Monthly Report: January, 2020

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Scott Ross

As my quarterly reports seem to be getting longer and longer, and because I’m watching more movies of late, I’m trying a monthly capsule in place of my usual quarterlies. At least this month. If I see fewer movies in future I may go back to the quarterly model, or perhaps a bimonthly accounting.

As ever, click on the highlighted titles for longer reviews.

Gilbert (2017)

Gilbert and Dara Gottfried

Neil Berkeley’s surprisingly sweet, even moving, portrait of the comedian Gilbert Gottfried.


Anything Goes (1954)

Anything Goes - Sinatra, Merman and Lahr

“Good evening, friends…” Sinatra, Merman and Lahr in an unreasonable facsimile of Anything Goes.

A mess, with compensations. Not content with re-jiggering the 1934 original, the adapting writer Herbert Baker turns a resolutely 1930s Cole Porter show into a “Roaring ’20s” musical and, favoring idiot Charleston dance breaks and “Runyanland”-inspired stage antics, cuts one of Ethel Merman’s best numbers (“Buddy Beware”) and leaves Bert Lahr, as the gangster Moonface, without his solo (“Be Like the Bluebird”). He also turns Billy (Frank Sinatra) into an agent, renames him “Harry” and has him pining for Merman’s Reno Sweeney, rather than, as in the original show, the other way around. Okay, I get it: They had to trim the play to fit the 60-minute Colgate Comedy Hour format, so Billy’s inamorata Hope had to go and the role of Reno’s English fiancée Evelyn Oakley (Arthur Gould-Porter) became practically a walk-on. But that’s no excuse for the raging inanity that marks much of the rest.

The commercial release on DVD comes courtesy of the lyricist Stephen Cole, to whom Merman’s heirs gave her kinescope copy, and it looks terrific. Nor can an aficionado complain about the casting; the opportunity to see Lahr in his prime is worth sitting through the thing. It’s also, as he would have said, a kick to see Sinatra, at the peak of his form, in a live broadcast. Merman was identified with the role (or at least, with its songs)  but she’s an odd choice for Sinatra’s love-match; I kept looking at her big frame and flabby, middle-aged arms and wondering what the hell that healthy young man was doing making love to a fat, braying old broad.

That’s the problem with having stars re-create their big roles decades after the original premieres, although Merman is in great voice throughout. Lahr, of course, as the comic has no such problems, and this Anything Goes at least preserves for generations who never saw him perform live, or who know him only as The Cowardly Lion, his peerless way with a line and his trademark “g-nong, g-nong” expression, lifted and slightly altered by Curly Howard in the ’30s. Still, it’s hard to credit that this tasteless mélange was produced by Leland Hayward and Jule Styne. Styne has been dead for years, but if someone had done this to one of his musicals, we’d still hear him screaming about it.


Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)

Snow White - bedroom

Walt Disney’s first animated feature still delights — and terrifies —  80-plus years later.


Sleeping Beauty (1959)
Sleeping Beauty - spindle

One of the most visually compelling of the animated features made at his studio while Walt Disney was alive, Sleeping Beauty, initially released in Super Technirama 70mm, is a knockout on a wide theatre screen… a pleasure I am sorry to say few in America will ever enjoy again as I did with Disney cartoons, often, in my youth. It still looks good on a plasma screen, and its climax is beautifully animated, but it’s a rather cold movie — a triumph of design over substance. Disney, busy with his park, let Eyvind Earle impose his style, based in large part on John Hench’s evocations of the Unicorn tapestries at the Cloisters in New York, on the picture, and often backed Earle over his animators. The major problem with Sleeping Beauty is that what should be its central character is little more than a cypher. Cinderella, the previous Disney animated feature focused on a young woman (as opposed to the girl Alice in Alice in Wonderland) gave its heroine rich character, and dimension, from the very first scene. She was kind, and generous, and we understood that, while laboring in terrible circumstances, she never wasted a moment feeling sorry for herself, even if she occasionally (and deservedly) expressed resigned irritation. The teenage Brier Rose/Aurora, this story’s princess, has only one important sequence (directed by Eric Larson) before she falls under the wicked fairy Maleficent’s spell, and while it’s a lovely one, and lengthy, it isn’t enough. And in its aftermath, when she learns her identity from the fairies who raised her and is told she’s betrothed and can’t see the boy she’s met in the forest, her reaction seems petty, like a petulant schoolgirl throwing an after-school fit because her mother’s grounded her.

None of the other characters are especially fulsome except Maleficent, and that’s largely due to Marc Davis’ animation (he also animated Aurora) and Eleanor Audley’s superb vocal performance. Three who come close to being well-defined are the good fairies, Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather, animated almost entirely by Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnston. (Milt Kahl’s Prince Phillip has dimensions, but he’s no more fully sketched-in than the Princess.) Wolfgang Reitherman, who later took Disney animation into an almost entirely sentiment-free realm as the director of every feature between 1961 and 1977, was responsible for the picture’s most effective sequence, the epic battle between Phillip and Maleficent in the form of a great dragon. Interestingly, Reitherman’s mediocre work as the director of the hipper, less emotionally plangent titles of the ’60s and ’70s, is bordered by two of the studio’s best features, 101 Dalmatians and The Rescuers. Somehow, something more came through in those pictures. Whatever it was, a tincture or two should have been applied to Sleeping Beauty.


The Magnificent Ambersons (1942)

The Magnificent Ambersons 194373582Although it physically sickens me whenever I think about what RKO did to it, I tend to see what could have been Orson Welles’ masterwork more or less yearly as I get older, and, as with Citizen Kane, usually notice something fresh in it I hadn’t quite seen before — some little detail, or even just a look on one of the actors’ faces, that had previously eluded me and that enriches the experience. And each time I see it, Agnes Moorehead’s performance moves me more. It’s among the most naked jobs of acting in movies; I don’t think the kind of shrill, bitter, self-pitying loneliness she evokes as Fanny Minifer has its equal anywhere in American film, and she doesn’t make you wince; despite yourself, you pity her. That Moorhead was herself as plain as Fanny in the story makes her work doubly impressive, and poignant. And she isn’t afraid to look ugly, as when she mocks Georgie (Tim Holt); you understand, without being told (although it’s made explicit later in the picture) that she has put up with this spoiled brat’s mean-spirited teasing for 20 years, and is giving back in the same, immature, vein — the only response possible. Although Welles maintained that Moorehead’s best scene was removed from the picture and burned, she has two sequences that are almost shocking in their raw emotionality.  One, famously, is near the end, when insupportable reality drives her to hysteria. But the first, when she realizes just how terrible are the consequences of her hurt carelessness, is, although briefer, in its way even greater. The way, leaning over on the staircase nearly in pain, Moorehead moans out Fanny’s misery and regret (Oh, I was a fool!) as if she’d like to push every harmful word she’s ever spoken back down her own gullet, and choke on them, is so utterly without guile or calculation it’s almost a new form of acting. Stanislavsky would have had little to teach her.


