114: Within Our Gates

            That Oscar Micheaux’s Within Our Gates (1920) survived at all is a miracle.  In the early days of cinema films that failed to pull in overwhelming grosses were often melted down for their silver content.  Micheaux’s piece, his second featured, proved controversial due to its stance on the racial attitudes and issues of its day, and would seem to have been destined for such a fate.  It was reedited so often for its portrayal of lynch mobs that it’s hard to tell how much of the original still exists.  When a nearly fully intact version was discovered in the early 1990s in Spain, it was restored and almost immediately named to the U.S. National Film Registry.  As the oldest surviving feature by an African American artist it certainly deserves to be there, but I contend that its overall value as an almost complete example of silent cinema is notable in its own right.    

            Many have credited the film as a response to Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915), and it certainly brings to light the unfortunate fact that many of the issues raised in that Reconstruction period epic were not resolved 20 years into the 20^th Century.  However, intertwined as the two pieces may be in the eyes of some viewers, I prefer to think of them separately.  This is a spectacular example of filmmaking in its own right, and should be viewed as such.  It’s unfortunate in one sense that watching this piece reminds us how Birth, despite Griffith’s intensions, engendered new interest in the Ku Klux Klan, and that the lynching that Gates portrays was still common in the South.  But such things should not be forgotten.

            The story follows Sylvia (Evelyn Preer), a northern Black woman who travels to the South to find work as a teacher after her fiancé leaves her.  There she comes to work at a school that, though in financial crisis, turns away no Negro student with a desire to learn.  She journeys to Boston on a fundraising mission for the institution, but has little luck until she is accidentally struck by a car.  The owner of the vehicle is a wealthy White philanthropist, who eventually takes an interest in Sylvia’s plight, agreeing to help bankroll the school.  In Boston Sylvia also encounters a doctor with whom she quickly begins a relationship.

            Through a series of misunderstandings both the plan for funding and Sylvia’s romance go awry.  Not wanting to lose Sylvia, the doctor confronts her cousin about his new love.  The Cousin reveals to him a secret from Sylvia’s past in flashback.  She was raised by a foster family who cared for her deeply and paid for her education.  When she was able to review her foster father’s finances she revealed that his White boss, the contentious Gridlestone, had been swindling him for years.  The resulting confrontation ended in the death of the boss, but not at the hands of the father.   Through misleading circumstances involving Gridlestone’s manservant, both the father and his Black accuser end up dead; the accuser at the end of a rope, the father at the hands of the Gridlestone’s brother.  These deaths, as well as another secret revealed through these events, way heavy on Sylvia, making it difficult for her to trust others.  The doctor must come to understand her pain.

            The dialogue cards for this silent work were translated from the Spanish print and restored through the tireless work of Scott Simmon and Alex Vargas.  Using examples from Micheaux’s novels of the period they were able to resurrect a distinctive dialogue that incorporates both slang and Southern vernacular.  One of the elements that make these texts, as well as the images of the film, so striking is the somewhat prevalent portrayal of a negative African American stereotype.  This is not a film in which all Whites are bad and all Blacks are good, but the characterization of the antagonist African Americans, particularly a begrudgingly segregationist preacher and Gridlestone’s ignorant manservant, is downright upsetting.  It’s clear that despite an African American helming this project, racist attitudes of the era still made their way into the narrative.

Another interesting note about these cards is their introductory function.  Such purpose was common in silent film – to denote a character’s name – but I can recall no other instance when these cards have also served as the actor’s credit.  I’m no expert on silent film, and it’s possible I’ve simply forgotten to note this with other pieces.  Still, I feel that my point about the racial attitudes of the time is highlighted by the opening card in particular, which states that that Within Our Gates features “the renowned Negro artist Evelyn Preer.”

            Within Our Gates has flaws.  Structurally, it feels as if it is without a sense of direction, particularly in the lengthy flashback sequence.  This is juxtaposed by a melodramatic sense of urgency common to dramatic features of this time.  I found this disorienting, particularly as that urgency was underlined by the progressive metal soundtrack that the picture had been provided on Youtube.com.  While not altogether inappropriate, this element did take some getting used to, and I found myself wondering if this accompaniment had been constructed for this piece or simply added by some Dungeons and Dragons fan with weirdly intersecting hobbies.

            The film also features a cookie-cutter ending with a dash of unneeded patriotism thrown in.  I feel that Micheaux was proud of his race and proud of their potential for progress in the United States.  He wanted to display this potential, and certainly makes a more than convincing argument for Black education here with this piece.  The message is strong, and the emotion conveyed feels genuine, and as with The Smiling Madame Beudet (1922; #119) to watch this film is to watch both cinema and social ideals develop before your eyes.

