Psycho (1960) ***

Hello, my name is Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), and what you’re about to read is filled with what some call “spoiler alerts”.  If you wish to hear my story, spoilers included, then continue reading.

That’s me in the poster above—the blonde wearing a brassiere. Yes, it’s rather odd that a movie poster from 1960 would prominently display a woman clothed as such. What can I say, when the director (Alfred Hitchcock) is a complete pervert things like that happen. For example, my first scene finds me wearing that exact outfit and basking in the glow of just completing the act of copulation in a no-tell motel with my half-clothed lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin). A few scenes later, after stealing $40,000 (what the pervert refers to as a ‘MacGuffin’) from my boss (Vaughn Taylor), I am in another scene wearing a black bra.  I guess the white bra represented a cleaner state of mind—I was after all trying to end my illicit affair with Sam, who couldn’t marry me because he was paying alimony to his ex-wife and couldn’t afford a new one. Yes, I know that sounds lame, but that didn’t stop me from taking the money and thinking we could run away together. Hence, why I suspect I was wearing the black bra: dark thoughts had crept into my mind.

Anyway, after I put clothes on, I set out for Fairvale, California, to show Sam that we now had enough money to get married. We wouldn’t have to worry about his ex getting her greedy hands on any of it, as we would be on the lam. Ha! take that, bitch!  The drive from Phoenix to Fairvale was a long one, so I pulled off the side of the road and took a nap. I awoke to a creepy, sunglass-wearing cop (Mort Mills) knocking on my window.  I must have aroused his suspicions because he gave me the once over and proceeded to follow me to a used car lot, where I was trading in my car for one with California plates. Tsk, tsk, copper, I was a law-abiding person when I bought my car, so you stopped following me. Too bad…

Once back on the road and away from the prying eyes of the police I encountered a torrential downpour that prohibited my migration to Fairvale, and so I stopped off at a roadside motel called the Bates Motel.  The owner, Norman (Anthony Perkins), immediately struck me as an oddball.  He, like the pervert, had a strange fascination with birds (he stuffed them) and a proclivity for voyeurism. I should have known he was a complete Psycho (1960) when after being invited into his parlor (oh, I hate parables!) he confided in me that “a boy’s best friend is his mother.”

Yet, that conversation convinced me that I should repent my wicked ways and return to Phoenix with the money (sans $700 that I paid for my new car). Wanting to wash away my sins I decided to take a shower. Off went my clothes, which Norman got more than an eyeful of by spying through his peephole, and into the shower I went.  I really enjoyed that shower—it felt (and looked) extremely sensual. Oh, that was until violins started screeching (thanks, Bernard Herrmann) and someone decided to carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. There I was: slowly, sliding down the bathroom wall, watching my blood being washed away—I quite literally got to see my life go down the drain. Ah, such is life.  Later, Norman found me face-down on the bathroom floor and decided to use the shower curtain I tore down on my way to death as my burial shroud.  He then “buried” me and the $40k in the trunk of my car and placed us in a swamp behind the motel. Oddly enough, the car’s license plate read: NFB 418. I later learned that it stood for Norman Francis Bates. Coincidentally, St. Francis was the patron saint of birds (and many other animals) and my last name was Crane and I was planning on returning to Phoenix to resurrect my former innocent ways.  Now that I think of it, maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence after all.

About a week after that, my sister, Lila (Vera Miles) contacted a private detective (Martin Balsam) to find me.  They went to Fairvale and met with Sam, and once they ascertained that he knew nothing about either my theft or disappearance they began to work together.  Poor Detective Arbogast soon joined me in the swamp after he “met” Mrs. Bates.  Then, Sam and Lila came calling on Norman and his '”mother”. They soon learned the shocking truth: Norman suffered from a dual personality—he’d murdered Mrs. Bates and her lover ten years prior and kept her preserved bones in the house with him. Ah, such a perverted story could only be told by a complete master of perversion (as well as suspense).

Looking back on it all, I have to admit that it was a masterful tale of Oedipal psychological sexual repression told in a completely new and shocking way. Personally, I’d never heard of the central character (even if that bitch Lila/Vera got top-billing!) getting the axe before the story was halfway over. Oh, and the way that I got it (well, it was a knife) was just so shocking. I’m glad I can only remember it in black and white, because I’m sure it would have been much gorier in color.  And, of course, the twist at the end has inspired countless imitators (M. Night Shyamalan anyone?) over the years.  If I must forever be remembered as the first slashed horror victim, I say so be it. I had a scream doing it!

