How about a few films before the end of June.

Horizon: An American Saga, Chapter 1 (2024), directed by Kevin Costner. Saga indeed. This three-hour film meanders along telling at least three stories, moving us from Kansas, to Wyoming, to Montana. It tells the story of a non-existent town named Horizon that attracts settlers of various stripes sometime in the mid 1860s. The scenery is magnificent and the echoes of earlier films such as Stagecoach, The Searchers, Cheyenne Autumn, and others float through the film. The acting is passable from Abbey Lee’s Marigold, the hooker whose heart may not be all gold, to Sienna Miller’s Frances Kittredge, the newly widowed mother trying to re-establish a life for her and her daughter, to Sam Worthington’s stoic Lt. Trent Gephart, to harried wagon train master Luke Wilson as Matthew van Leyden, to upright Danny Huston as Col. Albert Houghton, to taciturn Kevin Costner as Ellison Hayes, mysterious prospector and loner, and quite a few others. The storylines, however, are muddled, and the ending with shots that move us forward to Chapter 2 is confusing. Whether everything will finally come together in this four chapter saga remains to be seen, although we may never see chapters 3 and 4.What we have in chapter 1 is good to look at, and there are intriguing and engaging moments, such as the opening raid on the settlement that wants to be Horizon, or the interaction between Hayes and a bad guy as they walk toward the cabin where Marigold waits with a child not hers. The depiction of peoples both indigenous and white is raw. I am glad I saw the film, although it is not completely satisfying or successful.

 

Ça Sent La Coupe (2017), directed by Patrice Sauve. The film is set in the 2009-2010 hockey season when the Montreal Canadiens, improbably, went to the conference finals. The focus is on a small group of buddies who gather in Max’s apartment (Max is played by Louis-Jose Houde) to watch most of Les Canadiens’ games. Max has left his job as an engineer to manage his father’s hockey memorabilia and souvenir shop. The plot turns on the moment Max’s girlfriend Julie (Emilie Bibeau) walks out and leaves him. Max is in turmoil. He is still grieving the loss of his parents and now Julie leaves. His life is upended, and his friends begin to worry about his retreat into depression. The film celebrates friendship, hockey, the Montreal Canadiens. It also looks at relationships and grief. It brings to weighty themes (grief and loss) a delicate touch. The humour is attractive. The characters are engaging. I did think we would see more of the kid who covets a signed Saku Koivu card. This kid’s back story is intriguing, but it remains way in the background. For a fan such as I, the film appeals. Now only if we could have that smell of the cup come true again. The cup, by the way, is the one named after Lord Stanley.

 

The Power (1968), directed by Byron Haskin and produced by George Pal. This film has the look of a George Pal film, the colour and the special effects. It tells a story of telekinesis. A group of scientists work in a Human endurance centre, experimenting with people to see their limits of endurance. This is part of the space program in America. The plot concerns this group – six people – one of whom has the power of telekinesis and who begins to kill the other members of the group. Noteworthy are the rather daring, for the time, moments: the bulging eyes and protruding tongue of the deceased Dr. Hallson (Arthur O’Connell) and the attempted seduction of Dr. Melnicker (Nehemiah Persoff) by a flirtatious convention girl (played by Miss Beverly Hills). Perhaps I should note that Dr. Melnicker is dead, as the seductress learns once she place a kiss on his still lips. We have an assortment of players from Aldo Ray’s sinister gas station attendant to Barbara Nichol’s slatternly roadhouse waitress to Earl Holliman’s scientist to Michael Rennie’s government inspector. Suzanne Pleshette and George Hamilton round out the cast. Hamilton plays Dr. Tanner, head of the Human Endurance Committee, and our protagonist. He is on the trail of the mysterious Adam Hart. The film has elements of the murder mystery, science fiction, and romantic comedy and these elements do not mesh successfully. We even have weirdness, as in the scene with the elderly couple in the desert. There are some striking moments such as Dr. Tanner’s merry-go-round ride or his hallucinatory vision of his own decapitated head. What we have here is a precursor for David Cronenberg’s Scanners.

 

Scorching Fury (1952), directed by Rick Freers. I am not sure I should bother with a notice of this film. However, should you want an example of a film that strives for an arthouse look and fails miserably, then this film is for you. Take for example, the bad guy Ward Canepa (Sherwood Price). For two thirds of the film, we only see his boots and striped trousers and gun belt. We hear his cackling after he does something ugly. Just why we do not see his face until just before the end is a mystery to me. He is not someone we have met and now when we see him we can say, oh gosh look who it is. Nope. His appearance is kept from us for no reason whatsoever. Then we have numerous shots of cavalry and Native Americans taken from earlier films, notably Stagecoach, that have nothing to do with the rest of the story. Nothing. As for the story, it unfolds in a series of flashbacks. You know, a slicing of the narrative that is artsy. Right. Then we have the acting. Hmmm. Richard Devon as Kirk Flamer is probably the most familiar face. The rest of the cast will not be familiar. So much of this film just hangs there without resolution: the cavalry/Natives conflict, the small group in the desert without water, the bad guy who only appears from the waist down. It there is something noteworthy here, then it is the fact that just about all of this film takes place on location. I guess location shooting was cheaper than building sets.

 

Once Upon a Time in China (1991), directed by Tsui Hark. This is the first of five films in the series, and it tells of a changing China at the end of the nineteenth century. Our protagonist is martial arts expert and doctor of traditional medicine, Wong Fei-hung (Jet Li). The film is sprawling and lavish, and the fight choreography is first rate, especially the jaw-dropping fight between Wong and Iron Vest Yim (Yen Shi-kwan), his martial arts rival. The film is a mixture of comedy, romance, adventure, and historical recovery of a troubed time in China. Both American and British imperial forces are trying to maintain a foothold of power, and one Chinese gang, the Shaho gang, assists the American Jackson (Jonathan Isgar) in his human trafficking enterprise. Men ae shipped off to work mines and railroads, and women are shipped of as prostitutes, all at their own cost. As the story unfolds, Aunt 13 (Rosamund Kwan), Wong’s love interest, is captured by the villains who intend to send her to America. Of course, Wong and his helpers rescue her and others rudely ripped from their daily lives by villains out to make money. Perhaps not up there with Yimou Zhang’s martial arts films, Once Upon a Time in China is well worth seeing. The title places it with a couple of other films with similar titles, all dealing with a country in changing times.

 

Tenebre (1982), directed by Dario Argento. This exercise in giallo cinema impresses with its fluid camera and architectural complexity. The acting may be overblown, but the narrative is as compulsive as the most intricate of murder mysteries. Here the murderer (well – spoiler - two murderers) we see lurking about in the shadows, his gloved hands with straight razor or knife or axe. It turns out that the murderer takes his cue from Peter Neal’s (Anthony Franciosa) latest mystery novel, Tenebrae; he sets out to rid the world, or Rome at least, of deviants and perverts. Accordingly, he murders two lesbians and a shoplifter. Mr. Neal finds himself caught up in the mystery and he sets out to discover the identity of the murderer. I am leaving much out here, but suffice to say that the film is obsessed with seeing, with the voyeuristic perspective that we have in film makers such as Hitchcock or Brian de Palma. Argento’s sense of colour and composition make the film interesting to look at, intensifying the theme of looking the narrative incorporates. The scenes of murder are, as we expect from giallo films, bloody, perhaps excessively so. The section that deals with a fierce Doberman is especially vicious. References to Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles” thread through the proceedings. Mr. Neal and his young driver Gianni (Christian Borromeo) serve as the Holmes/Watson pair, although here Watson’s fate is rather dire. We also have John Saxon turning up in a hat he is fond of. 