Language: English Titles

Runtime: 79 Minutes

Available @ Youtube.com

Grade: 2.5 Hats Off  

115: Johnny Guitar

            Nicholas Ray’s Johnny Guitar (1954) is one of the most unconventional films, and certainly the most unconventional Westerns, that I can recall.  It’s not experimental film, of which I’ve reviewed quite a bit lately, but it is bold in its breaking of barriers. In fact, I can’t think of a stranger bending of that most American of genres short of Jodorowsky’s El Topo (1970).  I was curious to see what other Westerns in the 1001 text bookended Johnny Guitar, and found the classic and archetypal Shane, made the year before, and the underappreciated Silver Lode (also 1954) in close proximity.  That the former film is perhaps the most recognizable of Westerns and the later is undervalued seems to fit.  The 1950s were the last decade of the classic Western before the “revisionist” form of the genre took hold with Sergio Leone.  The way in which America perceived and ordered up its heroes changed drastically in the 60s, and there may be no better proof than in the Western.  Think for a moment about the thirty year stretch between Stagecoach (1939) and (Western!) Easy Rider (1969), and how in that time the nation moved without even changing locations.  Right in the middle of that stretch is Johnny Guitar, and it may just be the un-credited tipping point.

            Joan Crawford is Vienna, a saloon owner who strategically built on land “just outside of town” that she knew would increase in value when the railroads came.  You can probably guess how she got the start-up capital.  Now their knocking on the doorstep and ready to pay big money, but cattle baron Emma Small (Mercedes McCambridge) will do anything to stop them.  When her brother is killed in a stagecoach robbery she quickly rounds up a posse and heads to Vienna’s to call out suspects.  It’s convenient for her that the only patrons this night are “The Dancin’ Kid” and his gang.  With the sheriff and town big wig McIvers (Ward Bond) in tow she makes her accusations, even throwing Vienna’s name into the mix.  She hates both The Kid and Vienna for what it is they represent.  She hates herself more for the feelings she has for The Kid that she is unable to hide.

            This is the same night that Johnny Guitar (Sterling Hayden) rides back into Vienna’s life.  They were lovers once, five years ago, and he’s finally ready to settle down.  He figures that being hired on as a guitar player at the saloon is just a formality.  She was ready to settle down five years ago, and isn’t going to let him forget it.  Publically, things get ugly when the sheriff gives Vienna, The Kid, and his gang 24 hours to get out of town, despite the unfounded accusations.  Privately, things get serious between Vienna and Johnny after the doors are closed for the night.  They talk of the past, and of the five intermittent years, each discovering, little by little, what has become of the other. 

            The Kid and his cronies rob a bank the following morning.  Emma Small again rounds up her posse, this time with the hope of lynching the same parties as before.  When they catch up to one of the gang members, they force him to give Vienna’s name as an accomplice, before he finds the end of a rope.  Vienna almost finds the same fate, but her noose is cut by Johnny in the nick of time.  The two are chased back to the saloon just in time for a Crawford costume change before the McCambridge character burns the place to the ground.  They escape the blaze, and head for the gang’s secluded hideout.  The next day, when the posse catches on to its secret entrance, the gunfight is on.

            I can think of few movie gun battles that include so many internal skirmishes.  At various points it’s Johnny against gang members, gang members against gang members, Emma versus The Kid, and finally Vienna versus Emma.  Can you remember another Western with a final gunfight between two women? I can’t. 

            I think what I like best about Johnny Guitar is how it juggles the silly and the serious.  In one sense it is as corny a Western as they come.  The colors are ridiculous, the plot is absurd.  Clearly, the influence of television has crept into the movies at this point.  Trucolor makes the set pieces obvious, a trait compounded by the fact that Crawford insisted her close-ups be shot in the studio.  The gag of the isolated hideout is ludicrous and about as camouflaged as Hayden’s poor attempts to mime guitar playing.  Still, this was an important film.  Its naming names sequence was aimed at HUAC in the same year of On the Waterfront, and it takes an approach more direct than that of High Noon (1952).  Indeed the script was ghosted by blacklisted writer Ben Maddow.  These actors, particularly Crawford who championed the project, were making a bold statement with this piece.  It has also been credited as a landmark of feminist cinema, and in a rather convincing argument by Roger Ebert, as a seminal homosexual statement in film. *

            Whatever you take from the film, it would be impossible not to be mesmerized by Crawford.  She’s as demanding of attention here as she was off of the screen; beautiful, but never attractive.  She fought all her life for every bit of the limelight she could bask in, and it’s easy to see why this role appealed to her.  Vienna is as stubborn and strong-willed as she was.  Stories of her bitchery are legendary, and her hatred of costar McCambridge is well documented.  She had wanted Clair Trevor for the role, and chose to let McCambridge know by getting drunk and throwing her wardrobe out onto the highway near the Arizona location shoot.  In a twist of irony that only Hollywood reality could provide, Crawford tried to have McCambridge blacklisted after this project.