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Sullivan’s Travels (1941) **

Preston Sturges is one of my favorite Classic Hollywood directors; I am especially fond of his The Lady Eve (1941) and The Palm Beach Story (1942). His brand of sophisticated comedy is risqué and witty, just like my other favorite director from the period: Ernst Lubitsch.  What I appreciate most about Sturges’ is his ability to successfully blend sophistication into a screwball comedy—that’s why I adore The Lady Eve. And, that is also why I was somewhat let down by Sullivan’s Travels (1941). Now, I’m not saying it’s not a good film—I just found it uneven. If I were a psychiatrist I would diagnose it as manic depressive. At times it is a screwball comedy and then it turns into a drama, and then it’s a comedy and then back to a dramatic social commentary. 

John L. Sullivan, aka Sully, (Joel McCrea) is a successful Hollywood director who specializes in lightweight comedies but longs to make movies about the human condition.  No more Ants in Your Pants for Sully—he wants the studio to back his O Brother Where Art Thou?  To prove he’s capable of telling an honest and powerful story about the sufferings of everyday people in the Depression Era, Sully decides to disguise himself as a hobo and live amongst them. However, the head of the studio (Robert Warwick) wants none of this and enlists a team to follow his prized director around in a RV.  Of course, this would never work, and so Sully gets them to leave him alone after an incredibly wild, slapstick chase scene that would have made the Keystone Cops green with envy. Soon after this he meets a young Hollywood ingénue (Veronica Lake) at a diner who buys him a cup of coffee and some ham and eggs.  Down on her luck and wanting to escape the perils of the casting couch, the girl (really, she’s never given a name) becomes his traveling companion.  Even after she learns who he really is and that he’s involved in a “noble experiment” she continues on the road with him to soup kitchens and shelters.  Eventually they return to Hollywood and seem to be destined for happiness (if he can ever get a divorce from his harpy wife [Jan Buckingham]), but things go awry when Sully is mugged by a hobo and believed to be dead. 

Okay, how can you start your film off with a rip-roaring, hilarious chase scene and then about halfway into the movie launch into a heavy social commentary about the hardships of the poor?  Heck, not only is it heavy, but it’s also silent.  That’s right, the master of witty repartee made a mini-silent film around the halfway mark of this movie.  Yes, it’s quite effective in conveying the despair of the downtrodden, but I thought this was supposed to be a comedy? What the hell?  And, then it goes back to being a comedy for a few minutes and the next thing I know Sully is working on a chain gang run by the father (Alan Bridge) of the Captain from Cool Hand Luke (1967) and Jess Lee Brooks is leading a black church congregation in singing “Go Down Moses” (i.e. the classic refrain, “Let My People Go”). Double what the hell? Can you see how I found Sullivan’s Travels a tad uneven and in need of a bottle of lithium? I know Sturges was attempting to poke fun at the likes of Frank Capra and Leo McCarey, but he fell in league with them here with this script.  Perhaps this is why Sullivan’s Travels didn’t receive one single Oscar nomination.

Overall, the acting performances are quite good. McCrea is his usual even self, and I must admit, he does shine in the dramatic scenes.  Like any Sturges production, there are some stock character actors who steal several scenes. Robert Grieg and Eric Blore are delightful as Sully’s servants. They had some of the best lines in the film. I wish they’d been in more scenes—perhaps some of the ones in which Veronica Lake stood around doe-eyed and pouty.  Not long after she said, “Give him some ham and eggs,” I couldn’t get over the fact that I knew both Sturges and McCrea grew to despise her over the course of the production.  To say that her acting range was limited would be kind.

I think I would have liked Sullivan’s Travels more if it had been more Ants in Your Pants and less O Brother Where Art Thou?—of course, I don’t mean the Coen Brother’s 2000 film starring my husband, Mr. Clooney. They named their film that in honor of Sturges and this movie, though.  I agree about Sturges…a little less about Sullivan’s Travels, though. 

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Hugo (2011) ****

Every once in awhile cinema has a stellar year: 1939, 1940, 1941, 1950, 1957, 1962, 1967, 1976, and 1994 spring to mind. I now feel confident that we can add 2011 to that esteemed list, primarily because of such films as The Artist, The Descendants, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Midnight in Paris, A Separation, In Darkness, and today’s entry: Hugo. Granted, some are better than others, but taken as a whole they serve to make 2011 one of the best years for film in almost two decades. It is my opinion that director Martin Scorsese’s Hugo is the standout production from this illustrious year.