Nosferatu (2024), directed by Robert Eggers. This remake of F. W. Murnau’s 1922 Nosferatu: A Symphonie of Horror, manages to give us visual echoes of Murnau’s film and Werner Herzog’s 1979 version with Klaus Kinski made up to resemble Max Schreck. Here, however, the Count Orlok character (Bill Skarsgard), although dressed like Schreck’s Orlok, looks more like Vlad the Impaler thank Schreck’s or Kinski’s Orlok. The film, for all its earnestness in giving us a version of Dracula, offers little that is new, aside perhaps from the look and sound of Skarsgard’s Orlok. Willem DeFoe, who played Max Shreck in Shadow of the Vampire (2000), turns up here as Professor Albert Eberhart von Franz, this film’s version of Van Helsing. The story unfolds as we would expect. No surprises. The distinguishing aspects of the film are its lighting and camera work that give the proceedings a suitably brooding, gothic atmosphere. Costumes and sets are good. The focus here is on the Mina Harker character, here named Ellen Hutter (Lily-Rose Depp). Also noteworthy is Simon McBurney as Knock, this film’s version of Renfield. All in all, a film that pays homage to both Murnau and Herzog, but does not outdo them.

 

Parallel Mothers (2021), directed by Pedro Almodovar. With his characteristic colors and décor, Almodovar here weaves a story that lets us know the past informs the present. Past absences, past choices, past events political and otherwise, make their mark on the present. This is the case for both of the protagonists here, two women who meet while giving birth. One is in her forties, Janis (Penelope Cruz) and the other is still a minor, Ana (Milena Smit). Both are single mothers, and Janis comes from a lineage of single mothers. They bond and before too long find themselves living together. Meanwhile Janis has managed to have her child’s father, the forensic archaeologist Arturo (Israel Elejalde), arrange to exhume a mass grave from the Civil War. This grave has the body of Janis’s grandfather. While Janis (named for Janis Joplin, by the way!) seeks to give her grandfather a proper burial, Ana deals with her mother who places her theatrical career above family. Then there is the matter of each woman’s child. Here the film reminded me of Born in Absurdistan (1999), although the two films are quite different in tone and focus. Almodovar’s film is beautifully crafted and sympathetically drawn to its characters. We have no villains here, just human beings with all their faults, their hopes, their anxieties, and their relationships messy and loving. This is a poetic look at motherhood, family, and human complications.

 A few Spaghetti westerns for May.

Long Days of Hate, aka This Man Can’t Die (1968), directed by Gianfranco Baldanello. This one stars Guy Madison as the cigar-smoking hero. As Spaghetti westerns go, this one is pretty poor. The acting is awkward, the costumes laughable, and the story familiar. The sound track is good, courtesy of Amedeo Tommasi, and the action scenes are passable. As for that familiar story, Martin Benson (Madison) is an undercover agent for the cavalry, out to thwart baddies who are delivering guns and booze to the Native people. The bad guys discover his betrayal and kill his parents. His siblings, two sisters and two brothers, escape the bad guys and repair to a furnished cave somewhere. They bring with them one of the bad guys who has been badly wounded. This bad guy proves not to be a bad guy, but another undercover agent. The head bad guy is courting Martin’s eldest sister Susan (Lucienne Bridou), but when he is revealed as the head bad guy, Susan is revulsed. Then we have brother Daniel Benson (Steve Merrick, a Will Hutchins lookalike), and sister Jenny (Anna Liotti) who is raped by one of the bad guys and loses her voice for a while. One scene in which the saloon girls battle with the baddies has quite a bit of nudity. The bad guys are really bad, even killing two elderly innocent people for no reason. Finally, we have a Raymond Hatton lookalike who has a short ladder on his saddle to help him climb down from his horse (and up again when need be). All is all, this is not a Spaghetti western you need to see.

 

Find a Place to Die (1968), directed by A. Ascot (Giuliano Carnimeo). This Spaghetti western is a remake of the Gary Cooper film, Garden of Evil (1954), and it has the feel of a 1950s western. It even has the requisite bathing scene in which the female lead finds a mountain stream in which to bath sans habille. Jeffrey Hunter has the Gary Cooper role here; he is Joe Collins, an American living below the border and running guns to the Mexican outlaw Chato (Mario Dardinelli). A young wife, Lisa Martin (Pascale Petit), whose husband is trapped in the Sierras comes seeking help to rescue her husband. Of course, Joe, and three other ne’er-do-wells, accept the lady’s offer. Mostly, they are interested in the lady and her gold. These five pick up a sixth member on their way to the Sierras. This is the preacher and lecher, Reverend Riley (Adolfo Lastretti). Arriving at the mine, they find Mrs. Martin’s husband deceased. He has been tortured. Torture appears more than once in this film. Anyway, the gold is gone, and so this little band of fortune seekers returns from whence they came only to find Chato and his gang have taken over the small village. A siege takes place. The bad guys die, and things end as we expect them to end. This is an efficiently made Spaghetti western, but aside from its interest in torture, it has little to distinguish it. The plot is overly familiar.

 

Adios, Sabata (1970), directed by Gianfranco Parolini (Frank Kramer). Mark this one down as a guilty pleasure. It has wicked costumes, especially for the Sabata character (Yul Brynner), an elaborate firearm with a magazine that holds a number of bullets and one cigar, a Morricone-style soundtrack courtesy of Bruno Nicolai, a cast of eccentrics including one fellow who performs more than one the flamenco dance of death, and many tumbling and squawking bodies. As Spaghetti westerns go, put this one in the parodic category. Like Guy Madison in Long Days of Hate, Yul Brenner often lights a cigar but never smokes one. His black fringed, open chested, low-slung gun-belted, and over the shoulder blanket, along with bell bottoms make for a strange and uncomfortable-looking costume. His taciturn performance might remind us of his robotic character in Westworld. The plot involves a gold shipment and a number of gangs looking to get their hands on it. The backdrop is revolutionary Mexico under Maximillian, but the political theme is not at the forefront of this film in the way it is in a number of other spaghetti westerns. Parolini’s tongue is in his cheek, and this film takes nothing seriously. There are two other Sabata films, both with Lee van Cleef as Sabata, and in this film Brynner was initially to play a fellow named Indio Black. The character’s name was changed to Sabata to help sell the film.