My favorite part of the Crawford legend comes in the form of a quote from Sterling Hayden, who played opposite Ms. Joan here in perhaps the only reserved role of his boisterous career.  Even as the title character he must have known he wasn’t going to steal the movie from her.  After making Johnny Guitar he was heard saying "there is not enough money in Hollywood to lure me into making another picture with Joan Crawford. And I like money."

Language: English

Runtime: 110 Minutes

Available @ Youtube.com

Grade: 3 Hats Off

*See Ebert’s “Great Movies” review

116: Yeelen (a.k.a. Brightness)

            I hate to speak in broad terms but it’s an unfortunate truth that many pieces of world cinema do not translate well for American audiences.  I say this not to insult either element.  Directors from around the globe are wise to make pictures that reflect and highlight their unique culture.  Likewise, American viewers who seek out these pieces are typically an intelligent audience with legitimate interest in both cinema as a medium and culture as a whole.  In some cases, even despite cultural differences, the cinema of a nation or region gains a healthy following stateside.  Such has been the case with Japanese cinema for the better part of the last 50 years.

            I’ve noted in other reviews that Japanese cinema in particular has the distinction of portraying an Eastern communal ethos that doesn’t necessarily comport with Western audiences’ mentality.  Yet, many of Japan’s finest directors and films are held in a notably high regard by American movie lovers.  I’m not quite sure that this will ever be the case with African cinema.  Despite serving as a breathtaking location for any number of European and American pictures, as a comparative newcomer to the medium Africa has yet to produce for itself a movement that has captured international acclaim.  That is not to say that the potential is not there, or that success in the U.S. marketplace is the only barometer of good cinema.  (Indeed, a strong case could be made to the contrary of that latter argument.)      

            My point is that portrayals of African culture, particularly tribal culture, have a steep hill to climb in regard to wooing American audiences.  I do not blame racism for this challenge.  Ardent racists aren’t exactly the world cinema crowd in the first place.  I blame National Geographic.  I believe that these perennial purveyors of exotic images have subconsciously trained viewers to look down on cultures different from their own by portraying these images with elements of shock.  Thus we are puzzled and even offended by what we see.  I think that this is partially the case with Souleymane Cisse’s Yeelen (1987).

            The film is the story of Mali tribesman Niankoro (Issiaka Kane), a young man determined to confront his estranged father about the curse he has laid upon him.  He must leave the home and the village of his mother and go on a spiritual journey to discover the mysteries of nature.  Only through this knowledge will he be able to overcome his father’s use of dark magic.  On his journey he is aided by two elder mentors; his uncle, a blind mystic, and the king of the region whom he quickly befriends.  He lifts a curse for the great ruler, but they part ways after Niankoro sleeps with his youngest wife.  The woman is given to him as a companion.

            When the uncle feels that Niankoro has reached the seventh level of consciousness, he bestows upon him his battle totem.  The intricate carving with a gemstone prism will serve as his primary weapon in his paternal confrontation.  Before he departs for the battle, he relinquishes his cloak to his new wife so that she might give it to the child she now carries.  This final confrontation is one of the oddest climaxes I can recall.  The father stands across from the son in an open plain of desert.  Each man thrusts his totem into the earth and allows the light from the prism to blind the other.  Once the screen is completely washed out with light (the brightness of the title), we see neither father nor son again, leading to a confusing if not incoherent conclusion.

            I believe I suffered here from a lack of understanding of the Mali culture.  The film does not make any attempt to convey such elements to its audience, I would assume, because it was not made for Americans and Europeans.  Cisse’s intended viewers are likely well versed in the idiosyncrasies herein.  To them this is not a “life in Africa” picture, but simply a movie about their own being, and their own past.  What’s unfortunate is that all audiences cannot view the film in that context.  As a reviewer I can only draw from my own experience with the picture, which was toiling and troublesome.   

            Because of the cultural differences and innate stoicism of these characters, I never related to their struggles or triumphs. I saw them not as characters but as figures in an educational film, as Yeelen is shot in a way that too often begs for the accompaniment of a British voiceover.  Okay, perhaps I’ve been too hard on National Geographic here, but the film does fail to take full advantage of the beautiful landscape in which it is set.  Instead it opts for medium shots that are as flat as the characters that fill them.  The film’s two most compelling characters, the father and the king, share but one scene together which I’m afraid is the movie’s high water mark.  

            I look forward to a strong African film movement, as that continent is still almost completely undiscovered in this respect.  However, I’m not so sure that a film like Yeelen should be the blueprint for anyone’s entre into that potential cinematic revelation.  Too often it looks like an educational piece while divulging no cultural education.  This middle of the road approach rarely results in a film that stands the test of time.

