101: The Story of the Late Chrysanthemums (a.k.a. Zangiku MonoGatari or: ZM – original Japanese title)

            After watching Kenji Mizoguchi’s The Story of the Late Chrysanthemums (1939) I was struck by an odd but familiar thought.  Thinking over the pictured I’d seen I wondered what seeing it on the big screen must have been like.  Usually this thought occurs to me in the case of epics and adventure films like John Ford’s The Searchers (1956), but here it had formed with regard to a family drama characterized by shots and scenes contained to single rooms.  But my interest here was not in camera movement.  Rather my concern lay with the movement on the faces of Mizoguchi’s characters, and those idiosyncratic actions contained therein which are lost when content is streamed to the pixels of a digital device.

                I didn’t love this film but I felt the power of its story throughout, and I feel that a better look at the characters might reveal deeper emotion.  Some movies and some performances are meant to be looked up at, projected on thirty foot walls and marveled at from below.  Be it Indian Jones’ cunning and skill with a whip or the quiet moments of intimacy in The Grapes of Wrath (1940), some moments can’t be experienced staring at a hand held device resting in one’s lap.  The emotion that these moments and these characters were meant to convey can’t and shouldn’t be confined by the edges of an iphone.  Seeing this picture streamed online felt like reading the outline of a Shakespeare play, so much so that I feel compelled to create a list of films of which to seek out theatrical screenings (Saving Private Ryan, 1998; the aforementioned The Searchers; Raging Bull, 1980).  There are some films in which the audience is meant to be forced into spaces with their characters, at the mercy of their surroundings right along with them.  There is a scene late in Chrysanthemums in which this is certainly true.   

            The adopted son (Shôtarô Hanayagi) of a famous Tokyo Kabuki actor longs to live up to his father’s great name by becoming a star performer himself.  His determination is strong, but he lacks talent.  He knows that his troop keeps him on and praises his performances only for his father’s sake.  Still, he seems to have found a legitimate admirer in the wet nurse (Kôkichi Takada) of his adoptive brother.  She encourages his work and before long he has fallen in love with her beauty and her faithful compassion.  However, his parents forbid a marriage on the grounds of class difference and cast the woman out of their house.  When he follows her, the two abscond and elope, determined to return once he has become a success.

            For years they travel, succumbing to the poverty of performers and the weariness of the road.  Her health begins to suffer and they fight over both things that matter and trivialities, but throughout their love remains evident.  Slowly, his skills begin to develop and by chance he is awarded a coveted role.  The performance proves to be a breakthrough and his troop is soon poised for a triumphant return to Tokyo.  Having found success the actor is sure that his family will accept both he and his wife back into their lives.  However, when he visits to announce his return they hold fast to their disapproval.  Driven by his desire for appreciation the actor abandons his lover, and is welcomed home as a conquering hero.  Then he hears that her health has taken a grave turn.

            The scene in which he visits her at her parents’ home is heartbreaking.  The tension is evident but contained.  In a western film, her father would confront the actor and chastise him, but in Japan he is forced to bow to the now great Kabuki star.  He kneels humbly, fanning the two as they talk.  In a theatre this moment would hold even an aloof spectator prisoner to its depth.  Through pixels it is engaging, but lacking.  The actor comes with good news.  His parents have recanted their feelings.  They accept her as his wife.  Near death, she is overjoyed.  She encourages him to go to a parade for the troop being held in his honor.  Reluctantly he leaves, planning to return as soon as the processional is over. 

            Baring a misunderstanding of Japanese culture, The Story of the late Chrysanthemums isn’t difficult to follow.  In fact, I was almost surprised by this simplicity coming from the director of Sansho the Bailiff (1954).  Still, emotionally it is a film with tremendous depth.  Mizoguchi drew heavily from his own experiences as a Kabuki, and it’s clear he understands the hardships of life as a traveling performer.  I only wish that I could have seen this film as a larger than life projection.  Perhaps only then could I have appreciated all that he put into it.