Based on Brian Selznick’s 2007 novel, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Hugo is about an orphaned Parisian boy (Asa Butterfield) who keeps the Paris Gare Montparnasse Railway Station’s clocks moving.  Apprenticed to his drunk, absentee uncle (Ray Winstone), Hugo is an extremely lonely boy whose only friend appears to be a broken automaton (think Metropolis) that he and his father (Jude Law) were attempting to fix before Mr. Cabret was killed in a fire. To attain parts to the automaton, Hugo steals them from the railway station’s toymaker, Georges Méliès (Ben Kingsley), who begrudgingly befriends the boy after witnessing his mechanical acumen. Hugo also become friends with Méliès goddaughter and ward, Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz), who happens to possess the key (quite literally) to fixing the automaton.  Once fixed, the automaton draws the now iconic symbol of the spaceship in the eye of the moon from A Trip to the Moon (1902).  The children set off to discover what the drawing means, and this adventure leads them to discover that the toymaker was once one of cinema’s greatest filmmakers. There’s much more to the story, but I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen it yet.

Scorsese, along with acclaimed cinematographer Robert Richardson (who won an Oscar for this film), shot Hugo is 3-D. My words can not do justice to the sheer beauty of what they put up on the screen.  Without a doubt this is Scorsese’s visual masterpiece, it is a shame that he didn’t win a Best Director Oscar, but obviously the Academy was in love with The Artist in 2011. From the shots of the interworking of the clocks to the spectacular railway shots, everything seems so much crisper and fluid than what I’ve seen in other 3-D films.  Hugo deservedly won five Academy Awards for its visual and audio mastery: cinematography, art direction, visual effects, sound editing, and sound mixing. The only technical award that it didn’t win was for film editing, which went to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (I haven’t seen this yet, so I can’t make a judgment on which deserved the Oscar more).

But this movie isn’t just visually stunning, it also has an engaging and endearing story.  Watching all of the plot elements come together at the end was perhaps a bit oversentimental, but still highly enjoyable.  For a film filled with so many emotionally (and in one case, physically) broken people Hugo never becomes overburdened by melancholy. I was especially pleased with the care Scorsese and Oscar-nominated screenwriter John Logan took in developing Méliès’s backstory. Yes, they took a few historical licenses in this depiction, but for the most part they were fairly accurate. Few directors have as much reverence for the history of film as Scorsese. By inserting clips of the most important films prior to 1931 (when this story takes place) Scorsese showcases the grandeur of early cinema.  On a side note, I must thank The 1001 Book for my ability to recognize just about every film referenced in Hugo.

In addition to outstanding visuals and a moving story, Hugo is also loaded with a number of standout performances. Both Butterfield and Moretz show great range for such young actors.  Butterfield, in particular, has what is known as screen presence (of course, that could have been an added advantage to being shot in 3-D).  Not surprisingly, Kingsley is mesmerizing as Méliès.  If you’ve seen any old photos of the famed director then you know the make-up department did a fantastic job transforming Kingsley into Méliès.  The most surprising performance came from Sacha Baron Cohen as Inspector Gustave.  Who knew that the man who created such idiotic caricatures as Borat, Ali G, Bruno, and General Aladeen, could play a complete buffoon with so much restraint? I have to admit I was completely shocked by how nice of a job he did with this role.

I could go on and on about how much I liked Hugo, but I expect you are tired of reading (if you’ve made it this far), so I’ll end by saying that it is one of the best films I’ve seen in the last ten years.  It is truly a monumental piece of cinematic vision.

 

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Gilda (1946) **1/2

Director Charles Vidor’s film noir, Gilda (1946), is full of sexual angst and self-loathing.  It is also not your typical noir. I won’t spoil the ending, but anyone who has seen it knows that the usual formula is not carried out to its bitter end.  That said, it’s an engaging movie with standout performances by Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, and George Macready.  Stylistically, it follows all the rules of a noir, and cinematographer Rudolph Maté does an excellent job of playing with shadows and light.  Still, the ending leaves me a bit cold and takes away from any ecstatic praise I might have given it.