Anatomy of a Murder (1959)
Anatomy of a Murder - Gazarra, Stewart
Otto Preminger was a superficially gifted filmmaker who, perhaps because he was as publicity-conscious as Hitchcock, routinely got credit for more than he deserved, and ink for outraging the system, itself largely out of proportion to his achievements. (Groucho Marx: “I drove by Otto Preminger’s house last night… or is that A House by Otto Preminger?”) I give him a certain amount of credit for unblinkingly depicting addiction and withdrawal in The Man with the Golden Arm (1954) and for twitting the idiot Production Code with The Moon is Blue (1953) but his alleged genius eludes me. That said, Anatomy of a Murder stands not merely as the finest of all courtroom dramas, and a sneakily subversive one, but as one of the greatest of all popular American movies. Much of the credit goes to the sceenwriter, Wendell Mayes, for taking a mildly diverting (and somewhat self-serving) novel by a former Michigan County Prosecuting Attorney — and then state Supreme Court Justice — and improving it in nearly every way. I don’t know how much of this revision was guided by Preminger, but the movie’s deep sense of ambiguity, regarding the law, the behavior of its characters and the case itself was surely shared by the picture’s director. James Stewart gives a career-high performance as the wily defense attorney, and he’s met blow-for-blow by the supporting cast: Lee Remick as a curiously sensual rape victim (one can just hear today’s “a woman never lies” crowd gnashing their teeth and murmuring, “How very dare they!”), Ben Gazzara as her intelligent brute of a husband, Arthur O’Connell as a bibulous former attorney, Kathryn Grant as the murder victim’s heir, George C. Scott as a sneering prosecutor, Orson Bean as an Army shrink, Russ Brown as a trailer park caretaker, Murray Hamilton as a hostile witness, John Qualen as  a prison deputy, Howard McNear as an expert witness, Jimmy Conlin as an habitual drunkard happy to sacrifice his liberty for a case of fine liquor, Don Ross as a shady con, Joseph N. Welch — himself lately, and famously, a defense attorney for the Army against a certain Senator from Wisconsin — as the presiding judge and, sublimely, Eve Arden as Stewart’s wry and long-suffering secretary. Few months have passed since my seeing this movie the first time that I haven’t had occasion to hear Arden’s “If I was on that jury I don’t know what I’d do. I really don’t know” reverberate softly in my head.

Anatomy of a Murder - Eve Arden resized

Preminger will never be a favorite of mine, but this movie certainly is.


Casablanca (1942)

Casablanca - Bogart drunk

Of all the gin-joints…

I hope it isn’t true, as I have read, that Millennials and their even younger counterparts don’t know, have not heard of and have never seen, one of everybody else’s favorite movies… but I suspect it is. Because it’s in black-and-white? Because it’s older than Star Wars? Because it’s concerned with people, as opposed to special effects? Well, they don’t know who Jack Kennedy was either, or care that he was probably murdered by their government. Whatever the reasons, the losses are theirs entirely. Or soon will be. And then they’ll be the world’s.

Still… imagine a time, 40 or 50 years from now, when no one remembers Casablanca. I’m glad I’ll have been long dead.


My Dinner with André (1981)
My Dinner with Andre

In the nearly four decades since this nonpariel movie was released, I don’t think a week has gone by without my recalling something André Gregory said in it. So much of what he and Wallace Shawn discuss seemed at the time both extreme and all too possible. Now their conversation feels entirely prescient.

Wallace Shawn: “I actually had a purpose as I was writing this: I wanted to destroy that guy that I played, to the extent that there was any of me there. I wanted to kill that side of myself by making the film, because that guy is totally motivated by fear.”


Key Largo (1948)
Key Largo - Bogart on boat
This adaptation, by Richard Brooks and John Huston, of Maxwell Anderson’s 1939 blank verse drama retained little but the basic narrative set-up, a character or two, and the title. The antagonists of the reactionary Anderson’s play were Mexican bandidos, and the Humphrey Bogart character was a deserter from the Spanish Civil War. (He’s also, in typical poetic/nihilist 1930s fashion, killed at the end, after redeeming himself. Huston and Brooks let Bogie off that unnecessary hook.) As a high-tension melodrama, the picture is vastly entertaining as long as you don’t take it seriously for a moment.

Among the things that can’t take much scrutiny is Huston’s desire to make a cheap hood like the Edward G. Robinson character stand in for all the evil of the post-war world. But if you ignore the unworkable metaphors and Lauren Bacall’s inability to do much of anything except smolder and concentrate instead on the performances by Robinson, Bogart and, especially, Claire Trevor as a broken-down alcoholic former gun-moll, as well as the thick Florida atmosphere, the mechanics of the thriller plot, the bits of dialogue that don’t strain for profundity and the best moments of Huston’s direction, Key Largo always makes for a robust evening’s entertainment. The Max Steiner score is a little easier to take than some of his earlier bombast, and the cinematography by Karl Freund is really sumptuous. Freund was the lighting director on some remarkable silents (The Golem, 1920; The Last Laugh, 1924; Variety, 1925; Metropolis, 1927; and Berlin: Symphony of a Metropolis, 1927) as well as the 1931 Dracula and the 1936 Camille. He was later responsible, in conjunction with Desi Arnaz, for the development of the three-camera technique for television comedy and was, from 1951 to 1957, the director of photography on I Love Lucy. That hasn’t anything to do with Key Largo, but it’s impressive.


Night Moves (1975)

Night Moves 6

Paul Vitello, in his 2013 New York Times obituary of the Scottish novelist and sometime screenwriter Alan Sharp, wrote that “his best-known narratives created and then disassembled audience expectations about all the usual Hollywood verities, especially the triumph of justice, love and friendship,” and it seems pretty obvious it was Sharp whose sensibilities most informed this little-seen but essential 1970s detective thriller. It’s as dark and nihilistic as Chinatown, and while I would not claim for it the richness of that landmark of ’70s cinematic Americana, it’s an infinitely better movie than some of the more well-known Arthur Penn-directed pictures of the time like Little Big Man and The Missouri Breaks. Gene Hackman plays Harry Moseby, a Los Angeles P.I. with a crumbling marriage, on the trail of a runaway teenager (Melanie Griffith). The mystery isn’t that search — Harry finds the girl fairly easily — but what is going on with her stepfather in Florida, and why she is suddenly killed, seemingly by accident.

It’s not a perfect movie, by any means. As the femme fatale, Jennifer Warren’s line-readings are so odd they eventually become false and off-putting, a key telephone answering machine message goes un-listened to and with no dramatic payoff, in an early appearance as a mechanic James Woods doesn’t just chew the scenery but every engine in sight, and some of the scenes don’t seem fully shaped. But it’s wonderfully observed, always intelligent, often witty, and even Griffith is good in it, perhaps because she’s an adolescent and, for once, her little-girl voice is appropriate. The terrific supporting cast includes Susan Clark, Edward Binns, Harris Yulin, Janet Ward and John Crawford, Michael Small composed the brief but effective score, and the beautiful photography is by the great Bruce Surtees.


Sahara (1943)
Sahara 1943
I don’t know how a movie this implausible can be, conversely, so cleverly contrived, so intelligently written and so engagingly acted. Sahara certainly had some impressive writers involved in it: The screenplay was by John Howard Lawson (with an un-credited assist by Sidney Buchman) and Philip MacDonald wrote the story. The main titles tell us that the picture was based on “an incident depicted in the Soviet photoplay The Thirteen” (Тринадцать, or  Trinadtsat, listed in the credits as 1936 but actually 1937) but a cursory look at the plot for that Russian movie suggests that Sahara is in fact a direct adaptation; the only aspects that seem notably different are the setting (the African desert in 1943 as opposed to Turkestan before the war), the antagonists (Nazis rather than Asian bandits as the besieged heroes’ bêtes noire) and their much greater number. The picture concerns the remnants of a tank crew, a troupe of British Medical Corpsmen its members encounter while on retreat, a Sudanese soldier and his Italian prisoner, a duplicitous Nazi (as if there were any other kind), a phalanx of German soldiers and a desert well. Although not above the occasional war-movie cliché, Sahara is refreshingly restrained and only rarely gives out with one of those bits of Allied propaganda that were de rigueur during the War but which have induced cringes in audiences ever since. The incidentals, such as Rudolph Maté’s crisp, glorious cinematography, Miklós Rózsa’s prototypical score and the Imperial County, California locations, could scarcely be bettered.

