was a metaphor for the female vagina (please cover the children’s eyes).  O’Keefe had her orchids, maybe Travilla had his pink silk gown with a huge bow on Monroe’s derriere?  Anyway, the first thing I think about whenever I see this movie is that all of the costumes are absolutely fabulous. 

This was certainly Charles Lederer’s best musical comedy screenplay.  It’s really a simple story about two showgirls looking for the right man. Lorelei Lee (Monroe) wants to marry a rich man (Tommy Noonan) to fulfill her lust for jewels—preferably diamonds—but she also wants love.  Dorothy Shaw (Russell) is a straight-talking gal who just wants an honest man.  When Lorelei’s man gets cold feet after his father threatens to cut him off, the ladies head off on a luxury liner to France. Along the way they meet the U.S. men’s Olympic team, a diamond mine owner (Charles Coburn), and a private detective (Elliott Reid).  When Lorelei gets caught with her hand in the jewelry box the girls find themselves down and out in Paris, and they have to begin performing again as showgirls. 

One of the best lines comes at the beginning of the film when one guys asks: “Say, suppose the ship hits an iceberg and sinks. Which one of them do you save from drowning?” and another guys answers, “Those girls couldn't drown.” Russell gets most of the best lines—she is playing opposite Monroe’s rather vapid character—but Monroe gets some zingers in too, such as when she responds to one of the Olympians who says he’s the only 4-letter man on the team with, “You should be ashamed to admit it.” No one played stupid as well as Monroe, and Russell always shined as a straight-shooting woman. 

So we have gorgeous costumes and witty dialogue and then we pair those two together with great musical numbers and we have a really good film.  Two songwriting teams (Leo Robin/Jule Styne and Hoagy Carmichael/Harold Adamson) were responsible for such memorable songs as: “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend”, “A Little Girl from Little Rock”, “When Love Goes Wrong”, and “Anyone Here for Love?”.  Of course, my favorite Monroe number is “Diamonds”.  The song itself is catchy:

A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental on your humble flat.

Or help you at the automat.

Men grow cold as girls grow old, and we all lose our charm in the end.

But square-cut or pear-shaped, these rocks won't lost their shape.

Diamonds are a girl's best friend.

When you combine the set design and the choreography with such memorable lyrics it becomes musical magic.  While it is often overshadowed by Monroe’s “Diamonds” number, I find Russell’s “Anyone Here for Love?” production with the Olympic team highly entertaining.  The song is bawdy and Russell’s strutting amongst the inattentive athletes is overtly sexual, with such lyrics as:

 

I like big muscles

And red corpuscles

I like a beautiful hunk o' man

But I'm no physical culture fan

Ain't there anyone here for love, sweet love

Each song seems to be perfectly matched to the woman performing it.  As an extra treat, of course, we get to see Russell parody Monroe’s “Diamonds” number when she takes her place in court. 

Hollywood made some outstanding musicals in the 1950s (Singin’ in the Rain and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers being the finest), and I think Gentlemen Prefer Blondes falls into this group.  Which is strange, because I also think that it is an often overlooked musical gem.  People will always remember the “Diamonds” number, but I think that the overall film deserves more respect than it gets. 

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The African Queen (1951) ***

Something happened to Katharine Hepburn in the 1950s that was both a blessing and a curse: she started playing a lot of spinsters. Some of these spinsters were painful to watch (think The Rainmaker and Summertime), but thankfully her turn as Rose Sayer in The African Queen (1951) was the perfect vehicle for her maturing talents. She had adept screenwriters (James Agee and John Huston); an accomplished director (John Huston); an award-winning cinematographer (Jack Cardiff); and, an age-appropriate co-star (Humphrey Bograt)—all of these essential elements allowed Hepburn to turn Rose into the best spinster portrayal of her storied career. 