Language: Bambara

Runtime: 105 Minutes

Available through Netflix.com

Grade: 1 Hat Off    

117: The Brave Heart will take the Bride (a.k.a. Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge or: DDLJ)

            There is an indescribable feeling that comes from being swept up in a movie.  You nod your head and tap your knuckles on your knee with anticipation.  Without premonition you confirm your appreciation for each new development with a whispered but jubilant “yes.”  I’ve never “stood up and cheered” as so often reviews claim that audiences do, but with some movies you can’t help but at least offer a few congratulatory claps of your hands to the nonresponsive closing credits.  They can’t hear you, but you do it anyway.  Such was the case, for me, with Aditya Chopra’s The Brave Heart will take the Bride (1995).

            I’ve been split on Bollywood films in the past as many are remakes and rehashings of themselves or Hollywood movies, but despite rather conventional and even hackneyed plot devices here I was completely enthralled by this picture.  Yes, it is as typical Mumbai cinema as it gets, but it gets it right and at all the right moments.  It’s melodramatic, full of product placement, marred by bad fight choreography, and still altogether wonderful. 

What sets Bollywood apart from the U.S. film industry is that these films still defy the concept of genre.  In the Golden Age of Hollywood the movies were all about entertainment, and made for as many ticket buyers as they could fit in the seats.  Pictures were produced for general audiences and often included something for everyone: some comedy, some drama, a little action, maybe some singing and dancing, and sometimes “a little sex in it.”*

            Single-screen theatres, particularly in smaller towns, had to exhibit movies that could draw an audience of more than just one demographic.  This is why every western made before the arrival of Clint Eastwood has a love story.  Because there was something for everyone, people went to the movies just to go, not caring what they were seeing.  Those days are long gone.  Movies are now made to fit the “Male 18-26” set, and at $10 a pop who can just go to see whatever?  There have always been genres, but the lines were once not so distinctly drawn, and directors like Hitchcock were able to manipulate those parameters to make pictures for mass audiences.  These days, directors of big budget movies have less say than the studio marketing executive.

            In India this is not the case.  Films arm still made with something for every potential customer.  Yes, this means that even crime pictures have musical sequences, but if you accept this going in, it can be so much fun.  Though this sounds ludicrous to stateside audiences, subcontinent viewers absolutely embrace it, and often at epic lengths.  Squeezing something for all viewers into a movie accounts for frequent three-hour plus runtimes.  But if you get with the spirit of the thing, this time can fly by. 

            This is the case with DDLJ.  Indeed, the final flashback montage made me realize only at the film’s conclusion how long I had been watching.  We begin in London where Simran Singh (Kajol) is the daughter of a conservative and traditional father (Amrish Puri).  She is promised to marry the son of his best friend, but before she returns to India for the wedding she asks for a month on the continent with her friends.  On the train she meets Raj (Bollywood megastar Shah Rukh Khan), the aimless and carefree son of a rich Hindi businessman.  He too has lived his entire life in England.  Predictably, the two fall in love in an oh so rom-com set up.  When she reveals her forthcoming wedding, the situation gets complicated.  She returns to London, but after her father overhears a conversation about Raj with her mother he moves the whole family back to Punjab to expedite the wedding.     

            Raj follows, and through a rather cartoonish scheme is accepted into the house of Simran’s fiancé.  What follows is an almost nonstop onslaught of dancing and deception as Raj attempts to win the approval of Simran’s unsuspecting father.  While premises within this prolonged façade are outlandish, the script remains taught from a dialogue standpoint, holding the film together and leading to a series of confrontations, first with the father and then the fiancé.

              Themes explored in DDLJ are common to the Bollywood dynamic.  The 1001 text notes the commonality of these pictures from the late 80s and 90s focusing on the large Diaspora of Indian people throughout the world.  As a result of this cultural shift, generational tensions evolved from raising children in a western society.  Contrasting ideas about family and romantic relationships were ripe for the picking as basic premises for drama.  These themes continue to be found in Hindi-centered films in the following decade with international hits such as Bend it Like Beckham (2002).  Speaking of Becks, I’m told that his fame pails in comparison to that of Khan in India, and that this film launched the actor into that stardom stratosphere.

            It’s no wonder why.  It’s an energetic performance that is indeed matched by his beautiful costar Kajol.  Together they shine in moments both big and small.  Also of note is the work of Puri, who conveys so much here.  In the role he is both a father and a son; a man caught between the generations.  He is both noble and an antagonist, and Puri handles these parts equally well.  American audiences will likely recognize him from his work in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984), and I was more than caught up in the idea that this film could have been promoted in the U.S. with the tagline “Mola Ram Sings!!!”

            On the surface, The Brave Heart will take the Bride hasn’t aged gracefully.  It’s about as 90s as can be in its portrayal of gender politics, overuse of “high fives” and “thumbs-ups,” and semi-grunge wardrobes.  Raj even breaks the fourth wall a la Saved by the Bell a few times.  His final confrontation with the fiancé also leaves something to be desired.  Let’s just say James Caan’s pulled punch in The Godfather has some company in the unconvincing blows category.  Still, these small glitches aren’t enough to pan the film.  It still achieves just what it sets out to; it entertains.  And in that category it shows no flaws.