Zoltán Korda’s direction is straightforward and without fuss, yet takes time to examine the faces of the actors, and they’re worth lingering over: Humphrey Bogart, of course, as the tank commander, the amusingly named Joe Gunn, but also Dan Duryea in an immensely likable performance as Bogie’s pilot; Bruce Bennett as his navigator; Richard Nugent as the British Captain; Rex Ingram as the Sudanese; and J. Carrol Naish as the Italian. Lloyd Bridges shows up just long enough to get strafed by machine-gun fire, linger a bit, and die, and Peter Lawford is alleged to be among the British but I didn’t spot him. Naish is splendid as the conflicted prisoner (he got an Oscar® nod for it) and if Ingram with his distinctive speech patterns couldn’t be anything but American and isn’t any more believable a Sudanese than he was an Arabian djinn in the Kordas’ 1940 The Thief of Bagdad, anyone who quibbles about that is just spoiling for a fight.

Having recently re-encountered The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca and Key Largo, I’m in a Bogart mood these days; this entry, while on no account one of his best, made for a more than adequate diversion. And at 98 minutes, Sahara was exactly the right length.


Cutter’s Way (1981)
Cutter's Way - John Heard and Jeff Bridges
A beautifully observed study of three more or less desperate people in the form of a grungy thriller, based on an interesting novel, and improving on it. Jeffrey Alan Fishin wrote the incisive screenplay, the recently-deceased Ivan Passer directed with economy and compassion, and I don’t see how the performances by the leads (Jeff Bridges, John Heard and Lisa Eichhorn) could be improved upon. One of the last gasps of 1970s personal cinema, and one of the best arguments for it.

Text copyright 2020 by Scott Ross

Quarterly Report: October – December 2019

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By Scott Ross

Note: For fuller reviews of some of the movies below, click on the highlighted titles.

The Sign of Four / The Hound of the Baskervilles (1983)

Hound of the Baskervilles - Richardson, Churchill

A pair of Sherlock Holmes adaptations by Charles Edward Pogue for British television starring the irreplaceable Ian Richardson which, while not precisely faithful to Conan Doyle, are rich in atmosphere and, in Richardson, boast perhaps the finest Holmes before Jeremy Brett sealed the franchise.



Underworld U.S.A.
(1961)

Underworld U.S.A. - Dolores Dorn, Robertson

Mediocre Samuel Fuller is still worth watching, although we might have expected better of a former ace crime reporter than this half-baked yarn concerning revenge served at freezing temperature. But then, the picture dates from an uncertain period for Fuller, the years wherein he meandered between the sting of House of Bamboo (1955) and Forty Guns (1957) and the astonishment of Shock Corridor (1963) and The Naked Kiss (1964). Most of the Fuller pictures from that time are curios, quasi-successful but tamer affairs than those that came before. This one, suggested by some Saturday Evening Post pieces by Joseph F. Dinneen, has its moments but the plot isn’t feasible in the slightest, the romance seems shoe-horned in, and I don’t buy Cliff Robertson as a hardened criminal for a moment. (But then, I don’t buy Robertson as pretty much anything.) Much better are Beatrice Kay as his surrogate mother, David Kent as his adolescent self, Dolores Dorn as his would-be paramour, Larry Gates as the cop-turned-D.A. who’d like to nail the mobsters and set Robertson straight, and Richard Rust as a smiling, sweet-faced sadist who seems to literally seduce Robertson into the mob; their initial meetings feel like an extended courtship dance.

Despite some beautiful set-ups (the cinematographer was Hal Mohr) and a few effective scenes, Underworld USA ultimately has too many sequences like Rust’s running-down of a little girl on her bicycle: Fuller doesn’t show the killing, only the child’s mother calling to her from an upstairs window and the girl (Joni Beth Morris) looking back just before impact. Instead of enhancing the horror, these rather studied choices diminish it; they’re like the worst of Hitchcock — which is bad enough only a fool would emulate it. Like Verboten!, Run of the Arrow, The Crimson Kimono, Hell and High Water and Merrill’s Marauders, Underworld USA is less a good movie than a collection of some good scenes in search of a better place to go.



Scorpio 
(1973)

Scorpio - Scofield

An avis of increasing rarity, the intelligent thriller, anchored by the performances of Burt Lancaster, Alain Delon and the magnificent Paul Scofield.



The Maltese Falcon
(1941)

The Maltese Falcon - The stuff that dreams are made of

John Huston’s extraordinary debut as a writer/director, a masterpiece of detective fiction featuring Humphrey Bogart’s breakthrough performance as Sam Spade.



The Man Who Would Be King 
(1975)

The Man Who Would Be King - Caine, Plummer, Connery

Another of John Huston’s group quests toward ultimate failure, a tangy adaptation of Kipling with a superb trio of leading players in Michael Caine, Sean Connery and Christopher Plummer.



A Study in Terror
(1965)

A Study in Terror - John Neville and Donald Huston

A clever, if implausible, mating of Sherlock Holmes with the Jack the Ripper mythos, which isn’t a patch on the later Murder by Decree (1978) but which boasts an excellent Holmes in the person of the classical actor John Neville, later immortalized as Baron Munchausen by Terry Gilliam. Donald Houston is a good Watson, the splendid Anthony Quayle an excellent Doctor Murray, Frank Finlay in a part he reprised in Murder by Decree is an intelligent(!) Lestrade, and it’s fascinating to see a very young Judi Dench in a pivotal role. The boxer Terry Downes has a sexy, and surprisingly well acted, cameo role, and John Scott composed an effective score which, even when it brings in bongo drums(!!) does so in a way that feels wholly appropriate.

The cinematography by Desmond Dickinson is a bit on the bland side, period television color where chiaroscuro was called for, and James Hill’s direction, while brisk and effective, lacks the sick-making horror the subject demands. Perhaps the most unsettling aspect of the movie is Georgia Brown, the original Nancy of the musical Oliver!, whose warm whiskey-contralto has long been a favored sound in my home. She shows up twice, as a pub singer in Whitechapel (presumably on the basis of her performance of the Lionel Bart song “Oom-Pah-Pah” in Oliver!) and if you only listen, she’s perfect. Her face, alas, explains why others got to play her stage roles in movies. She grew into her looks eventually and became a handsome older woman, but in 1966 hers was not the type of physiognomy guaranteed to queue up the paying customers.



The Life of Émile Zola
(1937)

The Life of Emile Zola - Paul Muni and Vladimir Sokoloff

I first encountered this all-too-typical Warner Bros. biopic on television in my early adolescence, and all I really remembered was the material dealing with Captain Dreyfus. Seeing it again, now, I understand why: It’s one of the few inherently dramatic portions of the narrative. While the picture’s Dreyfuss (Joseph Schildkraut) was whitewashed — it was his arrogance of personality as much as the fact of his Jewishness that precipitated his false arrest and cynical imprisonment — and the anti-Semitism downplayed, at least the subsequent trial of Zola for J’Accuse has spark, courtesy in part of Donald Crisp as the outraged attorney Labori. Those who have complained that the scapegoating of Dreyfus in the picture is depicted as entirely devoid of religious bigotry have apparently never noticed (and I admit it is fast) the juxtaposition of the insert-shot of the Captain’s file reading, “Religion: Jewish” with Harry Davenport’s line damning him as, of two suspects, the man to charge with treason. The implication is entirely obvious. But what can be expected of people who for decades have sung hosannas to Paul Muni’s unconscionably hammy performance as Zola? His constant shameless mugging for the camera indicates a self-regard so thorough an audience has little need to bother; he clearly thinks he’s adorable enough, why should we make it redundant?