Based on C.S. Forester’s 1935 novel The African Queen, the story takes place at the beginning of WWI in 1914 in German East Africa.  An old-maid missionary (Hepburn) finds herself in a difficult situation after her Methodist minister brother (Robert Morley) is beaten by German soldiers and later dies of a fever.  Alone in the middle of the jungle, Rose is rescued by rough-looking steamboat (a very small one, named, you guessed it The African Queen) captain Charlie Allnut (Bogart), a man who delivers supplies and mail along the Ulanga River.  After learning that the boat is carrying the necessary supplies to make a torpedo, Rose attempts to convince Charlie that they should make one and then use it against a German gunboat as an act of patriotism (he’s Canadian, which at the time was still a part of the British Empire). While attempting to dissuade Rose from her suicidal plan, Charlie often finds himself at odds with the headstrong nature of his prim companion. What ensues is an adventurous love story between complete opposites in the middle of the African jungle.

Most people who have read Forester’s novel will tell you that the movie is ten times better. This is not to say that screenwriters Agee and Huston changed a lot when they adapted the book, because they only made a few minor changes—most notably turning Charlie into a Canadian instead of a Cockney Londoner because Bogart couldn’t pull off the accent—but because the story plays better on screen than on the page.  They received an Oscar nomination for their crisp, smart dialogue and their ability to turn a somewhat turgid book into a sweeping adventure story. Writing lines for two completely opposite personalities can be challenging (you don’t want one to dominate the other too much) and that’s where I think Agee and Huston do a great job.  Perhaps my favorite exchange is this one:

Charlie: A man takes a drop too much once in a while, it's only human nature.

Rose: Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.

The characters’ words never seem forced and they always sound appropriate.  I wish more screenwriters wrote dialogue like this.

John Huston also received an Oscar nomination for his direction of the film.  While he and Bogart were cut from the same cloth, dealing with Hepburn in the middle of the jungle could have been a nightmare if he hadn’t approached her in the right way. He obviously was successful in this endeavor because Hepburn later said that it was “the goddamnedest best piece of direction” she ever received.  As if dealing with two of Hollywood’s biggest stars wasn’t enough, the film was shot primarily on location in central Africa (although for safety reasons all of the scenes where Bogart and Hepburn are in the water were filmed in a studio water tank).  Just the logistics alone were bad enough, not to mention the fact that it was being filmed by huge Technicolor cameras.  Sickness ran rampant on the set and the weather conditions were unbearable at times.  In the end, it turned out to be one of the best films of Huston’s career. 

Besides the off-beat love story, what is most remembered about the movie is its cinematography.  Can you really shoot a film in the middle of the African jungle in anything other than Technicolor?  Vivid and lush, the color pops off the screen.  Cinematographer Jack Cardiff was known for his experimental use of Technicolor. His use of the dye-process color system made him the go-to cinematographer for the likes of Powell & Pressburger and Hitchcock.  Yet, he was also extremely adept in his lighting techniques.  There’s a story about how Bogart told Cardiff that it had taken him years to get the lines on his face and that he didn’t want Cardiff to wash them out with lights. Bogart might have kept his lines, but Hepburn never looked better in color.  Rose was supposed to be 33-years old, while Hepburn was in her mid-40s when the picture was shot; yet, I can’t recall a color film where Hepburn looked so real—her take me as I am (with limited lighting hijinks) made her look like the beauty she was.  What makes this even more impressive is that throughout most of filming Hepburn was extremely ill with dysentery—and still she looked good, which no doubt she owed to Cardiff’s mastery.

Finally, what I think makes this Hepburn’s best spinster role is that her co-star is Bogart.  Slightly seven years older than Hepburn, Bogart looked like the kind of man who could fall for an aging old maid.  Rough and grizzled, Bogart had the necessary presence to stand next to a woman who could be perceived as domineering.  Perhaps this is why he won his only Academy Award for this role—he stood his own against one of the most powerful actresses to grace the silver screen.  When you compare his Charlie to the likes of Rossano Brazzi in Summertime (1955) and Burt Lancaster in The Rainmaker (1956) it’s easy to see where those films faltered while The African Queen thrived. While Hepburn received Academy Award nominations for all three of these films, this was the one she seemed the most believable in, which I believe is a direct result of who her co-star was.  I believe this is the inherent reason why The African Queen endures while Hepburn’s other spinster films are often pushed aside and/or forgotten. 