Language: Hindi (primary)/English

Runtime: 192 Minutes

Available through Netflix.com

Grade: 4 Hats Off

              

*See Sullivan’s Travels (1941)       

118: Méditerranée

            I think what’s most striking to me about Jean-Daniel Pollet’s Méditerranée (1963) is that it’s listed in multiple sources as a documentary.  I’m not exactly sure what else it could be qualified as, but calling this film a doc is like describing Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) as an “archeology movie.”  There is so much more here than could be adequately described.  Pollet composed the film of about ten almost completely unrelated sequences, editing them together in varying orders and lengths.  We see a bull fight, a woman on an operating table, a countryside wedding, the pyramids, an Italian villa, an aging fisherman; all of them located in the Mediterranean region.

            That this is their only connection might be annoyingly vague were it not for the film’s self-explanatory title.  This is simply a slice of certain lives near that great sea.  The repetition of these sequences – in a random order, always with a bit more footage – is underscored by the transcendent music of Antoine Duhamel, who went on to work as a composer for Godard.  The New Wave icon loved this picture so much, giving it a highly favorable review in Cahiers du Cinema, that he hired Duhamel for Pierrot le Fou (1965). 

            The score complements a voiceover narration written by Philippe Sollers.  I can say little about its content, as the only available version of the film that I could find had no subtitles.  This would likely have bothered me with a narrative effort, but here I was swept up in the construction of the edited imagery to the point that I don’t think I lost anything.  I wasn’t distracted by trying to read, and I had to let the images and the score (music is the international language after all) create their own meaning.  In a way then, this was the most subjective experience I’ve ever been afforded with a movie.  Was it difficult?  Not at all.  It was poetry.  Lost in the shots unfolding before me, I could make them mean whatever I wanted, as if the were just for me, as Godard wrote “abandoned on the screen like pebbles on the beach.”  

If you are a regular reader I know what you’re thinking.  He hates pretentious “poetry films” like The Color of Pomegranates (1968; #161) and Godard’s “idea movies” such as 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her (1967; # 166).  Yes, I’ve given poetically-based films negative reviews in the past, and I do think that Godard has been underachieving since 1964, but poetry still retains beauty when done justice on celluloid, and Godard will always be one of the most original cinematic minds in history.  In the case of The Color of Pomegranates, Parajanov should have taken much more from a film such as this. In the case of Godard, he should have taken much less.  It’s delicately beautiful, but rare it should remain.  Films about ideas and emotions that are not rooted in strong characters tend to fall flat.  Méditerranée is a rare exception.   

Language: French

Runtime: 45 Minutes

Available @ Youtube.com

Grade: 3 Hats Off

119: The Smiling Madame Beudet (a.k.a. La souriante Madame Beudet)

            I spent some time yesterday evening agonizing over whether or not to write this review.  As I’m sure my readers (there are some of you reading this right?) have noticed, as of late I’ve been finding a significant portion of the films I review online.  I’m not conflicted about this.  I have to see these movies (or so the 1001 text tells me) and many are unavailable in other formats.  In many cases with older films, rights have expired and they are unavailable on DVD, so finding them on youtube.com is neither amoral nor drastic.  It’s simply the only viable option.  In any case I am nevertheless, youtube or otherwise, always conflicted when I don’t see the cut of the movie that the director intended me to see.  In the case of The Smiling Madame Beudet (1922), I don’t know if the 54-minute version that the text denotes still exists, or if that was even the version its director, Germaine Dulac, intended for my eyes.  I begrudgingly accepted the 40-minute version streaming on the massive “broadcast yourself” website.  After reading multiple reviews, it doesn’t appear that this version is lacking any of the notable elements, but still…  

            I don’t know if it was guilt but something this evening prompted me to dig a bit deeper in my research for this review.  Madame Beudet is hailed in the text and in many other sources as both an early and shining example of feminist cinema.  Indeed it is chronologically the first film to make the 1001 cut by a female director.  This got me wondering how many of the directors to have films canonized are women, and what percentage of the 1001 do their films make up.  Thus I did what any list obsessive would do.  I made a list.  Using the director index at the back of the text, I wrote down the name of every credited director that I was not absolutely sure to be a man.  In the case of foreign names I was especially careful to list them all, even in cases where I was “almost sure,” because I’ve never quite gotten the gendered names and objects aspect of foreign language down pat.  In one particular case this practice served me well, as I had mistakenly assumed one male director was a woman for some time now.