    

Language: Japanese

Runtime: 142 Minutes

Available @ Youtube.com (under the “ZM” title)

Grade: 2.5 Hats Off

102: Fatal Attraction

            Perhaps it seems odd, possibly even outrageous, to my regular readers (if any of you exist) that I have just now seen this multi-Oscar nominated, second highest grossing film of 1987.* As film entry #102 on this blog, Adrian Lyne’s Fatal Attraction is the 900^th title, apart from supplemental additions, that I’ve seen from the 1001 canon.  It seems more likely to be a viewer’s 90^th film than their 900^th, particularly if they had cable between the years of 1993 and 2002.  Still, it is what it is, and for a number of reasons (one being that I was seven years old in 1993) I have only now seen this practically ubiquitous 80s pop culture reference.

            Admittedly, I’ve held off on this movie.  I purposely relegated it to the last position of my Netflix queue in an attempt to save some films high on the watchability factor for later in my journey.  In fact, as of this post, Netflix can be of little service to me until they purchase some films in my overloaded “Saved” section.  It’s uploads from here on out I’m afraid.  In any case, I have to say that Fatal Attraction was worth the wait.  I might even say that I was surprised by how much I enjoyed some of it, particularly after reading its 1001 write up.  The text points out that without the burgeoning star power of leads Michael Douglas and Glenn Close, this might have been strait to video fare.

            Indeed, this is a story without much originality.  Dan Gallagher (Douglas) has a weekend affair with his associate Alex Forrest (Close) while his wife and daughter are away from the city.  Though Dan thinks this was some casual fun, Alex doesn’t take kindly to his ending the tryst.  She begins to terrorize both Dan and his family in an attempt to remain in his life, upping the stakes when she tells him that she is pregnant.  Forced to tell his wife everything after moving away to the country, Dan continues to be victimized.  The plot follows mostly predictable turns, heading toward an inevitable showdown as Alex’s demented behavior escalates.

            I’ll confess that I knew all about the ending before I even popped the disk into my player tonight.  I doubt that it’s a cat that has been kept in the bag for most people who didn’t see this picture on its first run.  What struck me here was not how the story reached its conclusion, but how that journey transpired emotionally.  Watching the movie it’s easy to forget that Alex has a good right to be upset.  She was sexually used, left pregnant, and abandoned by a man whom she thought loved her.  Perhaps this is all forgotten because she is absolutely Anthony Perkins, flat out Psycho, a homage that Lyne lays on almost too thick.  Still, were it not for the talent and even subtle depth that Close brings to the part, this movie would surely have never risen above the other knockoffs.

            Douglas does his part as well, reminding this viewer that he was someone human before he was Gordon Gekko.  Mr. “Greed is Good” was Douglas’ other role of 1987, and there’s just a hint of him here.  Dan does something awful, tries to hide his indiscretions, and endangers his family.  He isn’t pure evil, but there are moments when we think that he could be, and I think that this might be why the movie works.  Not every man cheats and lies, but put in the situation that Dan is, he might become the violent monster lurking just beneath the surface of Douglas’ actions.  I just don’t think that the same could be conveyed by the likes of Rick Moranis or Arnold Schwarzenegger, both of whom were considered for the role according to imdb.com.

            As casting was important here, so, I believe, were the New York City locations selected for the film.  At various moments DP Howard Atherton uses them to make his characters seem lost and alone, even in the midst of the urban jungle.  These sets are at times gritty and foreboding and they compliment the actions within the film well.  Alex’s white brick apartment creates the perfect counter to her inner darkness, perhaps even explaining why Dan is attracted to her in the first place.  One thing about this film that is certain is that it displays the faux pas of 80s female fashion and hair.

*The top money maker that year was 3 Men and a Baby.

Language: English

Runtime: 119 Minutes

Available from Netflix.com

Grade: 3 Hats Off

103: Sombre

            Watching Philippe Grandrieux’s Sombre (1998) might become difficult for some viewers.  The former video artist’s feature debut contains some of the more intense scenes of sexually-based violence short of Salo (1975) that I can recall.  But where Pasolini’s film is cold and distant in its depiction of disturbing acts, Grandrieux’s is claustrophobic; sometimes with action so close to the camera that almost all light is obscured.  This works, to an extent, as a tactic that serves to cloud the images while holding the audience captive to the brutal action, but for much of the film it simply feels like the director’s video roots betraying him.