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Bob the Gambler (Bob le Flambeur) 1955 **1/2

When you ask a film lover to name some of their favorite film noirs you might hear such titles as: Double Indemnity (1944), Kiss Me Deadly (1955), Laura (1944), Murder, My Sweet (1944), Out of the Past (1947), or The Maltese Falcon (1941), but you would rarely hear the name of the often overlooked Bob le Flambeur (1955). Perhaps this is due to it being a French-language film from a relatively unknown French director in Jean-Pierre Melville. Whatever may be the reason, Bob le Flambeur is a film noir that should get more attention from cinephiles—and not just the ones who recognize the name Bob le Flambeur because it was mentioned in Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (1960), either. 

Fans of Melville know that his best films are minimalistic but stylish—think Le Samourai (1967), Le Cercle rouge (1970), and Un flic (1972, with our fave Catherine Deneuve).  A French Resistance fighter during WWII, Melville was his own man in every sense.  When he couldn’t get a job in the French film industry he started his own studio and made his own unique brand of films.  His independent style allowed him to veer away from the then-stagnant nature of French filmmaking, and employ techniques that were hugely influential to New Wave directors like Godard and Francois Truffaut.  His films relied on location shots (primarily by handheld cameras), and employed the use of jump cuts (which were a big no-no at the time). While the Cahiers du cinéma are often remembered for their reverence of such directors as Alfred Hitchcock, Fritz Lang, and Max Ophuls, Melville’s work was also viewed favorably.  He along with Jean Renoir and Jean Cocteau are perhaps the Frenchmen the Cahiers (and the subsequent French New Wave) most admired. 

Cinematographer Henri Decaë filmed primarily on locationn in Montmartre (a section of Paris known for its nightclubs and bohemian culture), but scenes were also shot at a horse track in La Havre as well as in Deauville for the casino sequences. Films shot on location always seem to have a notable edge to them—perhaps this is because they side-step the artificiality of a studio set. I think this is one of the striking features of Bob le Flambeur—it adds to the overall grittiness of the picture.  When you start your film with a multi-perspective shot of a street cleaning truck circling the Montmartre rotunda and your main character driving his 1955 Plymouth Belvedere you are making a statement. In addition, the night shots of the busy streets of Montmartre do a tremendous job of exhibiting the world in which Bob Montagné (Roger Duchesne) operates. These shots are completely atmospheric and unlike what most French filmmakers were doing at the time. Godard would later borrow heavily from this when he shot the nighttime scenes in Breathless, and I’m sure Eric Rohmer was also thinking of Melville when he worked on My Night at Maud’s (1969).

Still, even though the exterior shots are what most people focus on, there are a number of standout interior shots as well. My favorite one is an extreme overhead (I mean in the ceiling) shot that watches as Bob paces in his kitchen. There is an added element in this scene, because the story has voice-over narration (by Melville nonetheless) and when you watch it you feel almost voyeuristic, as though you are in collusion with the all-seeing narrator.  One of the other things I noticed about many of Melville’s interior scenes is his fascination with checks and rectangles—they inundate almost every one.  This is a subtle reference to the game of chess, and we the viewer get to watch how the game plays out for Bob. 

While the innovative camerawork and set design are what make this a memorable piece of cinema, the overall story and acting is good, too.  Penned by Melville and Auguste Le Breton, the film is about a compulsive gambler (and ex-con) and his eclectic crew of associates. Dapperly dressed and graced with the manners of a gentleman, Bob is liked and admired by everyone—including the police, headed by Inspector Ledru (Guy Decomble). He’s the type of man who exudes confidence and has the ability to convince others to go along with whatever he wants to do.  Which comes in handy when he decides he wants to rob the Deauville casino. Overall, the story is crisply paced and remarkably believable.  I view it is as ironic realism—something you don’t always get with a noir or a heist film.

Early in his career Melville was known for casting relative unknowns—primarily because he never had enough money to pay anyone.  While both Duchesne and Daniel Cauchy (who plays Bob’s surrogate son Paolo) were established actors, Melville did launch the career of Isabelle Corey when he gave her the would-be femme fatale role of Anne in this picture. Duchesne is obviously the star of the film, but both Cauchy and Corey bring an added rawness to their roles.  Corey, in particular, stands out for how she plays her character as both opportunistic and naive.  You don’t know whether to embrace her or slap some sense into her. 