            Anyway, after creating a list of nearly 150 names, I searched each name individually on the Internet Movie Database, sometimes using additional sources, for photographic or literary proof of each name’s gender.  Through this process I was left making an “educated guess” a total of one time. The whole effort took me more than three hours, almost five times the length of Madame Beudet.  I speculated that I wouldn’t find many female directors, and it turned out I was right.  Of the approximately 550 directors (remember some are doubles) listed in the index, only 27 were female.  That’s less than five percent.  Those 27 women accounted for a total of 33 titles in the 1025 listed in my revised edition of 1001.  That’s about three percent.  I dug deeper.  There are almost 35 male directors listed who have at least five pictures on the list.  Drop that criterion to four listers, and that number doubles.  There are only five women with multiple entries, and only one with three films (Agnes Varda). 

            So what does all of this mean?  Well, to begin with it means that I’m an even bigger nerd than I had already assumed for doing such a statistical analysis. That’s a given.  It must be the professor in me.  Other than that I’m not sure that it means anything.  These numbers, though I don’t have industry figures in front of me, likely represent a strong correlation with historical numbers of female directors.  This is changing of course, but it will be a while before those numbers even out.  I also suspect, though I’m much too tired to figure it up, that these numbers might bear some resemblance to the gender divide amongst the 1001 contributors, though they might not be this uneven.  Film has been a boys club for most of its history, and I didn’t need numbers to know that. 

            So what of the film that inspired this impromptu statscapade?  It’s a good one, though to me for reasons that are superfluous to its feminist agenda.  Dulac was shooting the film in her native France, but as a silent film it required only changed title cards to play all over Europe.  The youtube.com version featured dual title cards with German and French I believe, as well as the English subtitles for their text.  It had also been scored by Manfred Knaak as recently as 2005.  It’s encouraging that there is still an interest in scoring silent films, and conversely amazing how many people assume that you actually watch them in silence.  This is a shame.  To view silent cinema, especially a piece as good as Madame Beudet, is to see the language of the medium literally develop before your eyes.

            Here we have breathtaking exteriors that set up locations, double exposures that denote daydream sequences, and editing that creates a true sense of pace and even anticipation.  All of this without dialogue.  Ebert says that silent films, while they can require a bit more attention, also allow us all the more opportunity to do some daydreaming ourselves.  Because we know that these effects are crude and likely created in the camera, we aren’t as critical of them.  We don’t scrutinize them the way we do CGI.  We allow them to engender the whimsy that they were intended to and to wow us for what they are.

            Madame Beudet does contain a bold statement about repressed feminine existence; one that is all the more shocking based on its year of release. It is a cry for change in the gender politics of domesticity and much more.  While this aspect certainly makes it culturally relevant, I was more drawn in by an element I did not see noted in any of the material I read.   As Madame and her domineering husband reconcile in an ironic and melancholy conclusion, puppets appear in a faux mirror and mimic their actions.  Dulac may have been channeling both Shakespeare and future generations who fought against stereotyped gender roles with this almost hidden “all the world’s a stage” note.

Language: Silent (English Subtitles for Cards)

Runtime: 54 minutes (listed), 40 minutes (online)

Available @ Youtube.com

Grade: 3 Hats Off             

120: Babes in Arms

            1939 is often cited as one of the greatest years in the history of Hollywood.  John Wayne broke through as a major A-picture star in John Ford’s Stagecoach.  Jimmy Stuart took center stage opposite Dietrich in a different type of western, Destry Rides Again, and turned in his classic performance as beleaguered Senator Jefferson Smith in Capra’s Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.  Cary grant made two spectacular action pictures, Only Angels have Wings and Gunga Din, while Laurence Olivier embodied Bronte’s Heathcliff in William Wyler’s Wuthering Heights.  Garbo gave her last great performance in Ninotchka.  There were also those two Victor Fleming films, Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz.  Reading through that list, many might just figure that it’s no wonder Busby Berkley’s Babes in Arms got lost in the shuffle.

            The musical director had fallen out of favor with Warner Bros. and made his way over to the MGM lot, where they were just beginning to stake their claim in the genre.  The resulting picture stared Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, another star hitting pay dirt multiple times in ’39.  This was the height of the studio system, both artistically and politically, and stars were under contract to make as many pictures as the studio heads saw fit for that agreement’s duration.  Reliable character actor Thomas Mitchell played in no less than four of the notable films listed above during the year.  Garland and Margaret Hamilton, Wizard’s Wicked Witch, were paired up again here in Babes, in roles that fit their over the rainbow typecasting.

            Rooney plays Mickey Moran, the son of a fledgling vaudeville entertainer who is ambitious to make his own splash in show business.  When his parents and their variety show friends go on tour to make one last play at some much needed finances, Mickey bands all the showbiz kids together to do what they can on the home front.  These adolescents are encouraged by their parents to avoid the stage and learn skilled trades, but most will have none of it.  The business is in their blood.  Garland plays Moran’s loyal girlfriend who lends her voice to the songs he writes.  They’re set to star together in the show he’s writing for the kids, but when a former child star comes to town he asks her to understudy for  the bankable headliner.