 

A Genius, Two Partners and a Dupe (1975) Damiano Damiani. As comedic Spaghetti westerns go, this one has its charms. It clearly draws on films such as My Name is Nobody, For a Few Dollars More, Once Upon a Time in the West, Stagecoach, The Searchers, the Trinity films, and more. The musical score by Ennio Morricone follows suit and references earlier films. The cast too has its charms with Terence Hill, Robert Charlebois, Patrick McGoohan, and the perky Miou-Miou. Even Klaus Kinski turns up for a short while near the beginning of the film. The plot has something to do with the theft of $300,000, an Indian-hating colonel (McGoohan), the return of land to the Native people, the building of a railroad, and other stuff that bewilders me. The characters have names such as Joe Thanks (Hill), Steam Engine Bill (Charlebois), Jacky Roll (Piero Vida), and Village Idiot (Gerard Boucaron). The action, at times, plays like a Looney Tunes cartoon. The script is laced with silly remarks (well funny remarks). The landscape continuously shows us Monument Valley, although the film was shot in Spain. If there is anything serious going on here, it is in the focus on the Native people and their unjust displacement from the land. Damiani’s portrayal of Native people hovers between serious and ridiculous. This film can take its place alongside a few other comedic Spaghetti westerns worth watching, Corbucci’s The White, the Yellow, and the Black (aka Samurai), Tonino Valerii’s My Name is Nobody (a film with Leone’s imprint), and Enzo Barboni’s My Name is Trinity. A final note: the voices in this film (some dubbed, but not all) are strange to say the least. Squeaky and high-pitched barely communicates this strangeness.

Get Mean (1975), directed by Ferdinando Baldi. While watching this film, I kept thinking of Sergio Corbucci’s Samurai (aka The White, the Yellow, and the Black (1975). Both films are late Spaghetti westerns trying hard to be different, both try for humour, and both deliver strangeness in abundance. One succeeds, one does not. Get Mean does not. The opening sequence tells us all we need to know. The film begins with a horse racing through a barren landscape, dragging someone behind in the dust. This someone proves to be the Stranger (Tony Anthony). Why he is tied behind the horse remains unknown. But when the horse stops at an out of the way run down place, the people inside appear to be waiting for the Stranger’s arrival. They offer him $10,000 to accompany a Princess to Spain. He demands $50,000. So begins a film in which our hero not only gets dragged by a horse, but he also finds himself hanged upside down, chased by a rampaging bull, pummeled by invisible ghosts, roasted on a spit with a lemon in his mouth, all the time contending with what appear to be Vikings, Moors, a Shakespeare-quoting hunch-back who fancies himself Richard 111, and a gay fellow who is forced to eat a huge amount of mashed potatoes in order to make him disgorge a message the Stranger has forced him to swallow. Then we have the turret thing with the cannons that revolve 360 degrees. Then we have the bit where the Stranger disappears in a puff of smoke only to reappear as a black person. All of this has racist and misogynistic overtones. All of this struggles vainly to be coherent. All of this struggles vainly to be amusing. My advice: choose Corbucci’s Samurai instead.

 Just some films from the 1930s, including a couple by Dorothy Arzner.

Devil and The Deep (1932), directed by Marion Gering. This film boasts Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, Charles Laughton, and the inimitable Tallulah Bankhead. It also boasts a submarine that sinks to the bottom of the ocean (Oh wait, to the bottom of the deep blue sea); inside are a number of sailors, along with an axe-wielding Laughton and Ms. Bankhead and Cooper. Oh, and above water, the action takes place in some faraway exotic place where men dance and swing and night brings alluring goings-on. The plot hardly matters in this over-heated melodrama, but I can tell you this: Laughton as submarine commander Charles Sturm brings a lot of Sturm und Drang to his role of the jealous and psychotic husband, while Gary Cooper stands around wondering how he got here. As for Cary Grant, he appears for about 10 minutes and yet he receives third billing in the opening credits. Ms. Bankhead performs the abused wife well enough. As for the bit in the sunken submarine, this is noteworthy and engaging for being preposterous. The cinematography by Charles Lang is fine, but the sets and toy boat invite us to chuckle and we do. As a pre-code production, the film does offer us the following bit: a woman in a nightclub says to Diana (Bankhead), “You probably heard me say that I’d very much like to spank you!” In reply, Diana raises an eyebrow and says, “I should imagine that few things would give you greater pleasure.”

 

Hot Saturday (1932), directed by William A. Seiter. This pre-code outing from Paramount has Cary Grant as a rich playboy, Romer Sheffield, who has a summer home on the lake in a small community. He has his eye on local bank clerk, Ruth Brock (Nancy Carroll). So too does another bank employee, Connie Billop (Edward Woods). Then we have local boy returning home, Bill Fadden (Randolph Scott). Bill too has eyes for Ruth. When a local gal sees Ruth returning home in the middle of the night, driven by Romer’s chauffeur, the rumour mill begins working and soon Ruth is the bad girl of town and fired from her job. The film has one daring scene in a cave when Bill, who has found Ruth passed out in a ravine and soaking wet, carries Ruth to his cave (he is staying there for work as a geologist – or something like that) and undresses her while she sleeps. Another scene has Ruth wrestle the underwear off her sister Annie (Rose Coghlan). The film deals with risqué subjects. The actors are fine, Nancy Carroll reminding me of Claudette Colbert. Grady Sutton (someone I know as Og Oggilby from The Bank Dick - 1940) also turns up. The location shooting by cinematographer Arthur Todd is impressive. As pre-code films go, this one is pretty nifty.

 

Merrily We Go to Hell (1932), directed by Dorothy Arzner. When, at her wedding to Jerry (Frederic March), Joan (Sylvia Sidney) discovers the ring Jerry has placed on her finger is the end of a corkscrew, she should realize the mistake she has made. This is a film about alcoholism, patriarchy, money and inequality, and open marriage. This is strong stuff for 1932. Arzner brings a sure hand to her examination of posh living late in the prohibition era. The film’s credits play on a theatre marquee and the lights that dazzle on the edge of the marquee serve as the merry signal of Hell. Going to Hell merrily, the people we meet suffer from a system that demands success and success demands performing specific roles, roles that set out what each gender may or may not do. Both Jerry and Joan struggle of free themselves from societal constraints, and this struggle leaves them with little but each other. When they first meet, Jerry sings a wee ditty to Joan: “First she gave me gingerbread and then she gave me cake; and then she gave me crème de menthe for meeting her at the gate.” Joan gives Jerry gingerbread and cake, but he finds the crème de menthe himself and fails to meet her at the gate. For much of the film, Jerry is inebriated and he is usually late or does not appear at all. The portrait of marriage here is not bright and cheerful. Quite the opposite. Arzner, the only woman director in 1930s Hollywood, offers a devastating look at marriage. The acting is nuanced, sharp, and believable. This is as good as it gets in pre-code Hollywood.

 

Christopher Strong (1933), directed by Dorothy Arzner. Perhaps not the best of Arzner’s films, Christopher Strong nevertheless has some amazing moments. The most famous of these moments occurs when Katharine Hepburn as Lady Cynthia Darrington enters a room dressed as a moth. She moves toward Sir Christopher Strong (Colin Clive) like a moth to a flame. Sir Christopher is a politician and a happily married man with an adult daughter, Monica (Helen Chandler, also seen as Lucy in Browning’s Dracula). Cynthia and Christopher’s affair is what controls the narrative. Sir Christopher’s wife Elaine (Billie Burke – yes Glinda from Oz) remains steadfast if sorrowful at the wandering of her husband. Another amazing moment occurs when Cynthia and Christopher make love. The love scene takes place before our eyes, but in a remarkably delicate manner. The camera stays on Cynthia’s ringed finger while the lovers talk just off screen. For 1933, this was a daring scene. What most impresses, however, is Hepburn wearing her aviatrix clothes, her jodhpurs, her voluminous coat, her long buttoned gown, and so on. The story has to do with marriage, fidelity, infidelity, independence, and the vagaries of the human heart. Of course, Cynthia and Christopher’s love cannot end well. Echoes of Amelia Earhart. This was Hepburn’s second film and first as lead; she carries the film.