There are many reasons to like Bob le Flambeur, and that’s why it’s such a shame that more people aren’t familiar with it.  If you don’t believe me, take the word of director Stanley Kubrick, who said Bob le Flambeur is the greatest crime film ever made. High praise indeed.

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The Social Network (2010) ****

Rarely does a megalomaniac get their comeuppance at such an early age as does Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) in The Social Network (2010). Adapted from Ben Mezrich’s book The Accidental Billionaires, the film focuses on how Facebook was created and the lawsuits that followed.  It is a lacerating and ironic examination of the world in which we live today—Zuckerberg just serves as the unlikable whipping boy of an entire generation. 

The Internet has developed into an alternate reality for many people.  It is the place where anyone can seem interesting—especially those people who are socially awkward and personality-deprived.  It is the place where you can write on your blog that your now ex-girlfriend is a bitch and that she has small breasts.  It is the place where you can rate your fellow students and co-workers as “hot” or “not hot”.  It allows you to say whatever you want about someone without having to say it to their face.  It helps you make “friends” that you could never make in person. Quite simply, you could have the social skills of a paper bag and the personality of a megalomaniac and still found a billion dollar website about connecting with people.  Could anything be more ironic than this?

Yet, there is another, often overlooked, theme in this movie that screenwriter Aaron Sorkin focuses on: intellectual property theft. While Sorkin doesn’t delve into this as fully as he might have, it is still there.  While the whole debate about how much Zuckerberg appropriated from the Winklevoss twins (Armie Hammer) and Divya Narendra (Max Minghella) is examined in both Mezrich’s book and Sorkin’s screenplay, I believe there is an underlying critique of what the Internet has done to the integrity of intellectual property.  In cases like that of the Winklevoss twins you might have the original idea for something, but then someone can come along polish it up and then pass it off as their own and have no qualms about doing so because they believe they made it better.  It is sort of like this blog (and countless others) about the 1001 book.  Steven Jay Schneider and his fellow editors came up with the original idea, but other people have piggybacked off of it. Are we a society that lacks originality, or have we become a world comprised of adapters—as Sorkin himself is, by adapting a screenplay (an Oscar winning one by the way) from Mezrich’s book?  I often ponder this question—perhaps you should, too.

The reason I like The Social Network so much is because I think it is a brutal analysis of  what the Internet Age has done to society.  Still, a film like this would be nothing without a superb cast and production team.  While I think Eisenberg does a tremendous job of not turning Zuckerberg into a caricature, I found both Justin Timberlake and Andrew Garfield’s performances to be more compelling.  Timberlake plays Sean Parker with just the right amount of smarminess and manic-ness (the OED hasn’t made this a word yet, but they should).  I hated his character (I think that’s what Sorkin was going for), but loved how Timberlake made be loathe him. 

Garfield’s Eduardo is the most sympathetic character in the entire picture—of course, this could have had something to do with his serving as an adviser on Mezrich’s book.  Still, I thought Garfield played Eduardo as a young man caught in a bad situation quite well. He plays an often confounded grown-up in a quiet, somewhat restricted way, while Eisenberg gets free reign to turn Zuckerberg into one of the biggest asses ever. Garfield is often unjustly overlooked, but without him the film would have lost its moral compass.  I suppose the fact that my favorite scene in the entire movie is when Eduardo tells Zuckerberg and Parker that he won’t be pushed out willingly might make me biased towards him.  When he says to Zuckerberg: “You better lawyer up asshole, because I'm not coming back for 30%, I'm coming back for everything!” I felt that righteous indignation nudge that makes me identify with someone who has been wronged.  Plus, I absolutely loved how he made Sean Parker cower in fear when he pretended like he was going to hit him.  The best line in the entire film is when he says, “I like standing next to you, Sean. It makes me look so tough.” What a way to be thrown out of your own company!

Overall, The Social Network is a film that expertly represents the time period in which it was made.  It says something rather profound about the Internet Age and about the social network that has evolved from it. 

 

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Alphaville (Alphaville, une étrange aventure de Lemmy Caution) 1965 *1/2

This is what happens when a director thinks he’s brilliant and people take him at his word. 