            Most of this nearly sans plot film is captured by dizzying steadicam shots that are interspersed with sequences of quasi-experimental Brakhage-esque drivel.  Yes, this could be called style by snobs and indie apologists, but it feels to me like sloppy filmmaking.  This is sad when you consider that Sombre is not without quality moments and one truly touching scene.  The plot involves a drifter, Jean (Marc Barbé), who travels rural France committing a series of violent murders.  He targets women, mostly prostitutes, strangling them when they are at their most vulnerable.  This routine gets old quickly for the audience, but Grandrieux does what he can with an alt-rock soundtrack to subvert the monotony.

            While this factor staves off complete tedium the film doesn’t really hold any emotional weight throughout its first act.  No inclination as to Jean’s motivation or even his personality is divulged.  This remains true even as he meets a pair of very different sisters.  Claire (Elina Löwensohn) and Christine (Géraldine Voillat) couldn’t have more different attitudes toward sex.  One gets the sense that Christine teases Claire about retaining her virginity.  Still, they love each other as sisters should.  It’s not completely clear how Jean works his way into their lives, or if he’s ever even met Claire before he offers her a ride on a rain-soaked day.  In either case his relationship with the sisters escalates quickly onscreen, and it’s not long before he joins them on swimming excursion at a secluded lake.  Whether he’s invited on the trip or not is unclear as well, but doesn’t seem to matter to Grandrieux.

            What’s interesting is how the factors that have come before don’t add up to the familiar feeling of movie suspense.  Despite the film’s close camerawork, emotionally these characters couldn’t be further away from the audience.  When Jean attacks Christine after she invites him to skinny dip, it’s neither surprising nor engaging.  It’s just happening.  With a plot full of holes it’s unclear how events develop after Claire stops the onslaught, but the film returns to its earlier pattern shortly thereafter, with both sisters as the victims.  There is a surge of emotion in the last third of the movie as Claire makes a strange but somehow noble sacrifice, before finally being abandoned by Jean.

            In the scene that follows, the best in the film, she sits in the kitchen of a woman whose taken pity on her, sipping tea and trying to understand her ordeal.  Her words prompt this gracious host to drift into conversation about a lost love, and in a few long takes she describes an entire affair.  Her words and her face are sad, but the story is beautiful, simple, and somehow it works here.  In a brutal film, it is the moment of transcendence.

            What happens to Jean or to Claire after this scene is unclear.  Perhaps in a way she has saved him from the monster that he is, but no one can ever know.  For most of this picture I was convinced that its director was lost; directionless perhaps even more so than his subject.  Reflecting on the film, I’m not so certain.  At its outset, before we ever meet Jean, a prologue sequence displays children sitting in a theatre and watching horror film.  That’s what I’d expected this piece to be, but I was mistaken.  Though cited as horror I believe that it is a commentary on horror.  We are the children, scared to look at the darkness inside of ourselves, afraid to admit what we fear that we might find.  That doesn’t make it good, but at least it has some thought behind it.  The picture also apparently has something to do with the Tour de France, but I’m still mulling that over.

Language: French

Runtime: 112 Minutes

Available from Netflix.com

Grade:  1.5 Hats Off               

104: The Seventh Victim

            I’m not quite sure what to make of the Val Lewton produced The Seventh Victim (1943).  It’s one of a string of well-regarded horror/suspense pictures that Lewton put together for RKO studios in the early forties, but it’s certainly not the best, as the 1001 text suggests.  I found the Lewton touch much more satisfying with both I Walked with a Zombie (also 1943) and The Body Snatcher (1945).  Despite this difference of opinion, I’ll concede that any movie fan should see at least one Lewton picture.  The Seventh Victim would serve as a good enough introduction to his work I suppose, but should not be given precedence over the likes of his Cat People (1942).

            If you’re a regular reader I’m sure you’ve noted my attention to the film’s producer here, where I typically, as any good auteur subscriber would, give primary consideration to direction.  The Seventh Victim was directed by Mark Robson, who helms the picture well enough, but Lewton was the driving force.  The movie is available on DVD from Warner Bros. Home Entertainment contained in a “Val Lewton Horror Collection”, and what’s good enough for WB is good enough for me to ascribe credit.  These films in fact hold great importance in this regard as they represent the era in which the power over production began to rest with directors as opposed to producers.  Lewton wasn’t the last tycoon, but he’s evocative of a breed that began to die out in the 1940s.  One thing is certain.  The pictures he produced for RKO, though not masterpieces do hold a significant place in film history as staples of WWII era horror.