Hôtel du Nord (1938), directed by Marcel Carne. Opening with a dinner scene celebrating a first communion and ending with a street scene of dancing and music on Bastille Day, this film takes us into the lives of the people who live and work in the titular hotel. This hotel is situated by the

Canal St. Martin in Paris, although the whole film is shot on a set, a magnificent set. Between the opening and closing festivities, we have two young lovers who attempt suicide together, a woman of the streets who switches partners, her pimp who is chased by a couple of gangsters, the lock operator whose wife cheats on him, the two owners of the hotel, and an assortment of other members of the common people. These various people give us romance, tragedy, comedy, and the stuff of life lived well. Carne’s fluid camera and carefully nuanced lighting and thoughtful angles work to deliver the famous poetic realism. The film begins and ends with two lovers, yes the same two who attempted double suicide, seated on the same park bench giving the film a neatly circular construction. Among the cast are such luminaries as Arletty (playing Raymonde the street walker), Annabella (playing the young lover Renee), Jean-Pierre Aumont (the other young lover Pierre), and Louis Jouvet (playing the pimp Edmond). Jouvet’s performance is especially noteworthy as this callous low life manages to redeem himself finding love, an impossible love, but love nonetheless. This is a film not to be missed.

Murders in the Rue Morgue (1932), directed by Robert Florey. This is one of the first round of sound horror features by Universal Studios and the cinematographer is Karl Freund who served as lighting person on The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. The Caligari connection will let you know that Murders in the Rue Morgue looks good, as good as any of the more famous flicks from that studio such as Dracula and Frankenstein. In fact, the sets here just may be more impressive. The plot, loosely based on the Poe story, has demented Dr. Mirakle (Bela Lugosi) trying to find a woman whose blood is suitable for mating with Erik, the gorilla. Yes, you heard that right. Mirakle believes the mixing of human and ape blood will prove evolution. He also believes he communicates with Erik and that Erik desires a wife. The film has echoes of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and even King Kong. Most impressive to me is the good – or mad – doctor’s laboratory that looks as if it had been designed by Rube Goldberg. We also have a fellow named Leon Waycoff playing our young hero, Pierre Dupin. Waycoff later becomes the more recognizable Leon Ames. Charles Gemora (uncredited) plays Erik, and plays him convincingly. The film has style. For sure.

 

The Sphinx (1933), directed by Phil Rosen. This is a Monogram cheapie, but it manages to maintain interest. In short, we have a series of murders, a couple of which have witnesses who spoke with the murderer. Both witnesses identify the murderer as a wealthy philanthropist who happens to be a deaf mute. The mystery here is how this person who has medical doctors certify that he cannot speak because his vocal cords have been sliced can get away with the murders. He fools ace reporter Jerry Crane (Sheila Terry) who takes a shine to the accused but exonerated Mr. Breem (Lionel Atwill). Another reporter and Jerry’s boyfriend at the outset of things, Jack Burton (Theodore Newton), is convinced that the suave Mr. Breem is, in fact, the culprit. Along for the ride are familiar faces such as Paul Hurst, Hooper Atchley, Paul Fix, Ernie Adams, and a shaven and uncredited George ‘Gabby’ Hayes. This is one of Monogram’s better efforts. Efficient and quite well scripted.

 

The Crime of Dr. Crespi (1935), directed by John Auer. Based on the Edgar Allan Poe story, "The Premature Burial," The Crime of Dr. Crespi is a creepy study of obsession. Filmed with an eye for expressionistic lighting and angles, Dr. Crespi stars Erich von Stroheim as the titular doctor who has taken to drink as he obsesses over the loss of his loved Estelle Ross (Harriet Russell) to his rival, Dr. Stephen Ross (John Bohn). Fate allows him to exact a fiendish revenge on this rival, and Crespi arranges for Ross to be buried alive. Of course things do not work out as Crespi hopes. For one thing, another doctor, Dr. Thomas (Dwight Frye – yes Renfield in Dracula) discovers Crespi’s skullduggery. Thomas and another colleague dig up the buried Ross, and low and behold, Ross sits up, then walks about. Oh dear. Soon the walking dead confronts Crespi. You know what happens, don’t you. Perhaps not. The film ends on Crespi’s terms, although these terms are rather dire. All in all, this is a creepy, effective little film. Erich von Stroheim is a nasty piece of work, snapping and even yelling at the people he works with. The atmosphere here is impressive. Films like this demonstrate that the low budgets of Poverty Row need not be an impediment to quality flicks.

 

Condemned to Live (1935), directed by Frank R. Strayer. This low budget vampire flick aspires to the look and feel of Universal’s Dracula, but does not quite make it. What it has going for it is the presence of a sympathetic vampire. Professor Paul Kristan (Ralph Morgan) is a local hero for his good work among the poor of a village, wherever this village may be. Sadly, years ago his mother, while in deepest Africa for some reason, was bitten by a large bat while sojourning in a cave. The result is the strange affliction her son suffers when he is an adult. The stress of overwork produces terrible headaches, which in turn lead to a loss of consciousness during which Paul becomes a horrible vampire. We have something of a Jekyll and Hyde situation, although Paul does not know what happens when he blacks out. Of course, we have a young women, Marguerite Mane (Maxine Doyle), who is betrothed to the good professor. She will marry him out of admiration, despite being very much attracted to local boy David (Russell Gleason) who desires to marry her. And of course, as things transpire, the fiendish nature of the Professor nearly does poor Marguerite in. Through all this, the loyal servant, hunchback Zan (Mischa Auer), tried to protect his master, the good professor, even going so far as to falsely confess to murders of a few local people. The villagers assume Zan is the monster. Things work out as you might expect. The good professor is played by Ralph Morgan, brother of Frank Morgan (see The Wizard of Oz). The plot, then, has some novelty, but the sets and camera work are pedestrian, at best. The studio from which this film comes is Invincible Pictures. Invincible indeed.

 

 Before March comes to an end, a few more films.

Daisies (1966), directed by Vera Chytilova. This is a zany surrealistic example of the Czech New Wave. Two young women take note that the world has gone bad. As the credits role, we see shots of bombs and devastation caused by war and toppling buildings, letting us see just how bad the world has gone. In response to this bad state of things, the young women decide to be bad. They set out on a wild adventure into excess, especially excessive eating. Their hedonism knows no bounds. Neither does the cinematography that jumps about, just as the women jump about, and changes colour as often as the women change clothes or make-up. Some of this reminded me of Bunuel’s Le Chien Andalou, although there are touches of Pasolini and Parajanov here too. I also detected Chaplin as an influence. Without a plot, but with much bravado, this film explores both the excesses of the modern state and cinema itself. This is not a film to be taken lightly; it demands attention and thought. It was banned and Chytilova was not allowed to work for nine years. This ought to indicate just how effective this film is in its critique of state control.