French director Jean-Luc Godard is an ego-maniac who is often identified as one of the preeminent members of La Nouvelle Vague (New Wave).  Yet, unlike other stalwart members such as Claude Chabrol, Francois Truffaut, Eric Rohmer, and Jacques Demy, Godard never learned how to play well with others. As such, he destroyed a very valuable friendship with Truffaut and often found himself without financial backing for his cinematic visions.  Personally, I find it to be a universal crime that Truffaut died relatively young at the age of 52, but Godard, at 81, still continues to make films.  I’ll take a Truffaut movie over a Godard one any day. 

Alphaville (1965) is a satiric science-fiction noir that attempts to say something about the dehumanizing effects of modernization.  Literally transported from author Peter Cheyney’s books and countless French films,  Lemmy Caution (Eddie Constantine) is the “hero” of the picture.  A chain-smoking secret agent who sports a trenchcoat and a fedora, Godard’s Caution is nothing like the detective you would’ve seen in Cheyney’s novels or you might of watched in the earlier Lemmy Caution films.  As such, fans of both were outraged when they saw what Godard had done to their beloved character.  Gone was the optimistic strong detective; and, in his place audiences found a bitter nihilistic man who they viewed as depressing.  I’ve never read any of the novels or seen any of the earlier films, but I can attest to the fact that Caution is a downer. I never once found myself rooting for him nor did I ever see why any woman, let alone one played by Anna Karina, would be attracted to him.  In Lemmy Caution, Godard created a new type of character: the anti-anti-hero. I, for one, was not impressed.

The story is classic Godard—which means the plot is thin (to say the least) and heavily reliant on rambling, nonsensical conversations.  Caution is on an intergalactic mission (he’s from the Outlands) to find a missing agent (played by Akim Tamiroff) and the creator of Alphaville, Professor von Braun (Howard Vernon).  Once he accomplishes these things he is then supposed to destroy (by quoting poetry!) Alpha 60, a tyrannical supercomputer that has banned such words as “love” and “conscience”, and orders the executions of those who cry or show any real type of emotion.  Caution’s mission becomes somewhat complicated when he becomes fascinated with von Braun’s daughter (Karina). It sounds sane enough, but that’s because I, not Godard, wrote the plot synopsis—it’s anything but logical. 

Improvisation works in certain situations (such as comedy), but I don’t think it should be recommended when attempting to make some semblance of a science fiction film.  I read once that Godard asked his assistant director, Charles Bitsch, to write a screenplay for the film after producer André Michelin demanded he have something to show to prospective German backers. Bitsch, who was quite unfamiliar with the Caution books, wrote a 30-page treatment which Godard didn’t bother to read before he passed it onto Michelin.  None of Bitsch “screenplay” ever made it to the screen and the German backers demanded their money back.  This is what it was (and still is) like to “work” with Godard. 

Still, if you can look past the pretentiousness of the flashing lights and signs that are supposed to be meaningful (but just irritated me), there is one nice thing about the film: its excellent cinematography at the hands of the great Raoul Coutard.  The principal photographer of such stalwart films as Z (1969), Shoot the Piano Player (1960), and Jules et Jim (1962), Coutard knew how to capture strikingly memorable images.  I suspect the primary reason I like such Godard films as Contempt (1963) and Breathless (1960) is because Coutard was the cinematographer.  The most impressive thing about Alphaville is the opening four-minute sequence of the film, where Caution enters his hotel and the camera tracks his every move from the entryway to his own hotel room. It is an unedited tracking shot that follows him through an elevator and winding corridors--a miniature version of Orson Welles’ A Touch of Evil (1958). Visually, it is a stunning picture, but everything else, in my opinion, is lacking. 

And, speaking of Welles, I think he said it best in his analysis of Godard: "His gifts as a director are enormous. I just can't take him very seriously as a thinker—and and that's where we seem to differ, because he does. His message is what he cares about these days, and, like most movie messages, it could be written on the head of a pin." For someone who thinks he has so much to say about society Godard has a really poor way of conveying it.  If you, and perhaps a few others, are the only one who can decipher what you are trying to say, how useful is it really?

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