            Lewton movies often featured dynamic female leads, and The Seventh Victim is no exception.  Here, in her film debut, Kim Hunter plays Mary Gibson, an orphan searching the streets of Manhattan for her estranged older sister, Jacqueline (Jean Brooks).  The elder sister has sold her business and disappeared while Mary was away at school, leaving the younger girl desperate for tuition.  No one at the beauty parlor Jacqueline owned seems to know her whereabouts or appears to be too eager to have her found.  She’s been spotted at a rented room above a restaurant, but the apartment contains only a chair and a noose hanging from a rafter.  Private investigators offer their services to Mary, but seem to be more eager to conceal information than divulge it while a friendly lawyer and a suspicious psychologist seem more interested than perhaps they should be in the case.

            The plot here is ridiculous; full of holes and conversations that negate themselves.  At a crucial moment in a police station a man says something to a squirrelly PI that completely betrays his reason for saying it.  Characters develop relationships that destroy their reasons for ever uniting in the first place.  Men lurk in alleys and on subways with looks on their faces that all but openly proclaim their malicious intent.  Motivations are not so much explained as ingrained in characters to advance the plot, and it all boils down to a cadre of brainwashing devil worshipers.  Hunter plays along and does what she can to carry the film, but the whole thing functions better in sequences than in a vain attempt at a cohesive story.

            The Seventh Victim ends on an appropriately eerie note, but not one that affectively resolves the numerous avenues that the film meanders down.  It has a unique feel as a blend between horror and the emerging noir genre of its time, but it misses the mark when it comes to basic elements of story.  Lewton made better films than this in his short life (1904-1951) and was always at his best when he kept things simple.  The Seventh Victim is a movie that takes the simple and tries to add complexity; never a wise attempt on celluloid.

Language: English

Runtime: 71 Minutes

Available through Netflix.com

Grade: 1.5 Hats Off     

One Not To Be Missed

I usually refrain from writing about the supplemental films that have been added to the list, as the original and the accompanying blogs keep me rather busy.  However, I do try to see all of these films and feel the need to strongly recommend one of the recent additions.  Four Lions (2010) was selected for the most recent list of inclusions and deservedly so.  This is a bold comedy and notable debut from British TV Director Christopher Morris that handles terrorism in a light that's likely to be uncomfortable for many.  I think that it's a Dr. Strangelove for a new generation. It is a film that addresses religous fundamentalism by taking it to it's logical, and tragic conclusion, and that allows audiences to make up their own minds about what they see.  It's a movie that is not to be missed and it's currently streaming @ Netflix.com.

105: Whiskey Galore!

            Sooner or later lovers of the movies will stumble upon the Ealing comedies.  The Ealing studio, based in London, produced many of post war Britain’s finest features, and a good number of them find their way onto the 1001 list.  Whiskey Galore! (1949) is not the best of the Ealing productions – that would be Kind Heart and Coronets (also 1949) – but it is one of the best.  The studio made light-hearted, but not totally devoid of commentary films for a country that desperately needed a laugh.  The war had changed English society, exposing the farce that was class distinction, and suddenly hundreds of years of manners were up for parody.

            Here, writer Compton Mackenzie and director Alexander Mackendrick take square aim at man’s desire for drink and the cultural predisposition to alcohol that runs rampant in the British Isles.  When the war brings about shipping restrictions and rationing the inhabitants of the fishing village on the island of Todday drink their supply of spirits dry.  The resulting prolonged sobriety threatens to drive the Scotch/Irish villagers mad, much to the delight of the tee-totaling and very English captain of the Home Guard (Basil Radford).  Thinking these happenings provide the perfect opportunity to instill discipline in his troops, the captain fears the worst when a storm shipwrecks a cargo boat bound for America with 50,000 cases of hooch just off the island’s shore.