L’affaire Dreyfus eats up so much screen time — and at that omits the role of Alfred’s older brother, promoting the idea that it was his wife who most successfully pressed the case for his innocence — that it would have made more sense to focus on it entirely rather than to attempt squeezing in the rest of Zola’s biography, and with such brevity; his early decades here are a whirl-wind of narrative cliché and the people (his wife, Alexandrine, played by Gloria Holden; Morris Carnovsky’s Anatole France; Grant Mitchell’s Clemenceau; and Vladimir Sokoloff’s Cézanne) are little more than names and attitudes. That it took no fewer than three scenarists (Heinz Herald, Geza Herczeg and Norman Reilly Raine) to bake the thin crust upon which the insufficient filling of this movie rests says something… although just what, I couldn’t say. Gale Sondergaard struggles valiantly with the underwritten role of Lucie Dreyfus and at least retains her dignity, but Schildkraut (who, rather unbelievably, won an Oscar® for this) is reduced to little more than periodically screaming, “I’m innocent! I’m innocent!” He does get one nice scene, however, when, freed at last after a decade on Devil’s Island he repeatedly hits the open doorway inviting him back to the outside world, turns, and retreats to his hated cell; in that moment you know everything you need to about the learned behavior of prisoners. The picture’s director, William Dieterle, does what he can with the material, and it is at least a very brisk movie, with very few longueurs despite its 116-minute running-time. Tony Gaudio’s black-and-white cinematography is rich, and beautifully lit; on the big screen in 1937 it must have seemed luminous.



Unforgiven
(1992)

Unforgiven - Clint Eastwood, Jaimz Woolvett

Clint Eastwood’s award-winning Western, a beautiful, even poetic, rumination on the cost of killing.


The Last Picture Show (1971)

MBDLAPI EC004

The damn near perfect adaptation of Larry McMurtry’s suberb coming-of-age novel by McMurtry and the director Peter Bogdanovich.



Big Jake
(1971)

Big Jake - Boone

Enjoyable late-period John Wayne, with an intelligent script and a savory performance by Richard Boone as the story’s mercenary central miscreant.


Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983)

somethingwicked_coverimage

A badly muddled misfire purportedly adapted from Ray Bradbury’s magical literary fantasy.


California Split (1974)

California Split - Altman

Robert Altman’s first feature utilizing the 8-track recording system that made Nashville possible, a genial character study of two degenerate gamblers played charmingly by George Segal and Elliott Gould.


The Scarecrow of Romney Marsh  (1963)

Scarecrow-of-romney-marsh-feat-10

An atmospheric and intelligent rendition, from Walt Disney, of Russell Thorndyke’s 18th century rogue Dr. Syn starring a splendid Patrick McGoohan.


Targets (1967/1968)

targets-7

Peter Bogdanovich’s extraordinary, disturbing first feature as a writer-director anatomizing both the sick state of Hollywood and the weird anomie of a serial killer is all too relevant to 21st century America.


20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954)

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea - Mason, Lorre, Douglas and Henried resized

Walt Disney’s first movie to be filmed in CinemaScope — it was also in 4-track stereo —  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was at the time one of the most expensive Hollywood productions ever attempted (between $5 and $9 million, imagine) and had it flopped would have been disastrous to the studio. The picture turned out so well it was one of the two top-grossers of its year, earning $28 million in 1954. And if it is less than absolutely ideal, especially in its confusingly British-Christian characterization of Jules Verne’s Sikh Captain Nemo, the movie is technically almost without a flaw, beautifully designed and shot, lengthy but involving, with literally marvelous art and set decoration (Peter Ellenshaw contributed some typically beautiful matte paintings)* and a splendid quartet of above-the-title actors. It’s the perfect Boy’s Adventure movie: Rich color photography by Franz Planer (his underwater and day-for-night effects are especially pleasing), an exciting score by Paul J. Smith, assured direction by Richard Fleischer, and an intelligent, often witty, adapted screenplay by Earl Felton that combine to form an exceptionally enjoyable night’s entertainment and in which human conflict, interior as well as exterior, are not elided.

Aside from the presence of the seal Sophie (that she needed water we never see her enter or exit from is evident from her shiny and obviously moistened skin) and the now-questionable “humor” of black cannibals getting zapped by Nemo’s protective electricity (why was it considered funny then?) the humor is refreshingly adult and mostly supplied by Kirk Douglas as the harpoonist Ned Land and Peter Lorre as Paul Henried’s assistant. Douglas also gets to sing a nifty ditty by Al Hoffman and Norman Gimbel called “A Whale of a Tale” which becomes one of the movie’s leitmotifs and makes a nice, belated compensation for his having left, in 1944, the original cast of On the Town, where he had the lead. James Mason is so good as Nemo you forgive Disney for messing with the original. That superb light baritone of Mason’s, combined with his elliptical speech patterns and highly idiosyncratic line readings, make him commanding, tragic and ironic at once.

The special effects, all of course in those days done by hand, are deeply impressive even now, with only one or two indifferent rear-screen bits muffing the whole. Walt produced this one himself, and his acumen shows: When the fight with the giant squid, originally shot against a red sunset on a static sea, both proved lifeless and revealed too many of the technicians’ wires, Disney suggested they re-shoot it at night, and during a storm at sea. It made all the difference; overnight, as it were, a poor sequence became a classic.

* The picture won Oscars® for Best Art Direction – Color (John Meehan, Emile Kuri) and Best Special Effects (John Hench, Joshua Meador), although according to Wikipedia, “the movie’s primary art designer, Harper Goff, who designed the Nautilus, was not a member of the Art Directors Union in 1954 and therefore, under a bylaw within the Academy of Motion Pictures… was unable to receive his Academy Award for Art Direction.”


The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1939)

The Adventures of S Holmes - Rathbone and Zucco

20th Century Fox’s immediate follow-up to its The Hound of the Baskervilles, released earlier in 1939, proves what a fluke the studio’s first Holmes picture was. Allegedly based on the William Gillette play, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes bears no resemblance to it, nor to the 1916 movie in which Gillette himself starred. Although the movie has a fine, foggy atmosphere — Leon Shamroy was the cinematographer — the narrative is asinine, and even insulting; two of Holmes’ typical lines are, “Whatever Watson has found out, you’ll know inevitably. I have unbounded confidence in his lack of discretion” and (to Nigel Bruce as the Doctor) “I’m afraid you’re an incorrigible bungler.” It concerns the machinations of a bearded(!) Professor Moriarty (George Zucco) to humiliate Holmes, by whom he is eventually thrown off the Tower of London(!!) and Zucco has a high old time of it, all but baring his fangs and gnashing his teeth. In the supporting cast, Terry Kilburn is a good Billy, Mary Forbes charming as a matron, Anthony Kemble-Cooper has a nice turn as a gentle upper-class twit avant la lettre, and Basil Rathbone has an enjoyable bit in disguise as a music hall entertainer. But Ida Lupino is wasted as the damsel in distress and the picture is both lumpy and formless. The director of this flavorless mélange was someone named Alfred L. Werker; this was probably his only well-remembered movie. Nowhere in the credits of the picture will you see the name of Arthur Conan Doyle… for which omission I presume his heirs were duly grateful.


HealtH (1979/1982)

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An often very amusing political satire directed by Robert Altman involving the race for president of a health convention. It’s an allegory about Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson, with Lauren Bacall as a narcoleptic 83-year old virgin (Ike) and Glenda Jackson as a prating intellectual (Stevenson) who talks, dryly and utterly without emotion, through everything and everyone. Paul Dooley is an obnoxious hypocrite of a third-party candidate who is a mass of prejudices and whose shtick is holding his breath under water, Carol Burnett is very funny as a representative of the President — since the picture was filmed in 1979, presumably Jimmy Carter — and James Garner is only slightly less so as her estranged husband, working for Bacall. Donald Moffat shows up in a sinister performance as Bacall’s frightening brother; Henry Gibson is a political operative whose first sequence in drag as an old woman is so convincing you almost wonder who that interesting actress is; Diane Stilwell is Jackson’s secretary who can’t type and who has supplied Jackson with a portable tape recorder, with which she is pretty obviously in love; MacIntyre Dixon is marvelous as the convention manager; Alfre Woodard is the hotel’s determinedly sunny convention representative vexed by this unmanageable collection of loons; Ann Ryerson is Bacall’s physician who lacks the ability to enjoy sex; the singing group The Steinettes appear throughout the movie, singing brightly and inanely at every conceivable opportunity; and Dick Cavett plays himself, vainly attempting to interview Bacall and Jackson and perennially frustrated by Bacall’s unexpected sleeping fits (if that isn’t an oxymoron.) Altman and Dooley wrote the sharp screenplay with Frank Barhydt, and it’s a relaxed, cheery, sometimes hilarious ensemble comedy. Why any of the people involved thought that a satire on Eisenhower and Stevenson was relevant to anything, or anyone, in 1979 remains a mystery, but everyone in the picture is terrific with the notable exception of Bacall. We watch her thinking we know she was famous for something once, but from her performance we can’t recall just what; after 1966 she always seemed to be playing the paralyzed rich-bitch from Harper — she’d become all surface, the grande dame in her element. What the hell happened to that woman? She was better at 19, when she knew almost nothing about acting.