 

La Bestia Debe Morir (The Beast Must Die, 1952), directed by Roman Vinoly Barreto. This Argentinian noir has all the elements of a whodunit combined with the edge and visual appeal of film noir. The story is based on Ray Blake’s detective novel published in 1938. The plot is straight forward. Jorge Rattery (Guillermo Battaglia) is a rat of a human being who abuses his wife and his step-son and just about anyone else he can abuse. Soon after the film opens, he unknowingly drinks poison and dies. Who is responsible for this murder? As we begin to unravel the story behind the murder in flashback, we see that Jorge was a hit and run driver, having struck and killed a young boy one wet dark night. The boy’s father, a man named Frank Carter, who writes mysteries under the name of Felix Lane (Narciso Ibanez Menta), decides to seek out the man who killed his son and murder him. Things move along briskly as Felix Lane meets the killer’s sister-in-law, falls in love, finds himself involved with the sister-in-law’s family, becomes friendly with the beast of a murderer, and then briefly becomes a suspect in the beast’s murder. He has, however, a solid alibi. Who, then, did the deed? No, it was not the sister-in-law who has suffered the advances of the beast, Jorge, and who was in the car that fatal night. There are several other candidates, but what interests us more are the relationships between people. Perhaps the most powerful relationship is between Felix and the young step-son of Jorge, Ronnie Hershey (Humberto Balado). Ronnie reminds us, and Felix, of Felix’s deceased son. This is an impressive film with some impressive lighting and camera work.

 

Los tallos amargos (The Bitter Stems, 1956). This Argentinian noir opens with the clock sounding midnight as two men prepare to board a train. Thus begins the move to a perfect murder. This film has several features of noir: voice over, analepsis and prolepsis, cynicism, entrapment, a mysterious, if not fatal, woman, shadows and some dark nights. This is a noir without a villain in the usual sense. Oh, Alfredo Gaspar (Carlos Cores) does commit a murder, but he is really not such a bad fellow, just somewhat slow to grasp things. He is a poor schmuck of a journalist who embarks on a questionable venture with a new-found friend, the illegal immigrant Liudas (Vassili Lambrinos). Alfredo begins to think that his friend is out to con him as well as the customers the two of them are duping. This leads him to carry out an impetuous and extremely foolish act of murder. He buries the corpse, along with a number of seeds the dead man was carrying. From these seeds grow plants that are Alfredo’s undoing. He kneels in front of an oncoming locomotive. The end! This is all very dark and impressive. The camera work is effective, with lines of shadows that communicate threateningly early in the film and nice contrasts of dark and rainy nights with bright sunlit days. That opening with the signaling of midnight says it all. Midnight comes as the stroke of doom. Did I say “perfect murder”? Well yes, if only poor Alfredo knew anything about agronomy.

Death of a Cyclist (1955), directed by J. A. Bardem. This film brings together Hollywood noir melodrama with Italian neo-realism in order to expose the failings of the social system under the Franco government in Spain. Behind most of the action here is the war, the Spanish civil war and the larger European war a decade ago. The noir elements include a hero caught in a fraught situation, a femme fatale, an arch art critic cynical to a degree, and some of the lighting and camera work we would expect. Then we have the neo-realist parts of the film, shots of poverty and dilapidation, kids in the street, a city divided by wealth, and intense close-ups. The editing is clever and sly pairing shots deftly to bring out both emotion and meaning. For example, the cutting between gazes of the lovers as if they were in the same room, although she is actually with her husband and her lover is by himself in another place. Such cutting reaches its witty best when the lover, Juan, exhales cigarette smoke in one room/cut to Maria Jose, his mistress, brushes smoke away from her husband’s cigarette. We also have the pairing of wealthy children in their finery with the street kids struggling to survive. There is much more to admire in this film, but suffice to say the cyclist has the last word – as it were.

Beirut, Oh, Beirut (1975), directed by Maroun Bagdadi. This film reminded me of the Godard films of the mid to late 1960s, although the tone is more dark and ominous, as if something dire is on the horizon. What was on the horizon was the revolution in Lebanon that took place just as this film was being shot. The film deals with the aftermath of the Arab/Israeli War and takes place in 1970 or thereabouts. The film follows four characters trying to come to terms with the state of things after that war, the turmoil that runs through the country. The editing is rough and abrupt and renders the narrative in what I might call, stealing a term from Burroughs, a cut-up style. Events are not entirely clear, although the gist of things is very clear. Revolution is in the air, and so is an anxiety that things will not work out well. The film is prescient. As the title might indicate, this is a lament for a city and for a country.

Canoa: A Shameful Memory (1976), directed by Felipe Cazals.  “1968 was an auspicious year. The Vietnam War increased in intensity with both the Tet Offensive and the My Lai Massacre, both Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy are assassinated, Pierre Trudeau becomes Prime Minister of Canada, students take to the streets in France and elsewhere, the Democratic Convention in Chicago fosters anti-war riots and results in the trials of the Chicago Seven. In other words, this was a tumultuous year.” This is a short passage from a book of mine coming out next year. I might have added the murders of four university workers in San Miguel Canoa, a small village in Mexico near the inactive volcano, La Malinche. This event is reimagined in Felipe Cazals’s film, Canoa: A Shameful Memory. Made just eight years after the event, Canoa is an intricate retelling visceral in its brutality. The film begins something like a travelogue, then has touches of documentary, and finally devolves into a horrific re-enactment of the riot in the small village, the villagers looking like the swarm of villagers in a film such as Frankenstein. The people carry torches, machetes, guns, sticks, anything that can deliver pain. Seemingly behind these events is the local priest (Enrique Lucero) who whips up the anger of the villagers by claiming that students in the university in nearby Puebla are atheists and communists bent on destroying the good Christian life. This priest controls everything in the small village and exacts money and crops from the poor; he sports a pair of dark glasses, making him look the part of a mob boss. Well, he is a mob boss, after a fashion. Juxtaposing the cool reaction of the press, the buoyancy of the five youths planning to hike La Malinche, the wariness of the village people, and the observations of a local field worker, the film exposes the corruption of a system that thrives on mind control and the subordination of people through with holding education. This is a powerful film. 

 Let's begin March with a few moors, mostly by Robert Siodmak.

The Killing (1956), directed by Stanley Kubrik. This late noir and early Kubrik is a doozy. Sharp contrast lighting, strange angles, dislocations in time, voice over, dark rooms and corridors, a fatal woman, grill work and bars and other premonitions of disaster, a nearly perfect plan, and a great performance from Elisha Cook, Jr. make this a noir to remember. The ending is especially memorable in its lassitude, its last weary sigh that says, "what the hell, the world is a dark place and it is no use trying to turn on the lights." The film's title might refer to the "killing" the main character makes at the racetrack or it might refer to the mayhem that takes place in the apartment where the crooks meet after the robbery. Then again, it may refer to the whole kit and caboodle.

 

The Suspect (1944), directed by Robert Siodmak. This early noir set in 1902 England has Charles Laughton as unassuming Kind Mr. Philip Marshall, a clerk in a tobacco store whose wife is a harridan of the highest pitch. By accident, Philip meets Mary (Ella Raines), and the two become close friends. As unlikely as it seems, the beautiful Mary falls in love with the sensitive Philip. Philip asks for a divorce from his wife, but she refuses. What’s a poor tobacconist to do? Mrs. Marshall (Rosalind Ivan) tumbles down the stairs at home and dies. Philip is now free to mary Mary, and he does so. Life is good. Then inebriate neighbour and layabout Mr. Simmons (Henry Daniell) becomes a thorn when he sets out to blackmail Philip. Philip has to dispose of Mr. Simmons. Meanwhile, Inspector Huxley (Stanley Ridges) of Scotland Yard is on the case, Columbo-style. For Philip and Mary, Canada beckons. Will they make it? Siodmak handles the night time scenes in London well with murky shadows and brooding fog. He also uses interiors well, the stairway, the sofa, the cane wrack. I failed to mention that Philip is kind to children and animals. He is not a murdering type. Nevertheless, he finds himself tangled up in shadow and fog.