            The musical sequences here are impressive, with the title number decrying the adolescents status as helpless “babes in arms” harkening back to earlier Berkley.  Both Rooney and Garland show off their full range of talents, though Rooney admittedly isn’t the best crooner.  There are also a few “kids” in the group that are clearly in their late 20s.  The script can get hooky in a hurry at some points, but overall this is an entertaining picture.  It’s not on par with the unquestioned masterpieces of that prolific year, but I don’t think that is why it’s been lost amongst them.

            Films of this era often survive a fading in popularity due to their showing on television during the late sixties and seventies.  The Wizard of Oz and It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) both gained new life as staples of American culture by their introduction to a whole new generation of television viewers, and indeed still find perennial exhibition on cable and network programming.  Babes in Arms has no such opportunity.  The climax of the picture, the much anticipated Moran-produced show, includes a nearly ten minute “blackface” sequence that renders it all but unmentionable on networks such as AMC and TCM.  Unlike similar sequences in pictures such as Holiday Inn (1942), without this scene the movie wouldn’t play well.  Thus it remains in semi-obscurity.  I will refrain from comment here on the wisdom of such a choice by the programming heads of these networks, except to say that to bury history, however unpleasant, is to be doomed to repeat it.  All politics aside, this film is worth a Saturday evening viewing.

Language: English

Runtime: 94 Minutes

Available through Netflix.com

Grade: 2.5 Hats Off                 

121: Vinyl

            If I told you that a version of Anthony Burgess A Clockwork Orange was filmed six years prior to the release of the Stanley Kubrick masterpiece in 1971, would you be interested in seeing it?  I’ll further whet your whistle.  The project was helmed by none other than pop artist and iconoclast Andy Warhol.  You might think that such a film would be well-known and much discussed by even casual movie fans, but this isn’t the case.  Such a film does exist, and it is with good reason that it goes largely unheard of by even some of the most ardent movie fanatics.  The picture is Vinyl (1965), and it’s one of those films that, I assume, made the 1001 cut on weird credibility and name recognition alone.

            Warhol shot two, almost unedited, B&W reels in his New York “Factory” based on the premise adaptation by collaborator Ronald Tavel.  The 70-minute piece includes some basic elements of the original story, but Warhol’s choice of a single location (in which all of the characters exist simultaneously) and only two angles limit this film’s potential greatly.  Though it contains some interesting moments, on the whole it feels like a video shot for a 7^th grade class project, plus a little homosexual torture.

            Juvenile delinquent Victor (Gerard Malanga) seeks out violence.  He is betrayed by an accomplice of many of his crimes and punished in kind by the police.  He is “reeducated” through a process of repeated projection of disturbing images and sadomasochism so that he can become a productive member of society.  Some of this synopsis I got from the 1001 text and other bits I remembered from the Kubrick telling of this story.  Had I not seen that film, I firmly believe that I would have never intuited a single plot point from Vinyl.

            The images are murky and the directing is intentionally flat, making this a difficult watch.  For most of the picture the only thing that can be made out clearly are the more devious moments of torture, such as the pouring of hot wax onto Malanga’s bare chest.  I suppose it’s also clear when, occasionally, various members of the cast stop whatever their doing to dance (badly) to “Nowhere to Run to” by Martha and the Vandellas.

            I also have a little bone to pick with this film’s write-up in the 1001 book.  Usually, I try to avoid addressing these short pieces, because they are to act as points of departure as opposed to direct study.  However, I’ll make an exception in this case.  The author, whose name I’ll leave out of this, is credited in the text as a lecturer on “queer theory and experimental film.”  By that description, I’d say that the editors chose a worthy candidate to write on Vinyl (as well as Flaming Creatures; 1963, #125), but this piece is poorly researched and feels as though it pushes the sexual politics of Vinyl more than the film itself.

            I hope that my comments here are not misconstrued as homophobia.  I support each individual’s right to happiness in a consensual and legal-aged sexual relationship.  I simply feel that descriptions of actors as “deliciously wooden” takes away from the piece’s credibility.  I suppose it’s probable that any number of the write-ups contained within the text include an equally graphic description of a female cast member.  If the author of this review intended to invoke irony by turning the tables and subtly repurposing elements of feminist film theory (which takes things way too far in the first place) then I can appreciate such reference and tip my cap, but I don’t get that impression.  Also, what self-respecting writer on “queer theory” would mistakenly credit “Nowhere to Run to” to gay icons The Supremes? 

Warhol, Sedgwick, and Chuck Wein, 1965

            The author does however get one thing right in noting the spellbinding presence of Edie Sedgwick, silently positioned screen right for most of the film.  She’s recognized as an “extra” by Warhol’s off screen shouting in the middle of the film, the closest thing this drivel has to a credit sequence.  But anyone with two eyes in their head can see that she’s the star.