            Word spreads quickly through the village, and men begin to gather on the beach hoping to retrieve the libations before the ship, wedged on the rocks, takes on water and sinks into the deep.  In one of the film’s best sequences the gathering is halted just prior to launching their fishing skiffs as the clock strikes midnight.  Thirst or no thirst fishermen do not board their boats on the Sabbath.  The day of rest gives the Guard Captain a reprieve from mayhem and he’s determined to prevent “looting” of the cargo when the clock signals midnight again.  He recruits a young sergeant, a non-local who’s returned to duty on the island after a stint in North Africa, to take the first watch over the ghost ship, but romantic interests might hinder the soldier’s abilities as a guard.

            This is a film of fantastic sequences.  The “looting” of the ship’s cargo hold, the hiding of the salvaged spirits, and the race to keep them away from regulators make this movie engaging and even suspenseful at times.  Yes, the audience knows who will win out from the onset of the picture, but not all predictability is bad at the movies.  Radford plays the strait man well, and you can see that he’s having fun with the task.  Meanwhile, the cast of characters who surround him make the island of Todday seem like the most pleasant of places to have a wee nip, and the Barra location cinematography by Gerald Gibbs is picturesque.  I wont say that the film concludes on a happy note – I suppose it doesn’t – but it is the correct note, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Language: English with some Gaelic

Runtime: 82 Minutes

Available from Netflix.com

Grade: 3 Hats Off

106: The Bigamist

            It’s a sad truth that Hollywood turned its back on female writers and directors during the golden age of the 1930s and 40s.  Women had been major contributors, particularly as scribes, during the earliest days of the moving pictures, but by the time WWII turned the industry on its ear a female director or producer was a scarcity.  This is a trend that we still largely observe to this day, especially in the case of directing, but a much needed reversal has slowly begun.  One often noted exception from the golden age however, remains Ida Lupino.  Sometimes called a “poor man’s Bette Davis” Lupino was a fine actress in the Warner Company who could hold the attention of an audience even when sharing the screen with the likes of Bogart.

            As an actress she’s best remembered for her role opposite Bogey in Warner’s High Sierra (1941), but by the end of the 40s she had taken up duties behind the camera as well.  She directed eight features over a 17 year period – her first at the age of 31.  Of those titles, the most often cited by the film snob set is 1953s The Bigamist.  The film is the story of Harry Graham (Edmond O’Brien), a refrigerator salesman living an unintended double life.  Traveling on business from his home in San Francisco to Los Angeles, his loneliness leads him into the arms of a young waitress (Lupino).  The only problem is that he has a wife (Joan Fontaine), who doubles as his office manger, back in San Fran.  He loves both women, but in different ways, and when the waitress gets pregnant he does what he thinks is honorable.

            As irony would have it, he’s been trying for children with the first Mrs. Graham for years, eventually accepting that they’ll never conceive.  As a result, their relationship began to focus on their sales business, leaving Graham extra lonely on his frequent trips downstate.  With the second wife and a child adding a new meaning to his life, underhanded as it might be, Graham’s rejuvenated spark of vitality encourages the first Mrs. to want to adopt.  Wanting to please her he agrees to begin the process, but is reluctant to sign over consent of personal investigation.

            The story is told in flashback to an adoption agency detective who stumbles upon Graham’s secret in Los Angeles.  What makes the picture intriguing is the way in which Graham is able to convince the audience that he loves two women whom he simultaneously betrays.  Why didn’t he tell the waitress he was married when they met?  Was he looking for an affair?  Why hasn’t he decided between the two Mrs. Grahams?  This material might have been turned into comedy in the hands of another director, but Lupino finds a way to tow a strait line between tragedy and social commentary here, never straying too far into either territory.

            This film is not a masterpiece.  Of that I’m certain, despite what the 1001 text claims.  However, it is a good film that will capture an audience for its limited runtime of 80 minutes, and perhaps leave them heartbroken by its courtroom conclusion.  That scene leaves more questions than answers as well, but is the correct note to end on.  There will be no happy ending for the three people caught in this love triangle, but to show an all-out tragedy might dispel any notion that they ever loved at all.  That’s the touch that a female director brings to this material.  It is serious, but not without some sympathy.  I began writing this review with the intention of claiming that this piece would not be included in the 1001 canon were it not directed by a woman, and it turns out I was right…but for the wrong reason.

Language: English

Runtime: 80 Minutes

Available from Netflix.com

Grade: 2.5 Hats Off

Note: I’m not a frequent viewer of NBCs Thursday night lineup, but couldn’t miss the background namedrop of one of Graham’s refrigeration colleagues, a certain Bob Vance.     