Hayworth was given top-billing over Ford, but in reality it is he who is the main character—Gilda (Hayworth) is just his sexy catalyst into the emotional abyss of sexual and psychological obsession. Johnny Farrell (Ford) is both a gambler and a man licking his wounds over a bad romance.  When he meets Ballin Mundson (Macready), the owner of a casino in Buenos Aires, they become fast friends and business associates.  They trust one another implicitly until Ballin marries Gilda. From the very first moment they are introduced it is clear they dislike one another. There’s a reason for this: Gilda is the woman who did Johnny wrong.  What transpires from this moment on is a deadly game of emotional chicken, with scathing verbal barbs and one of the best revenge plans ever. I have to admit, when Johnny finally breaks Gilda’s will and she’s groveling at his feet I was highly satisfied.  And, then that trite ending…

I never really found Ford all that good-looking in other films, but he is full of sexual magnetism in Gilda. I’m sure it helps that he was playing opposite one of Hollywood’s greatest sexpots ever in Hayworth, but that does not diminish the fact that I can’t recall ever seeing Ford look so good—both in his appearance and in his acting.  There’s a particular scene in the film where he gives Gilda a good slap that I found exhilarating. Of course, this could be due to my extreme dislike of Gilda.

If the role of the femme fatale was made for anyone it was Hayworth.  We first meet her character when Ballin asks Gilda if she’s decent (clothed) and Hayworth does her now infamous hair flip and we know that that question, however posed, should always be answered unequivocally no. Unquestionably, she’s beautiful and sexy, but she is also cheap and petty.  Jean Louis designed Hayworth’s gowns to play on her curves and raw sexuality, but they also befit a woman of ill-repute as well. I noticed that Gilda always seems at her worse when she’s wearing some shimmering, beaded outfit.  Of course, exception must be made in the striptease scene, where she’s wearing a black gown and elbow-length gloves—I think the striptease was enough to convey her character’s cheapness.  We get to see her do a few musical numbers, where she dances provocatively and exhibits, what one can only assume is, her burlesque training. I hated Gilda, and so for that reason alone, I have to give kudos to Hayworth.  When you play your character so reprehensibly that even at the end of the film I still hate her (even after Vidor attempts to rehabilitate her), you’ve done a good job. 

Now, to appreciate Macready’s Ballin, disbelief must be suspended.  Screenwriters Jo Eisinger and Marion Parsonnet were obviously still effected by WWII propaganda when they concocted Ballin’s backstory about a tungsten cartel ruling the world (if this is so, we have another reason to fear the Chinese).  Once you get around the outrageousness of this plot development, you can enjoy watching Macready delve into his character’s borderline psychosis of jealousy.  Still, I never really believed he was insane (as Gilda liked to claim) until the end of the film when he came back to wreak revenge on his harlot wife.  Really, she wasn’t worth it. 

Maté’s cinematography adeptly plays on the mood of the story. When a character is thinking dark thoughts (which happens a lot),  Maté employs backlighting and shoots primarily from lower angles.  In scenes where characters are emotionally distant with one another, or one is trying to lure the other to whatever response they want, Maté shoots one half of the frame much darker than the other, and usually in long, full shots in rooms with an inordinate amount of space.  As noirs go, Gilda is stylistically right on.

 

 

Finally, the other thing that stands out to me is the film’s music.  When you begin your film with “Amado Mio” playing over the credits you are making a statement. Yes, it’s a love song, but it’s one of those creepy, obsessive ones. When Hayworth does her own rendition (not really, as Anita Ellis dubbed it) it is at a time when Gilda is nearing her breaking point.  And, the way that they used “Put the Blame on Mame” was ingenious.  The first time Gilda sings it (again Ellis) she’s in a position of power and it is a restrained performance.  But when she sings it near the end of the film, in the would-be striptease number, it is a hot-mess of uncontrollable emotional spite.  I think Vidor should be lauded for this clever reversal of fortune and power.  If he had only ended the film after Johnny slaps that crap out of Gilda for this burlesque act things would have been just peachy. 

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Zabriskie Point (1970) :(((

This film was obviously aimed at 1960s LSD addicts, as they are the only ones who could understand what the hell director Michelangelo Antonioni was trying to say with Zabriskie Point (1970).  Lets look at some of the bands whose music is played in it: Pink Floyd, the Kaleidoscope, and the Grateful Dead.  Need I say more? The movie bombed at the box office, but has become a cult classic over the years. This is yet another sign that this is a movie aimed at deadheads. Oh, yes, I know Antonioni is making a statement about the 1960s counterculture movement and American consumerism, so please don’t go ballistic on that point.  It’s just bad on so many levels—not even the spectacular work of cinematographer Alfio Contini can save it. 