            I suppose any one person’s enjoyment of this piece would be directly linked to their feelings about Warhol and most of his art.  I can really take it or leave it to be honest, but I’d like to think that I understand what he was trying to do with his work.  He wanted to take the ordinary and make it beautiful in order to alter what those conventions meant to people.  He succeeded wildly in some areas, and failed in others.  He “produced” the rock group The Velvet Underground’s breakthrough Album, eventually redefining what music was, but in this case he should have just stuck with the soup cans.  

Language: English

Runtime: 70 Minutes

Available @ Youtube.com

Grade: .5 Hats Off       

122: The Bitter Tea of General Yen

            It may be difficult to believe, but Frank Capra did not always make films in which an ultimately good hero triumphs over a bureaucratic system by holding fast to American values and displaying an “awe shucks” charm.  To be fair, his best and most well-known films are full of depth far greater than what I’ve just described, but he did not always helm the “Capra-Corny” projects which his few detractors often decry.  For evidence of this fact, one need look no further than The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933).  

            Bride-to-be and missionary Megan Davis (Barabara Stanwyck) arrives in Shanghai as the Chinese civil war rages.  She intends to marry her childhood sweetheart who has already been working in the field for several years.  Their wedding is to be just after her arrival, but when a fire started during the battle for the city threatens an orphanage, both matrimonial candidates offer their help.  To cross safely into this zone of the city Megan’s fiancé must ask for a written pass from the despised warlord General Yen (Nils Asther). Knowing the man does not understand written mandarin, the general simply writes a note detailing what he believes is the idiocy of the effort.  Though the couple reaches the stranded children, their passage back to the safe zone is not guaranteed.  The faulty pass is taken by Megan, still believing it ensures her safety, just before she is separated from the group.

 Knocked unconscious by a blow, she awakens hours later on a train headed away from the city.  She’s been “rescued” by a man she met briefly on her journey, who unbeknownst to her is the devious Yen.  She arrives at his provincial palace, the ill-gotten gains of genocide, only to realize that she is his prisoner.  Reserved, she is confined to her room until she agrees to dine with her host.  From her terrace, she witnesses the execution of prisoners; each firing squad volly galvanizing her hatred of the general.  Yet she believes that she can soften his heart and turn him away from evil.  After all, that’s what she came to China to do; evangelize to the Chinese, peasant or warlord.

When she observes goings on at the palace that she was not intended to, it becomes clear that she holds some limited sway within the household.  Eventually she is convinced to join the party of frequent dinner guests, and is surprised to see another American within their ranks.  The general’s financial manager is as unscrupulous as they come, but is still a comfort for Megan.  She slowly begins to grow close as well to her assigned servant, Mah-li (Toshia Mori). Though her relationships with the general himself remains standoffish, she can’t help but be drawn to romanticizing the Chinese heritage of which he speaks so richly. 

In a fantastic dream sequence, that undoubtedly would raise eyebrows and possibly tempers in the P.C. present, a caricature of Chinese stereotypes resembling the general attacks Megan in her bedroom.  Unable to fight off his advances, she is rescued just in time by a masked figure who the audience assumes is her fiancé.  However, when she removes the mask to kiss the figure, it is again General Yen.  Unable to stop herself, she kisses him passionately, awaking just as the genuine Yen stands above her on her balcony chair.  Suddenly she fears the worst; that she has fallen for this despised foreigner.

Ultimately their relationship progresses down this path, as they engage in deep discussions of meanings and beliefs on the value of human life.  Megan even volunteers her own life, as assurance that Mah-li will not betray the general’s trust to a rival warlord.  As dramatic tension builds, it becomes clear that either the war, or the relationships, or both will destroy the house of Yen.  The film’s final sequences are beautiful, and anything but standard Capra, particularly the final conversation between Megan and the debunked financial advisor.

It’s somewhat coincidental that I saw this film so soon after Shanghai Express (1932; #127).  Both films cast a screen legend in a story set across the backdrop of the Chinese revolution, and though neither is particularly political, they do both raise questions about the time in which they were produced.  Both cast European males as Chinese villains, and specifically note an attitude of the lack of value placed on life in the orient.  Watching them now, it’s clear that they likely, though unwittingly, promoted an attitude of Asian xenophobia in the U.S.

Both Shanghai Express and Bitter Tea are great films, employing magnificent lighting and Mise en scène; each displaying the power of studio techniques.  While I preferred Shanghai Express for its script and set pieces, I must admit that overall I’m partial to Stanwyck over Dietrich.  This is strange roll for her.  She doesn’t yet have the charisma she’d display in The Lady Eve (1941) and Double Indemnity (1944).  Those are her two best performances, and two of the greatest pictures ever made, and here you can just see that spark starting to glow beneath the surface.   

Language: English (primary)

Runtime: 88 Minutes

Available @ Youtube.com

Grade: 3.5 Hats Off