 

Robert Siodmak is a director of several top-notch noirs: e.g. The Killers (1946), The Dark Mirror (1946), The Spiral Staircase (1946), The File on Thelma Jordan (1949). He also made Son of Dracula (1943), one of the later Universal horror flicks. As this last one might indicate, Siodmak has a flare for expressionistic cinema. He also discovered certain actors including Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis, who both turn up in Criss Cross (1947), albeit Curtis's turn is fleeting. Criss Cross is a noir as dark as they come. Lancaster is the sad sack who has fallen for a dame, played by Yvonne de Carlo, who is sure to lead him into a maze of ugliness and disappointment. The oily villain is played by a smooth Dan Duryea. Anyway, as often in noir, family provides a backdrop to the action and family indicates the humanity of the main character. Against the pressures of family, the hero must assert his masculinity, even if this means pursuing his manly ways to oblivion. All this is gritty to the point of cynical. As so often in American cinema and literature, we have love and death leading a man to his less than welcome destiny! And, of course, a heist gone wrong is pivotal.

Cry of the City (1948), directed by noir stalwart Robert Siodmak. The man on the run here is not an innocent. Far from it. Martin Rome (Richard Conte) is an icy cold killer willing to put his family in jeopardy to stay ahead of the cops. At the beginning of the film, Rome is in the hospital with several bullet wounds. Throughout the film he sports a limp to let us know that he is not well and also to let us know he is crippled as a human being. His adversary, Lt. Vittorio Candella (Victor Mature), also comes up wounded later in the film. This is a wounded city, as the film’s title indicates. In these wet dark city streets, things go sour. In this place, people are bent: lawyers, nurses, kids, dames. Rome comes from a Catholic Italian family, and images of the Church are evident throughout. The Church, however, cannot serve to better the lives of these people. As usual with Siodmak, we have darkness drawing down and the beast slouches toward that place of hope, tainting everything on its way. Hope Emerson as the Swedish masseuse, Rose Given, gives an impressive performance as a tough moll. Also making an appearance are Shelley Winters and Debra Paget. This is, perhaps, not as impressive as other Siodmak noirs, but it is worth seeing.

Deported (1950), directed by Robert Siodmak. Vic Smith (Jeff Chandler) is a gangster deported from America to Italy. He has left $500,000, theft money, behind. Of course, a bad guy follows Vic to Italy to claim half, or all, of the stolen money. Of course, Vic meets a swell woman, the widow Countess Christine di Lorenzi (Marta Toren), and falls in love. Of course, we have a good fellow cop pursuing Vic. Of course, we have a friend of Vic’s who proves to be more interested in money than friendship. Of course, we have chases and dark shenanigans and a few dark streets with ominous shadows. This is predictable. The Italian setting is okay, but it shouts out – the setting makes this film different from other noir films of the time. However, it does not. The romance between Vic, an uneducated guy from the streets, and the Countess, a wealthy widow trying to help the poor who do not have enough food, works well enough. Perhaps the opening sequence where we see a gaggle of young boys scrambling to fetch money tossed from the just-docked ship explains things. In this world, one has to scramble, dive, and dart to survive. Not Siodmak’s best, but worth seeing.

 

Kiss of Death (1947), directed by Henry Hathaway. No auteur, but a workmanlike director, Hathaway did films in all the genres. He took the work the studios gave him. In this, he reminds me of Michael Curtiz, although he did not make films that stand with Curtiz's best. He did, however, make a few noirs, Kiss of Death being one of them. Kiss of Death remains a staple of noir mostly for Richard Widmark's portrayal of Tommy Udo, the psychopath. This is Widmark's first film, and he goes all out in his grinning, cackling portrayal of Tommy. He also pushes an elderly lady in a wheelchair down a long set of stairs. This is the scene most viewers remember. Aside from this shocking moment, the film is fairly tame. It tells the story of Nick Bianco (Victor Mature), a crook who decides to squeal to the Assistant DA in exchange for a parole after a jewel heist gone wrong. The plot turns on his testifying against Tommy in Tommy's murder trial. The jury acquits Tommy, and he goes free with a grudge against Nick. Nick's family, his two young daughters and their step mother, are now in danger. The film generates some suspense in the scenes after dark in Nick's home as he and his family wait for Tommy to show up with revenge on his mind. Things go along until finally Nick confronts Tommy or Tommy confronts Nick. Well, they confront each other. Bang bang. Shots ring out on those dark damp city streets. The end.

 Winter silents, and von Sternberg

The Bells (1926), directed by James Young. The print of this late silent film available on TUBI is exquisite. It is worth seeing just for the clarity of the images. It is also an opportunity to see both Lionel Barrymore and Boris Karloff. Barrymore plays innkeeper, Mathias, who is kindly and ambitious. He wants to be the burgomaster of his Alsatian village. As he goes about courting local citizens, his wife worries about finances, as well she should. Mathias is deeply in debt to local businessman, Jerome Frantz (Gustav von Seyffertitz), who threatens to foreclose unless Mathias pays his debt or gives his daughter to Jerome in marriage. This daughter, Annette (Lola Todd), is in love with the young gendarme Christian (Eddie Philips), and Mathias does not wish to interfere with her desire to marry Eddie. Oh what a web we weave. As things roll along, a travelling carnival comes to the village, a carnival that includes the impressive feats of the Mesmerist (Boris Karloff). The Mesmerist has a small, but central role in this photoplay, and Karloff gives him menacing stares, and sneering looks, and sinister touches. He also gives him a definite whiff of Dr. Caligari. Yes, Murnau’s film clearly influences the look of this film both in Karloff’s performance and in the fantastic “Dream of Conscience” sequence. Now to the point: a Polish Jew arrives at Mathias’s inn wearing a money belt filled with gold coins. This is too much for Mathias to pass up and he goes out into the snowy night and kills the Polish fellow with an axe. What follows is Mathias’s fear of exposure. Conscience rules and we have scenes reminiscent of Macbeth’s encounter with Banquo’s ghost. What to conclude? This is an efficiently made little thriller worth seeing for just how beautiful silent films can look. Oh, and it has Lionel Barrymore and Boris Karloff.