Matewan (1988)

Matewan - Chris Cooper

John Sayles’ magnificent evocation of a violent, largely forgotten incident of the 1920s involving West Virginia miners arrayed against vicious coal industry gun-thugs.



Casualties of War
 (1989)

Casualties of War - Fox, Thuy Thu Le and Penn

A deeply unsettling examination of an American atrocity in Vietnam directed by Brian De Palma which is best when it sticks to the facts but is never less than compelling even when it’s embracing war movie clichés that would have embarrassed John Wayne.


The Little Drummer Girl (1984)

Little Drummer Girl - Kinski, Keaton

This surprisingly good attempt by the screenwriter Loring Mandel and the stylish journeyman director George Roy Hill at condensing one of John Le Carré’s large, complex thrillers is compromised but, curiously, not undone, by its central miscasting. With her signature red hair and championing of Palestinian rights, the actress Charlie in the novel was obviously meant to remind readers of Vanessa Redgrave. Unlike Redgrave (or Diane Keaton, the Charlie of the movie) it was central to the Le Carré novel that Charlie was young, in her early 20s, passionate but unformed, and not nearly as worldly, or as informed, as she thinks she is. Likewise, casting Yorgo Voyagis, Keaton’s junior by a year, as the Israeli agent who seduces Charlie into falling in love with him while seeming to put her off (and who becomes her guide and instructor in the elaborate “theatre of the real” the actress is enticed into against a Palestinian bomb-maker) rather than a distinguished, reticent, aging actor of the time — Paul Scofield might have been ideal, or even Dirk Bogarde or Alan Bates — eliminates Charlie’s obvious father-fixation. These rather essential cavils aside, Keaton is excellent as Charlie, locating both her anger and her pain, although I don’t believe for a minute an American would be headlining a small British theatre troupe. Unlike Keaton, Klaus Kinski is an almost perfect casting choice for Kurtz, whose complicated scheme keeps Charlie, and the audience, in the dark until the climax; Kinski absolutely gets the Israeli agent’s bonhomie, his middle-aged charm and his deadly seriousness. Like the book, the movie is highly ambivalent about Zionism even as it largely accepts the more than dubious notion that violence is the proper response to terror. The strong supporting cast includes Sami Frey, Michael Cristofer, Eli Danker, Philipp Moog, Anna Massey, Thorley Walters and David Suchet. My only complaint about the production design is the truly terrible coat Keaton is forced to wear through much of the picture. She can’t carry it off, but I can’t imagine the woman who could. Such is Le Carré’s brilliance that Charlie’s last line, slightly altered from the novel, has stayed with me since I saw this one 35 years ago.


Thieves Like Us (1974)

Thieves Like Us resized

As Pauline Kael once suggested of him, Robert Altman made two bad movies for every good one, and in-between another that was essentially lousy but with enough good, or even great, moments in it to sustain your interest. Examples of this last include The Long Goodbye, Buffalo Bill and the Indians, Short Cuts, Gosford Park… and Thieves Like Us; it has some splendid things in it, and is beautifully cast, and shot. But it’s both elliptical and repetitive in weird and off-putting ways, and you sit there wondering what you’ve missed when you haven’t missed a thing. In the sequence in which the movie’s young central characters Bowie (Keith Carradine) and Keechie (Shelley Duvall) make love for the first time while listening to a radio broadcast of Romeo and Juliet, for example, and we hear the same between-act announcement from the narrator at three separate intervals, we don’t know what it means. Is the sequence a fantasy of Keechie’s or Bowie’s? Is one scene real and the other two fantastic? But because they don’t seem to be anything other than what they appear to be — sequential moments broken up in the cutting — nothing about these scenes really supports that hypothesis. So why did Altman choose to disorient us at this important juncture? Why, for that matter, is there a discussion between Carradine, Bert Remsen and Ann Latham in which it seems Bowie and Keechie have become notorious Bonnie and Clyde figures, their doings reported in the newspapers, when we have seen no such thing? It feels as though there’s a reel missing, or at least a few scenes. Speaking of which, why is Remsen’s violent death only spoken about, in a radio news story, and not seen? The omission feels like narrative cheapness. Kael said of Thieves Like Us that it was, “the closest to flawless of Altman’s films — a masterpiece.” What movie did she see?

The picture was shot on location in Mississippi, which Altman was told was “the asshole of America” but which he and his French cinematographer Jean Boffety found beautiful, and their fondness for the place and the people shows; the look of the movie is almost like a living Impressionist painting. The excellent cast includes John Shuck, Louise Fletcher, Al Scott, Tom Skerritt and Joan Tewkesbury, who also collaborated with Altman on the script and would write Nashville for him (she’s the woman at the train station Duvall talks to at the end). Calder Willingham also worked on the screenplay, based on the 1937 Edward Anderson novel which originally provided the basis for the 1950 They Live by Night, directed by Nicholas Ray.


Three Days of the Condor (1975)

Three Days of the Condor gettyimages-591378586-612x612

The filmmakers behind this adaptation of a good thriller novel by James Grady called Six Days of  the Condor — Lorenzo Semple Jr. and David Rayfiel, who wrote the script and Sidney Pollack, who directed — did more than lop off three days; they used little more than the book’s basic plot, and a few key incidents. (They also transferred the setting from Washington, D.C. to New York. Why?) What I suspect was Robert Redford’s vanity also got in the way of narrative sense: When Grady’s Condor, survivor of a mass killing in a CIA literary shop, goes on the lam one of the first things he does is alter his appearance by getting a close haircut. Redford keeps his modishly long locks, even unto his ludicrous half-muttonchop sideburns. But at least the hair is his — Cliff Robertson wears one of the most elaborately stacked toupees I’ve ever seen. Why didn’t someone suggest to him that when a well-known, Oscar®-winning middle-aged actor suddenly shows up in a movie with bigger, thicker and fuller hair than he had in his 20s, the audience knows he’s wearing a rug?

Although Three Days of the Condor rather needlessly complicates Grady’s plot, there are some real compensations, not least of which is intelligence, and the screenwriters’ filling out of the novelist’s rather perfunctory feminine coeval for the hero, well embodied by Faye Dunaway. True, we could do without the dollar-book Freud “Condor” instantly psychoanalyzes her with, the phoniness of which is best judged by imagining how outraged he would be if she did it to him. With her famous blond hair dyed brown, Dunaway is almost unrecognizable — it’s astounding how that single change alters her features, softening the severity of her Classical beauty and making her seem more human, and more attainable. And there’s an amusing variant to the novel in Condor’s manipulation of the New York City telephone lines, although his spilling his story of Central Intelligence Agency mayhem to the New York Times, intended as a post-Watergate nod to the nobility of the press, merely seems foolhardy and, for a CIA employee, laughably naïve. The first call a Times reporter or editor would make after such a revelation would be to CIA.

John Houseman performs one of his standard haughty old men on whose every word others are required to hang, and Robertson telegraphs his character’s duplicity from his first scene. But Max von Sydow, as the chief assassin, is a more shaded character, and has a splendid scene near the end with Redford. Pollack’s direction is highly competent and occasionally more, as with the fight scene in Dunaway’s apartment. Like Pollack’s Tootsie, which also boasted the cinematography of Owen Roizman, Three Days of the Condor is often astonishing to look at; Roizman’s images are mouth-wateringly crisp, and (at least on Blu-ray) as fine-grained as any color film you will ever see. That may be more than a good thriller even requires, but how often these days is that observation relevant?