For those of you who don’t know, Zabriskie Point is an actual place in Death Valley National Park.  Just as Dennis Hopper desecrated St. Louis Cemetery in Easy Rider (1969) with lewd sexual acts, Antonioni delivers a psychedelic and graphic sex scene that involves group sex and goes on for what seems like half the movie.  I get that people like to go to Zabriskie Point and drop acid and/or take peyote, but who’d really want to have sex there? It’s hotter than hell and is composed of various sediments—namely borax.  And, they didn’t even have a blanket!

Okay, I’ve gone off on a tangent and forgotten to tell you who is actually having sex.  Mark (Mark Frechette) is a college dropout and carpenter who is involved in the counterculture movement on an unnamed college campus in Los Angeles.  Daria (Daria Halprin) is the secretary and girlfriend of a man (Rod Taylor) building a subdivision somewhere near Phoenix.  They meet after Mark steals a single-engine plane and takes it for a joyride over the desert.  It is never explained how Mark knows how to fly or why Daria would think it’s a good idea to give a ride to a complete stranger whom she meets in the desert. Approximately an hour after meeting they are having sex at Zabriskie Point. Not too much longer after this Mark flies the plane back to LA and is shot to death by the police, and Daria imagines that her boyfriend’s awesome house in the desert explodes.  Really, that’s what happens.

There’s a reason you’ve never heard of Frechette or Halprin: they were horrible actors.  Frechette was a hippie who gave all his money to a commune and then ended up in jail after he robbed a bank (he died in jail in a bizarre weightlifting accident). For her part, Halprin made one more film after Zabriskie Point and then married Dennis Hopper (perhaps they shared a sense of depravity?).  Why would Antonioni cast them, you ask? They were attractive—sort of the American versions of Monica Vitti and Gabriele Ferzetti, but with a lot less talent. 

The only thing this film has going for it is its cinematography.  I can only imagine what Contini thought when he saw all of his fantastic widescreen shots set to horrible American music and ruined by the wooden acting of the leads.  Even the apocalyptic ending sequence, which sees multiple views of the exploding house, is somehow corrupted by whatever anti-consumerism/capitalism statement that Antonioni is trying to make. Plus, the house he blew up was awesome—what a complete waste, especially for a film like Zabriskie Point. 

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Jurassic Park (1993) **

I’m one of those people who as a child could have cared less about dinosaurs. I never had a desire to learn all of the dinosaur names or go to museums and look at their skeletal remains. When I visited the Field Museum in Chicago I was more interested in looking at the Aztec, Inca and Maya collections that anything else.  As such, it should come as no surprise that I just wasn’t that into director Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park (1993). Yes, there are a lot of stunning visuals (CGI can work miracles), and it is somewhat interesting to see what dinosaurs might have looked like, but that’s really all I can say for this horror/disaster film. 

Michael Crichton was paid $500,000 to adapt his best-selling novel, Jurassic Park, for this Spielberg and Universal Pictures enterprise.  Crichton was aided in this endeavor by fellow screenwriter David Koepp, who cut out large segments of violence from the novel and simplified the final screenplay. Still, the movie justly garnered a PG-13 rating—there was more than enough violence and terror for me, let alone the minds of young children, whose parents still took them to see this $900 million world-wide grossing adventure.  Oh, and bought them the t-shirts, lunch boxes, and other merchandise that made this one of the most profitable franchises ever—two sequels and a river adventure at Universal Resort created what seems like an endless revenue stream. 

If you think about it it is more than bizarre that there is Jurassic Park River Adventure at Universal Resort.  The film is about a dinosaur theme park (Jurassic Park) situated somewhere near Costa Rica that has some liability and security issues—namely man-eating dinosaurs.  Why would anyone who has seen humans terrorized by giant reptiles want to go on a vacation to a resort that mimics many aspects of the film?  Granted, the dinosaurs aren’t real, but this doesn’t negate the fact that Jurassic Park was most assuredly not the happiest place on earth. 

Seeing the life-size dinosaurs and the lush rainforest were both highlights.  Spielberg has a unique talent for creating stunning visuals for his adventure movies.  He and cinematographer Dean Cundey produced lasting images with the help of the special effects of Stan Winston, Phil Tippett, Michael Lantieri, and Dennis Muren.  Enhanced by a memorable musical score by John Williams, Jurassic Park’s visuals are truly a sight to see.