107: The Kingdom (a.k.a. Riget –original Danish title)

            About five years ago when I first purchased the 1001 text I spent a semester reading it cover to cover.  I wanted to know what I was in for and what titles contained within that I’d already viewed.  I don’t remember the contents of each write-up, a fact that I am thankful for as I now prefer to be surprised by films, but I distinctly remember reading about Lars Von Trier’s The Kingdom (1994).  It’s given almost a full-page write-up in the second edition of the text, and I remember questioning how so much of what is covered in that write-up could fit into one obviously strange film. 

            The simple answer is that it is a long movie.  Originally produced for Danish television as a four part miniseries, The Kingdom runs about 280 minutes if viewed in episodic form.  It was reedited for theatrical release, cutting out the repetitive title and pre-credit sequences, down to a two part 265 minute runtime.  However, even within this lengthy canvas, The Kingdom is absolutely overflowing with content that bridges drama, horror, and comedy.  With about ten principle roles, there’s hardly time for any filler.

            Though the first quarter of the film begins slowly, it establishes characters well and effectively draws viewers into the narrative with elements of suspense.  The Kingdom is the most technologically superior hospital in all of Scandinavia, and much to the chagrin of Swedish neurosurgeon Stig Helmer (Ernst-Hugo Järegård) it stands in Copenhagen; just close enough to the Swedish border to see their nuclear power plants.  The arrogant Dr. Helmer has little use for Danes, believing them inferior, but is banished from working in Sweden after publishing others’ research as his own.  Medical director Einar Moesgaard (Holger Juul Hansen) is only to happy to have him join his surgical staff, especially as “Operation Morning Breeze”, a happy-go-lucky PR campaign, is instituted at the hospital.

            Dr. Moesgaard is so preoccupied with the institution of this program and the meetings of a secret society called “The Lodge” that convenes in the building’s basement, that he neglects his medical student son; to preoccupied himself with giving a severed cadaver head to a pretty sleep study technician.  These actions do not go unnoticed however by Hook, a surgeon by day/medical Robin Hood by night who has just fallen for his pregnant but single colleague Dr. Peterson.  Meanwhile an orderly, Bulder (Jens Okking), and his hypochondriac spiritualist mother, Mrs. Drusse (Kirsten Rolffes), are roaming the halls of The Kingdom searching for supernatural phenomenon.  There is also Dr. Bondo (Baard Owe), so desperate to find a liver with a hepatoma to experiment on that he’ll stop at literally nothing to get a hold of one.

            All of these characters and events seem to have something or another to do with two cases involving little girls.  One is Mona, who has been left severely brain damaged after a mishap during an operation.  Hook is sure that Helmer is to blame, but he can’t prove anything unless he can get access to the massive and permanently sealed hospital archives.  The other is Mary, whose records have been sealed therein since her mysterious death in 1919.  Though it’s unclear whether Mary’s body ever left The Kingdom, Mrs. Drusse is convinced that her soul is most definitely trapped in one of the elevator shafts.  The only people who seem to know anything for certain are the Hospital dishwashers.

            This is only the beginning of this most complex and wildly entertaining film.  It might not be the easiest film to convince friends to sit down and watch with you, but those who agree to will be hooked.  The Kingdom has something going for it that few other contemporary horror films have.  It is genuinely creepy.  Not just scary, but creepy.  Von Trier made decisions with his lighting, filters, film stock, and casting that create genuine moments of uneasiness, long before the climactic payoff.  Likewise, his script works on multiple complex levels, any one of which would make a good short film in its own right. 

            There are some dated graphics and special effects here that I’m sure some naysayers will point to in order to detract from this work, but I find that they actually made the film more effective.  It’s clear that Von Trier has enough confidence in his writing that these peccadilloes were negligible to him.  The director himself addresses his audience after each episode, indulging with a devilish smile in his ability to manipulate emotions.  He succeeds here in creating a work and a world that transcend the level of a typical horror movie, making a piece that would surly be loved by any X Files fan willing, as Von Trier recites “to take the good with the evil.”

Language: Danish

Runtime: 280 Minutes

Available through Netflix.com

Grade: 3.5 Hats Off