 

Underworld (1927), directed by Joseph von Sternberg. One of the first, if not the first, gangster films, Underworld tells the story of Bull Weed (George Bancroft), a criminal who befriends a down and under alcoholic, Rolls Royce (Clive Brook). Royce is grateful for Bull’s sympathy and help, but finds himself attracted to Bull’s squeeze, Feathers (Evelyn Brent). The plot is thin – Bull saves Rolls from Mulligan (who owns a flower shop and is another ugly gangster), Rolls fall for Feathers, Bull is arrested for murdering Mulligan, Feathers and Rolls decide to go away together, but not before they help Bull escape from prison, the escape takes place, Bull sees that Rolls and Feathers are loyal and that they have fallen in love, Bull saves the day while the two young lovers escape, the end. We know that Bull is, beneath his blustering, a sweetheart because of the manner in which he treats the kitten outside his apartment. The moment with the milk bottle is nice, but mostly we admire not the action, but the look of things. What stands out are the lighting and the camera work and the sets (the bizarre and baroque ballroom scene and the final sequence inside the apartment). This slightness of plot and richness of mise en scene and lighting will characterize von Sternberg’s films through the 1930s, the seven he will make with Marlene Dietrich. In Underworld we have many images that will resurface many times over the next eighty years and more. Here is how Geoffrey O’Brien puts it: “Presumably, a major part of its appeal was the profusion of then-novel images, pouring out at a rapid tempo von Sternberg was never to surpass, that would become part of the common vocabulary of the gangster genre: a bank window exploding, squad cars moving frantically through dark city streets, loose women parading themselves in underworld lairs, the outlaw hero contemplating a neon sign that proclaims “The City Is Yours,” a gangster shot dead in his flower shop, his desperate killer besieged by police in an apartment, the windows shattering from barrages of gunfire as the room fills with smoke” (The Criterion Collection, 2010). The acting may be exaggerated and the story overly melodramatic, but von Sternberg never fails to deliver images of power and beauty.

 

Docks of New York (1928), directed by Josef von Sternberg. This early von Sternberg film has all the marks of his cinematic vision: busy mise en scene, delicate lighting, fallen women, careful use of shadows, life in the raw, and a touch of sentiment. Here Mae Roberts (Betty Compson) is clearly a precursor of Marlene Dietrich in von Sternberg’s later films. Early in the film, she attempts suicide by jumping into the water at the docks. Gruff stoker, Bill Roberts (George Bancroft), jumps in to save her, and herein begins the story of two misfits who find love. They find love all right, but not before trials and tribulations, including the death of Andy (Mitchell Lewis) whose long-suffering wife, Lou (Baclanova) shoots him in a terrific scene that we observe from outside the room in which the shooting takes place. Lou shoots Andy because he has given her air too many times. In other words, he is a philanderer. Von Sternberg gives us the life of stokers, dock workers, and saloon girls with a cleverly moving camera and a careful eye. What triumphs in this film is the gutsy life of Mae. The focus may be on virile Bill with his sweaty and muscular body, but he finds that he, like the viewers, is taken with the beauty and strength of Mae.

 

I have many favourite films, but not many can top the seven features Josef von Sternberg made with Marlene Dietrich beginning with The Blue Angel (1930) and ending with The Devil is a Woman (1935). In between we have Morocco, Dishonoured, Shanghai Express, Blonde Venus, and The Scarlet Empress. The Scarlet Empress is the penultimate film in the series and the one we watched again last evening. It is without doubt a "relentless excursion into style." It is the most opulent of the von Sternberg/Dietrich films. The story of Catherine the Great of Russia as she transforms from the innocent young Prussian girl, Sophie, into the powerful leader of Russia who arranges for the assassination of her "royal half-wit" husband is replete with a decadent array of sights and sounds - grotesque gargoyles, suffocating candles, oppressive clothing, massive doors that take several people to open and close, clanging bells (one of which has a human clapper), icons galore, a feast presided over by a skeleton, and so on. The effect sends a message mixed in its meaning. Does Catherine assume greatness or does she simply take the mantle of madness from her sorry husband?

 

Anatahan (1953/1958), directed by Josef von Sternberg. I can’t help but think that Guy Maddin watched this film closely. It has a staginess informed by documentary that results in a curio. It also has Josef von Sternberg as writer, photographer, director, and voice over. The narrative speculates on the seven years a group of Japanese soldiers spend on a fairly deserted pacific island from 1944 to 1951. The Japanese dialogue is not subtitled, and for a chronicling of the action, we have von Sternberg’s voice over narration throughout the film. This voice purports to be one of the sailors, but which one is never made clear. Shot in black and white, the film harks back to the lush mi-en-scene and the lighting of the director’s early films with Marlene Dietrich. I wondered whether this was von Sternberg’s comment on those early films with their interest in community disorder, power and its abuse, male desire, the human capacity for barbarism, and the indifference of nature. Think The Blue Angel crossed with The Lord of the Flies. As we would expect, the set designs are intricate and accentuate the complications of human interaction. The actors remain at some distance, partly because we do not know for certain what they say. But their motives are clear as we follow them from their first arrival on the island, to their discovery of a man and a woman who are also stranded there, to their descent into jealousy and desire for control. This is quite an amazing final film from one of cinema’s most curious figures.

Why Worry? (1923), directed by Fred Newmeyer and Sam Taylor. In this one, Harold Lloyd plays Harold Van Pelham, a hypochondriac young man who travels with his nurse and valet to a fictional island off the coast of Chile called Paradiso. There he finds an American cad, James Blake, who is inciting local rebels to overthrow the government. The usual American way. He also finds a friend in a character named Colosso (John Aasen). Colosso is a colossus. John Aasen, the actor, was 7 feet 2 inches tall, according to medical records after his death. He has also been variously tagged at 8 feet 11 inches and 8 feet 9 inches. Anyway, he is tall, very tall. His size makes for some of the film's most striking (as it were) visual humour. We have much running about, much hurling of bodies, much mistaken identity, and much taking of pills. One of the funnier set pieces involves Harold trying to pull Colosso's sore tooth. Of course, Harold overcomes his hypochondria and of course he finds that he loves his nurse who of course reciprocates. Lloyd's films have a sweetness of their own. He may not be as intensely inventive as Keaton or Chaplin, but he is sweeter. And his films allow him to grow through his experiences.

Speedy (1928), directed by Ted Wilde who was nominated for an Oscar for the movie - best director of a comedy. Speedy is Harold Lloyd's last silent film, and it is amusing, if not hilarious. Harold is a young man who finds it difficult to keep a job. He tries driving a taxi and working as a soda jerk. Neither job lasts long. Meanwhile, the father of Harold's girl friend is having troubles with a large corporation that wants to oust the old man's horse-drawn trolley and replace it with a new fangled electric trolley. The set piece in this film is Harold's coming to the rescue by driving Pop's horse-drawn trolley in crazy fashion through the streets of New York in order to keep Pop in business. After much in the way of thrills, accidents, and racing about Harold wins the day. The film also has a sequence at Coney Island in which montage makes for some fun.

 

Movie Crazy (1932), directed by Clyde Bruckman. Harold Hall (Harold Lloyd) is a small town fellow from Kansas who hopes to make it in the film industry. He travels to Hollywood and hangs around film studios and film crews on location making a nuisance of himself and meeting a young star whom he fails to recognize when she is acting the part of a Mexican beauty. Much hijinks in the manner of the silent cinema, although this is a talkie. This film is worth it for the long set piece at the end when Harold finds himself in the midst of a series of shenanigans on a pirate ship where he fights the ship's captain all the while being watched by the Mexican beauty. This fight is hilarious. 