The Thief and the Cobbler  (1993/2013)

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Richard Williams’ astonishing animated Arabian Nights feature, still incomplete but reconstructed by Garrett Gilchrist in his Recobbled Cut Mark 4.


The Great Train Robbery (1978)

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Michael Crichton’s The Great Train Robbery (known in Britain as The First Great Train Robbery, to distinguish its action in the minds of potential ticket-buyers from the much more contemporaneous, and well-remembered, “Great Train Robbery” of 1963) is one of those richly appointed, beautifully shot and wonderfully cast entertainments that make for a wry, exciting evening’s amusement as long as you know that, while depicting on an actual incident, the picture is largely fictional and should be taken as such. Based on the 1855 theft of gold from a moving train, and on the writer/director’s own novel, the picture is a cheery, funny escapade with some sharp digs at the British upper class, and glorious production design that puts you absolutely in Victorian era London (although it was shot largely in Ireland.) Sean Connery is the ersatz nobleman of dubious means, suave but dangerous, who plans and executes the theft; Lesley-Anne Down is his actress lover who proves useful in a number of necessary diversions; Donald Sutherland, often hilarious, is the safe-cracker; and Wayne Sleep is the ill-fated criminal acrobat who runs afoul of Connery.

Crichton’s direction is elegant and wonderfully paced; he seems always to know exactly where to place the camera. Jerry Goldsmith composed one of his most distinctive scores for the picture, anchored to a charming waltz he then transforms into variants: Slowed down it evokes the atmosphere of London’s mean streets, simplified it becomes a romantic guitar accompaniment for Connery and Down’s bedroom scenes and sped up it’s rousing background music for the robbery. One of the movie’s great pleasures is the lush widescreen color cinematography by Geoffrey Unsworth, to whom Crichton dedicated it. A painter with light, Unsworth shot some of the most sumptuous looking movies of the 1960s and ‘70s: Becket (1964), the Olivier Othello (1965), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Olivier’s Three Sisters (1970), Cabaret (1972), Murder on the Orient Express (1974), Royal Flash (1975), The Return of the Pink Panther (1975), A Bridge Too Far (1977), Superman (1978) and Tess (1979). The fine supporting cast includes Alan Webb, Pamela Salem, Gabrielle Lloyd and Malcolm Terris as a smug, hypocritical bank official. The final joke has no basis in historical reality, but takes the movie out on a high, and very funny, note.


Heat (1995)

Heat - Pacino

Michael Mann’s complex, character-driven heist movie has the texture of a sun-lit nightmare: L.A. as a warm place to die a chilly death.

Heat - De Niro


The Thrill of it All (1963)

The Thrill of it All - Day, Reiner, Garner

A shrill, occasionally funny farce, meant to satirize television advertising but so dishonest about that it merely gums the subject rather aggressively. Doris Day is an obstetrician’s wife who gets corralled into performing impromptu cleanser commercials for a cheesy live drama omnibus show (in 1963?) and finds her marriage on rocky (or, if you prefer, soapy) ground. It’s too ephemeral to take seriously for a moment — The Glass Bottom Boat had more gravitas — but it’s a pretty thin gruel to have come from the combined talents of Carl Reiner (screenplay) and Larry Gelbart (story, with Reiner). Some of the scenes have that terrible look so representative of the era’s color television episodes, but the cinematographer, Russell Metty, occasionally gets in some pleasant lighting. It would have been almost impossible at that time to imagine the director, Norman Jewison, ever making movies as rich as In the Heat of the Night and Fiddler on the Roof, but at least his pacing is brisk.

James Garner brings his usual charm and comic outrage to the husband, and the supporting cast includes Reiner (in several bits), Arlene Francis, Edward Andrews, Reginald Owen (playing Andrews’ father, the sort of role Andrews himself would corner in the coming years), Zasu Pitts as a rape-obsessed housekeeper, Elliott Reid as an advertising man, Alice Pearce, Herbie Faye, Hayden Rorke, Burt Mustin, Robert Strauss, Lennie Weinrib, Lillian Culver, King Donovan, Bernie Kopell and, in a voice-over, Paul Frees. I could also swear I heard Madge Blake’s voice, but can find no proof of her participation. Brian Nash and Kym Karath play Day and Garner’s small children; Karath is best remembered as Gretl, the tiniest of the Trapp Family Singers of The Sound of Music two years later. The picture is inoffensive, even with its dated attitudes toward women in the workplace; the one absolutely unforgivable element is the appalling, mickeymouse musical score by (Frank) De Vol.


Alias Nick Beal (1949)

Alias Nick Beale

A dark political fantasy that, on balance, seemed designed to satisfy everyone who ever thought a politician had sold his soul, which is pretty much all of us. (Today people like Nancy Pelosi, Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton don’t even bother to hide their corruption; they display it openly, and their worshipers call us names if we say anything about it.) Beautifully directed by John Farrow and with a brisk, intelligent screenplay by Jonathan Latimer from a story by Mindret Lord, the movie is so sharply observed it puts to shame all the cringe-making, faux-populist projects of Frank Capra, a man with a deep distrust of “the people” even as he desperately kept trying to woo them. Thomas Mitchell plays the crusading District Attorney who in his frustration at being unable to nail a mobster makes a casual wish he never expected to have granted, and Ray Milland is “Nick Beal,” the Satanic figure with the means to deliver. Mitchell gives his usual fine performance, and Audrey Totter is excellent as a good/bad girl, but Milland really delivers. There was always something a little unpleasant about him as an actor that lingered below his surface charm. Billy Wilder tapped it in The Lost Weekend, and Farrow really mines it here. Lionel Lindon’s cinematography, even in a bad print, is rich and atmospheric, and about the only miscalculation in this 82-minute gem is the uncharacteristic, almost shockingly emphatic, score by the otherwise subtle Franz Waxman. With Fred Clark as a machine boss, Geraldine Wall as Mitchell’s saintly wife, a very young Darryl Hickman as a reform-school candidate and George Macready as, of all things, a minister. (Thanks for this one, Eliot M. Camarena!)


Citizen Kane (1941)

Citizen Kane - Moorehead

I ended one year, and began another, with the same film. It isn’t among my very favorite pictures, nor even my favorite among those of its co-author, director and star. But Orson Welles’ debut is still among the most enjoyable movies ever made, and it yields new pleasures and unexpected contours with every viewing. This time I noticed, for the first time, the way Welles keeps the lighted window at Xanadu in the same spot throughout the prologue, even when it’s a reflection in water. That may not be strictly logical, but it certainly is impressive.

Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

Necrology, 2019: Filmmakers and Movie-Related

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By Scott Ross

Although I am still in something of a state of disbelief over the deaths, in 2018, of Harlan Ellison and William Goldman who, although neither had published much of anything new in decades, remain among the American writers highest in my personal Pantheon, this past year —  as is increasingly the case as one ages — saw the passing of several touchstones: Two of my favorite writers, who could not have been further apart except in general excellence (Toni Morrison, John Simon); a novelist (Patricia Nell Warrren) whose popular work from my nascent gay adolescence meant more to me at that time than almost any other’s; an actor (Albert Finney) and a comedian (Tim Conway) I cherished; a cartoonist of genius (Howard Cruse) whose unabashedly gay milieu helped limn the contours of my young manhood; four musical figures whose recordings — two known to me from childhood (André Previn, Doris Day), one from puberty (Michel Legrand) and the last from my hot youth (Leon Redbone) — remain unimpeachable favorites of my adulthood; and a giant of the theatre  (Harold Prince) whose approach to staging musical plays was vastly influential in the culture at large, and to the way I wrote my own plays. These are the ones that hurt the most, but there was, as there always is, plenty of only slightly lesser tristesse to go around in 2019.