Ah, but stunning visuals does not make me love a movie.  The story itself is utterly ridiculous.  Could a man (Sam Neill) really safely navigate through lush terrain infested with carnivorous dinosaurs?  But wait, he has to drag along two kids (Ariana Richards and Joseph Mazzello), too? 

When you have a lot of screaming and running something usually happens to the quality of acting—this film is no exception.  Laura Dern relies on a variety of facial expressions for emotive purposes, and Neill just looks pissed off in most scenes.  Richard Attenborough, who plays the eccentric owner of the park, fully delves into his character’s quirkiness.  Quite simply, this movie does not rely on the performances of the humans to push it along—that honor rests solely with the CGI created dinosaurs. 

Final analysis: extraordinary visuals; ridiculous plot; and, lackluster cast.  One out of three isn’t necessarily bad, but it is definitely not good, either. 

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1900 (Novecento) 1976 **

 

So this film is really long—really long: 317 minutes.  I’m not always opposed to films that take an inordinate amount of time to watch. I liked Shoah (1985), War and Peace (1967), and Fanny and Alexander (1983). But then there are films like director Bernardo Bertolucci’s 1900 (1976), which seem to drag on for way too long.  Granted, Bertolucci was working for a producer (Alberto Grimaldi) who locked him out of the editing room, but someone had to shoot all of that footage in the first place, now didn’t they?  There are two versions of this movie, one with a run time of 245-minutes and another with 317.  I had the not so pleasure of watching the NC-17 version which runs 317—graphic violence, nudity, and explicit sex abounds.

The story begins in 1900 when two boys are born on the same day at the Berlinghieri plantation in Emilia, Italy.  Alfredo Berlinghieri (Robert De Niro) is the grandson of the padrone (Burt Lancaster), while Olmo Dalcò (Gerard Depardieu) is the illegitimate grandson of the plantation’s foreman (Sterling Hayden). Despite their social positions the boys become friends, and the movie traces the unlikely pairing’s intersecting lives until 1945 (Liberation Day). Along the way we learn that Alfredo is a bit of a coward and Olmo is nobly heroic, but that doesn’t mean that one is more likable than the other.  When Olmo becomes involved with the Socialist movement there is a visible darkness to his personality; whereas, Alfredo always seems more accepting of others’ oddities (he idolizes his gay uncle [Werner Bruhns] and marries a crazy woman [Dominique Sanda]). The complexity of Alfredo and Olmo’s friendship is the best thing about the entire film.

Of course we couldn’t have an Italian movie set between 1900-1945 that didn’t examine the rise of the Fascists and the would-be liberation of the Italian peasants.  Bertolucci’s political metaphor is heavy-handed, and, at times, difficult to stomach (he obviously had certain leanings).  His decision to make the psychotic and sadistic overseer of the Berlinghieri plantation the face of Fascism was telling. Naming said overseer Attila (Donald Sutherland) and pairing him with a woman as deranged as him (Laura Betti) was just an added bonus.  Sutherland plays his character in such an over-the-top manner that it borders on camp.  I blame Bertolucci for this—a better director would have reigned in this cartoonish performance.

Still, the production values of 1900 are top-notch. As usual Ennio Morricone creates a memorable score and soundtrack, and cinematographer Vittorio Storaro exquisitely captures the Italian countryside.  For the most part the set designs and costumes are period appropriate, but something happened in the editing room—not enough cuts!  Franco Arcalli and Grimaldi did a great disservice by not trimming a lot of excess nonsense.  I don’t know if I can blame them alone, though, as it was Bertolucci who thought it was a good idea to shoot prolonged scenes with full frontal male nudity, and, most absurdly, a scene where Lancaster attempts to get an erection so he can molest a peasant girl.  Oh, and lest I forget the scenes where Sutherland kills both a cat and a young boy.  Did Bertolucci really have to shoot such graphic scenes of depravity to illustrate that Attila was a mean bastard?  Ick!

Besides the friendship of Alfredo and Olmo, what I liked most about 1900 is that I got to see Depardieu when he was handsome.  It sounds a bit shallow, but since he has now morphed into a bloated old Frenchmen, it is nice to remember that he used to be a somewhat good looking man. 

 

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