Last evening we watched three Harold Lloyd films, this one, plus Get Out and Get Under (1920), directed by Hal Roach, and For Heaven's Sake (1926), directed by Sam Taylor. Get Out and Get Under is about a young man and his car. It has a scene in which, the car having stopped running, Harold sees a fellow on the sidewalk stop and inject himself with something (presumably cocaine). After the injection, the fellow perks up and Harold walks over to him and steals the syringe. He then injects his car, and lo and behold the car starts and begins to bounce. This scene reminded us of The Mystery of the Leaping Fish (1916). This film was made not long after Harold lost half his right hand in an onset accident. For Heaven's Sake has a long sequence during which Harold tries to herd a group of inebriated denizens of the bowery to the Mission where Harold is to get married. This sequence has the requisite run-ins with the police, with vehicles of various kinds, including a double decker bus.

 Just a few films for February, beginning with a few from Wes Anderson.

The French Dispatch (2021), directed by Wes Anderson. Here we have Wes Anderson in spades, in colour, in black and white, mostly in live action, and in animation. The screen is a cornucopia of delights, too much for one viewing. I was reminded of Anderson’s earlier work, Jacques Tati, Jean-Luc Godard, Jean Renoir, Curtis Hanson, Esteban Sapir, and others. The film offers a triptych of short stories held together by a frame in the offices of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun newspaper/magazine (The New Yorker in disguise?). The stories purport to be features by three of the magazines top writers, art critic/historian J. K.L. Berensen (Tilda Swinton), reporter in the field Lucinda Krementz (Frances McDormand), and food writer Roebuck Wright (Jefferey Wright). The stories follow the weird career of artist and mental patient Moses Rosenthaler (Benicio del Toro), student activist Zeffirelli (Timothee Chalamet), and police chef Nescaffier (Stephen Park). The three stories all take place in a small French city, Ennui-sur-Blasé, and they begin with a talk-about-town with bicycle-riding Herbsaint Sazerac (Owen Wilson) who gives us something of a tour of the environs of this French city including pickpocket alley, the arcade, and Le Sans Blague Café (sans blague =  no kidding or this is no joke, meaning in this case, we have nothing but a joke). This is clever, sly, witty, convoluted, and much fun. As I say above, the film requires more than one viewing. Even the subtitles, when required, are unusually clever.

 

Asteroid City (2023), directed by Wes Anderson. I suspect many of you have seen this film, and I will keep my comments brief. Near the beginning and the end of this film we see a (I think this should be the definite article) Roadrunner moving about, and many of us may wonder when the Coyote will turn up. Like all Anderson’s films, this one is chock full of cultural references. Here the references are to 1950s with cowboy clothing, box-like buildings, starchy clothing, down home music, the a-bomb, ufos, guns, diners, aloof parents, etc. A running (or at least moving) gag throughout is a speeding getaway car chased by a police car and motorcycle, guns a-blazing. Of course, the military is on hand, especially after an alien ship arrives to take a look at the object that lends its name to the small desert community. Much in evidence is the modern world’s penchant for consuming things, from land to food to gadgets of various kinds. The story, such as it is, comes framed by a Playhouse 90-style television production that combines the theatre with television – both of which are delivered on film to us. The television narrator is played with suitable gravitas by Bryan Cranston, and the playwright is a Sam Shepard-like fellow named Conrad Earp (Edward Norton). The rest of the cast is chock full of familiar faces, and everyone delivers performances that are best dubbed drole. As we would expect in an Anderson film, the world we see is artificial, the artificiality accentuating the point about America that Anderson conveys. If all the world’s a stage, then what we have is a country following a script, a script that has resulted in a certain level of comfort, laced with violence and the threat of annihilation.

 

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar (2023) and The Swan (2023), directed by Wes Anderson. These two short films based on stories by Roald Dahl are typical of Anderson; they exhibit artificial two-dimensional sets, self-conscious acting, and a control that results in symmetrical compositions and witty moments. And, of course, we have the usual Anderson palette. If anything, we have too much of this distinctive style. Okay the material is intriguing enough, the story of Henry Sugar the rich guy who loves to gamble and acquires X-ray vision (his ability is never called X-ray vision, but this is what it amounts to) by following the strict regime of an Indian yogi (Ben Kingsley) begins with Roald Dahl (Ralph Fiennes) reading to us in his writing room. Thereafter we have narrators – Dahl, Henry Sugar (Benedict Cumberbatch), Dr. Chatterjee (Dev Patel) – telling us the story from both inside the narrative and outside the narrative. As for the story, it has its amusing aspects and perhaps offers a lesson in tempering greed and helping others less fortunate. The Swan is a brief 17 minutes and tells the story of Peter (both Asa Jennings as the young Peter and Rupert Friend as the adult Peter) who is bullied mercilessly by other boys when he is young. These same boys kill a beautiful swan and remove its wings in order to attach them to Peter. Yes it is fantastical. This film too has Anderson’s signature touches, with the same layered diegesis as Henry Sugar. It also tosses in a bit of animation for good measure. I ought not say “tosses in” because nothing in an Anderson film is “tossed.” Everything is carefully arranged, even obsessively and meticulously arranged.

Big Bug (2022), directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. Imagine Bunuel’s The Exterminating Angel set in the future some 50 or 100 years from now. Or The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. That’s Big Bug, a futuristic look at a group of people who find themselves unable to leave the suburban house in which they either live or have come to visit. The film does gesture to a wider world in its snippets of the outside world in which advertisements are an ongoing thing in suburban streets, and computers seem to run things and humiliate human beings, and a borg-like entity dominates and controls human action. In other words, what might at first blush look like a utopia turns out to be a dystopia. I guess this ought to be obvious in the first scene in which we have two robots walking their humans who move along on all fours and act like dogs. The house in which the action takes place has a variety of technological devices and artificial intelligences seemingly controlled by one of these called “Einstein.” The set designs are colourful and jazzy in a sort of Jestons’s way or maybe Scooby-doo way. The camera work is fluid and inventive. The film tackles a number of themes including authoritarianism, artificial intelligence, the human desire for constant stimulation and pleasure, but it does so in a quirky and even goofy manner. We have one passing nod to the earlier Jeunet film, Delicatessen, and this should remind us just how deeply suspicious Jeunet is of human desire. The echoes of Bunuel let us know that Jeunet carries this suspicion with humour. All in all, this is a mixed pleasure.

Sand Storm (2016), directed by Elite Zexer. The film begins with 18-year-old Layla (Lamis Ammar) at the wheel of the family car and her father Suliman (Hitham Omari) in the passenger’s seat. Suliman is teaching his daughter how to drive, and they are on the way back from Layla’s school. Her cell phone rings and she checks it because her school grades have been posted. She has not done as well as her father expected she would do. In any case, before arriving at their desert Bedouin village, they change places because Layla cannot be seen driving. Driving is not something women do in this community. This opening scene contains most of what we will experience going forward: the clash of modernity with tradition, the psychological tension between family members, the gender inequality, and the enclosed feeling of enforced patriarchy. Layla and her father arrive home just before Suliman’s marriage to his second wife. His first wife, Jalila (Ruba Blal) is busy preparing a place for the new bride, including moving a new bed into her husband's place. She is not too happy about the situation. From here we have a film that examines the family dynamic. Jalila and Suliman have four children, Layla being the oldest. One of the other three serves as something of a focaliser, as she goes about spying on her elders. This character (I am not sure of her name) just may offer a hope that the younger generation might break free of the power dynamic that sees women as chattel rather than as independent persons. Layla finds herself caught between tradition and modernity, and her future is what drives the plot. This film is a slow burn. The sand storm of the title never materializes, although a storm rages inside most of the characters we meet.