I. Movie Industry
Ron W. Miller, 85.
Speaking of Disney. Miller, husband to Walt’s daughter Diane, was President and CEO of the Walt Disney Company from 1978–1984, a crucial period in which under his leadership, and owing to a slate of mediocre animated and live-action pictures, the studio seemed headed for, to quote from Booth Tarkington, a state of bustitude. When a greeting card company in Ohio attempted a hostile takeover that backfired (Disney ended up owning them), Michael Eisner was in and Miller was out. Some of us, who rooted for the company in ‘84, have since grown to wish it had died.

David V. Picker
, 87.
Picker was, in his modest way, part of a golden age. Working at United Artists he brought Tom Jones (1963) to the studio, as well as A Hard Day’s Night (1964) and Help! (1965) and, as CEO, Midnight Cowboy (1969) and Last Tango in Paris (1972). He later produced Juggernaut, Lenny (both 1974), Royal Flash and Smile (both 1975). Still later, as president of Paramount, he approved and helped to develop Saturday Night Fever (1977) and Ordinary People (1980). He then produced three Steve Martin/Carl Reiner collaborations (The Jerk in 1979, Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid in 1982 and The Man with Two Brains in 1983). As president at Lorimar he supervised Being There (1979) and Blake Edwards’ Hollywood satire S.O.B. (1981). Then, at Columbia, he brought in John Boorman’s Hope and Glory (1987) and Spike Lee’s School Daze (1988). He later produced Leap of Faith (1992) and, in 1996, The Crucible. Along the way, Picker also greenlit Won Ton Ton, The Dog Who Saved Hollywood.

Wayne Fitzgerald, 89.
If you were a keen moviegoer (or, via television, movie-watcher) in the 1970s and ‘80s, chances are you saw some of Fitzgerald’s best and most distinctive work as a main title designer: On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, Little Big Man and The Owl and the Pussycat (1970); Chinatown, The Conversation, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore and The Godfather — Part II (1974); Funny Lady and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975); The Missouri Breaks (1976); Slap Shot, The Turning Point and The Goodbye Girl (1977); Heaven Can Wait and The Deer Hunter (1978); Apocalypse Now (end titles) and The Muppet Movie (1979); Private Benjamin and Nine to Five (1980); Reds, Pennies from Heaven and Body Heat (1981); Tootsie (1982); The Outsiders, The Big Chill and Terms of Endearment (1983); Down and Out in Beverly Hills (1986); The Milagro Beanfield War (1988); Dick Tracy (1990); Groundhog Day and Grumpy Old Men (1993); Wyatt Earp and Maverick (1994).

Robert Evans, 89.

Marathon Man - Hoffman and Evans resized

Who is able to out-point whom is a signifier of power. Which man enjoyed the prerogative more in 1976? Robert Evans had it, but Dustin Hoffman obviously believed he did. (Well, he would, wouldn’t he?)

The famously combative producer and studio executive, satirized by several filmmakers and actors over the years, not without cause. As head of production at Paramount he shepherded a spate of terrific movies into the theaters: The President’s Analyst (1967), The Odd Couple (1968), The Detective (1968), Rosemary’s Baby (1968), True Grit (1969), A New Leaf (1971, although the studio fiddled with Elaine May’s cut and forced her to re-shoot the ending), Plaza Suite (1971), Harold and Maude (1971), The Godfather (1972), Serpico (1973), “Save the Tiger” (1973) and The Conversation (1974). As an independent producer, Evans was involved in two classic thrillers (1974’s Chinatown and the 1976 Marathon Man), another very good one (Black Sunday, 1977) and several movies of varying quality: Urban Cowboy (1980), Popeye (1980), the 1984 The Cotton Club (which involved him, peripherally, in a highly-publicized murder), the 1990 Chinatown sequel The Two Jakes. His later productions showed both him, and his industry, in serious decline: Sliver (1990), The Phantom (1996), The Saint (1997) and the unncessary remake of The Out-of-Towners (1999). He was also married seven (!) times and, with his brother Charles, an admitted trafficker in cocaine; being rich, famous and, although not a Gentile, at least nominally Caucasian, Evans naturally received a plea bargain. He was spoofed by David Mamet and Dustin Hoffman in Wag the Dog (“I gave a magnificent performance,” Evans said of it), Blake Edwards in S.O.B., Orson Welles in The Other Side of the Wind and, I gather, the series Entourage, which I have never seen. The screenwriter Joe Eszterhas, almost equally notorious, proclaimed in his memoir that “all lies ever told anywhere about Robert Evans are true.”

It should be noted as well that Evans was responsible for both Love Story (1970) and The Great Gatsby (1974).



II. Peripherally Related to the Movies

Claus von Bülow and Alan Dershowitz
Claus von Bülow
, 92.
Accused murderers (why does our legal phraseology suggest one is a murderer if  merely accused?) seldom get more notable than von Bülow, the Danish-British socialite initially convicted of putting his wife Sunny into a persistent vegetative state after twice having attempted to kill her. His conviction was, quite properly, reversed on appeal when the celebrity lawyer Alan Dershowitz took on the case. But as the screenwriter Nicholas Zazan and the director Barbet Schroeder suggest in their fascinating 1990 movie account, there is guilt, and guilt. Claus (Jeremy Irons) may not have given Sunny (Glenn Close) the insulin injection that put her in a coma, but he may not have helped her either. Reversal of Fortune, adapted from Derhowitz’s book, presents an ambiguous narrative in which, like Joe Gillis in Sunset Blvd., Sunny narrates from beyond our ken.

Dershowitz, in a later book, described a party given by Claus at which Norman Mailer, hearing the lawyer explain why von Bülow was innocent, took offense that he wasn’t having dinner with a killer, and left.

James Le Mesurier, 48.
The co-founder of the White Helmets, who proved that the Big Lie succeeds far more often than the little one. With the complicity of our world-wide corporate media, Le Mesurier managed to convince a great deal of humanity that his organization, the White Helmets, was an humanitarian aid service and didn’t behead civilians in Syria. His efforts were so effective the spurious 2016 propaganda “documentary” won an Academy Award and the cheers of idiot the Hollywood ignorati. His alleged suicide, which has all the hallmarks of a CIA hit — any time you hear a shady character associated with America’s Permanent Government has taken a dive out a window it’s time to employ a certain basic skepticism — has inspired at least two theories that should comfort the spooks at Langley that, once again, their manipulation of public sentiment has been largely successful.


III. Filmmakers

James Frawley with Kermit

James Frawley, 82. A one-time actor (i.e., The Monkees, or as Joe Galardi, the union rep in the 1965 Dick Van Dyke Show episode “Fifty-Two, Forty-Five or Work”) who moved into television direction (The Monkees and That Girl) and occasional films. His 1976 all-star disaster-movie spoof The Big Bus predated Airplane! but was not nearly as successful, but the 1979 The Muppet Movie was the perfect big-screen introduction for Jim Henson’s eponymous troupe. Among his other television directing credits: Magnum, P.I., Scarecrow and Mrs. King, Cagney & Lacey, Law & Order, Picket Fences, Chicago Hope, Smallville, Judging Amy, Grey’s Anatomy. I will remember Frawley with fondness for the beautiful “Rainbow Connection” sequence in The Muppet Movie, so entrancing it could have closed the picture rather than opening it.

Stanley Donen, 94.Singin in the Rain - O'Conner, Donen and Kelly

A stylist whose technique was occasionally too busy, and sometimes not enough to cover up for thin and undeveloped material (Lucky Lady, anyone?) Donen was also responsible for some of the most elegant and witty musicals and comedies of the post-War era. A few years ago, a book appeared on the making of Singin’ in the Rain, which Donen co-directed with Gene Kelly. Since this is my favorite movie musical, it’s a book I’d waited nearly 40 years to read. I was staggered that the authors, one of whom, a PhD, was a Civil War historian, were both complete dilettantes when it came to film. That this tome, filled with factual errors, was a university press publication was dispiriting enough. What was worse was the manner in which its authors went out of their way (as Gene Kelly himself did throughout his life) to diminish Donen’s contributions to that picture, and to the others he co-directed with Kelly, painting him as a non-creative zhlub who sat in a director’s chair while Kelly did it all. If Donen contributed nothing to their movies, why did Kelly work with him so often? Why did MGM keep giving him projects?

Well, the proof is in the pudding. Among the movies Donen directed: On the Town (1949, with Kelly), Royal Wedding (1951), Singin’ in the Rain (1952, with Kelly), Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954), It’s Always Fair Weather (1955, also with Kelly), Funny Face and The Pajama Game (with George Abbott, both 1957), Indiscreet and Damn Yankees! (again with Abbott, both 1958), The Grass is Greener (1960), Charade (1963), Arabesque (1966), Two for the Road and Bedazzled (1967), Movie Movie (1978).

Gene Kelly’s filmography without Donen? Invitation to the Dance, The Happy Road, The Tunnel of Love, Gigot, A Guide for the Married Man, The Cheyenne Social Club, That’s Entertainment Part II… and Hello Dolly!

Tell me another, Doctor.


Romeo and Juliet - Zeffirelli bed
Franco Zeffirelli, 96.
A designer and director of plays and opera, Zeffirelli’s first movie was the 1967 Burton/Taylor The Taming of the Shrew, a picture as beautiful as it is maddening; for much of the film, Kate’s dialogue is removed, in favor of a series of enraged, shrewish yowlings. Why film Shakespeare and then remove his lines? Zeffirelli fared much better with his 1968 Romeo and Juliet. Casting the lovers, for the first time on film, not with venerated older actors but with beautiful young people (Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey) and giving them a sexy, nude morning-after scene made the picture a huge hit with teenagers. Deeply supportive of the Catholic Church, a two-term Senator from Berlusconi’s Forza Italia party and accused at least twice of the harassment and sexual assault of young male actors, he is a problematic figure, but for the many who fell in love with Whiting and Hussey, in ’68 or after, Romeo and Juliet is his ultimate legacy.

D. A. Pennebaker, 94.

D.A. Pennebaker Original Cast Album - Company

Stephen Sondheim coaching Beth Howland on her performance of  the dizzying patter in “Getting Married Today” during D.A. Pennebaker’s essential 1971 documentary Original Cast Album: Company. Steve Elmore, center.

One of the few truly important documentary filmmakers of the post-war era, whose work includes the 1967 Dylan feature Don’t Look Back; the 1968 music festival documentary Monterey Pop; the 1973 David Bowie feature Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars; Moon Over Broadway (1997); with his partner Chris Hehedus The War Room, the revealing 1993 look at Bill Clinton and the neoliberals who helped elect him; and the 2004 record of the one-woman stage memoir Elaine Stritch: At Liberty. For musical theatre mavens, Pennebaker will forever be immortal for his 1971 Original Cast Album: Company, which captured the hectic, marathon recording of the cast recording that helped define Stephen Sondheim’s 1970s sound, and, in the saga of Stritch’s inability to nail “The Ladies Who Lunch” after singing for hours, exposed a bit of the dark underbelly of Broadway.

Richard Williams, 86.
Richard Williams, Roger and Oscar resized
This one is a heartbreaker. Responsible for what is arguably the finest of all renderings of A Christmas Carol in his 25-minute animated version first shown on ABC in 1971, released theatrically the following year and subsequently given the Academy Award® for Best Animated Short Film, creative animator for the brilliant title sequences for the two Pink Panthers that resurrected the franchise (Return of… and Strikes Again) and revolutionary animating director for Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Williams’ own perfectionism may have cost him completion of his 30-year dream project The Thief and the Cobbler. (Itself a kind of compensation after the demise of his hoped-for adaptation of Indries Shah’s The Exploits of the Incomparable Mulla Masrudin, an edition of which he had illustrated.) Since a test-reel for Cobbler was Williams’ entrée to Disney, and the 1992 Aladdin seemed almost inescapably so gleeful a public screwing of the very man whose genius had made Roger Rabbit possible, I have always blamed The Mouse for the way things turned out. The Eisner regime was certainly the villain here, but Williams’ own intransigence — his insistence on longer and longer sequences, and re-doing existing ones — caused him to run out of time; Warners’, which was financing the picture, pulled out rather than compete with Aladdin in the motion picture bazaar, with only 15 minutes of footage left to wrap up the project. The Completion Bond Company then fired everyone involved, including Williams, farmed out animation to South Korea, re-animating existing sequences and adding superfluous musical numbers that, if anything, made Cobbler seem more like an Aladdin rip-off rather than, as we know, the other way round. That Miramax, which snarfed up this new version (called, naturally, The Princess and the Cobbler, although it was eventually released as Arabian Knight) was then owned by Disney puts the final, un-funnily ironic nail in the picture’s coffin.

Williams was prodigiously gifted, an artist whose chosen medium was the most painstaking and time-consuming of them all. That this genuine visionary — to see his Cobbler, or merely parts of it, and even reduced to the size of a computer screen, is to experience a genuine sense of awe and of wonder and to be truly dazzled by its execution entirely by hand — was reduced to hosting animation masterclasses to earn his keep is an almost perfect paradigm for the artist in an age of rampant, and many-tentacled, commercialism. One is reminded, irresistibly, of another 20th century master incapable of completing his final project before it was taken from him, and whose indecisiveness at crucial moments exacerbated the process. And if Richard Williams was not quite in Orson Welles’ league, I strongly suspect that Welles would have recognized in him a fellow magician, his table folded, forced to sing for his supper.

Richard Williams and Vincent Price develop their villain Zig-Zag the Grand Vizier resized

The Thief and the Cobbler: Richard Williams and Vincent Price developing the character of Zigzag, the Vizier (to whom Aladdin‘s Jafar bears more than a passing resemblance) and his odious avian pet Phido, whom the Vizier somewhat resembles.


Lee Mendelson, 86.

A Charlie Brown Christmas resized

Mendelson was the producer of every Peanuts television special and movie from 1965 to 2015, making his work with Charles Schulz and Bill Melendez beloved of at least two generations and likely more. It started with an un-aired (until 1969) documentary called Charlie Brown & Charles Schulz, which led to the 1965 A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965). I was slightly too young to have watched it on its premiere — or if I did, to remember it — but I vividly recall seeing the next two, both in 1966: Charlie Brown’s All Stars! and, especially, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, which began my lifelong love for, and identification with, Linus Van Pelt. Several good Peanuts specials followed: You’re in Love, Charlie Brown, 1967; He’s Your Dog, Charlie Brown, 1968; It Was a Short Summer, Charlie Brown, 1969; and You’re Not Elected, Charlie Brown, 1972. I stopped watching them after that, although I was wild about Mendelson’s hour-long 1973 television edition of the 1967 Off-Broadway musical You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown by Clark Gesner and which starred the now-forgotten Wendell Burton as Charlie Brown, Bill Hinnant (the only hold-over from the show) as Snoopy, Mark Montgomery as Schroeder and Barry Livingston (Ernie of My Three Sons) as Linus. Mendelson also produced The Story of Babar, the Little Elephant (1968), the charming movies A Boy Named Charlie Brown (1969) and Snoopy Come Home (1972), the latter of which boasts a song score by Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman, and 18 episodes of the delightful Saturday morning series The Charlie Brown and Snoopy Show (1983 – 1985).

One could argue that with their use of limited animation the Schulz specials and films contributed to the cheapening of hand-drawn cartoons, but what Mendeslon, Melendez and “Sparky” achieved was the perfect symbiosis: Although generally not directly adapted from specific Peanuts panels, the Schulz projects distilled and embodied what made the strip, itself somewhat limited visually, so very special: Its charming humor, plangent emotionalism and philosophical bent. In an increasingly crass, vulgar and noisy society, the gentleness and essential humanism of the Peanuts cartoons, their action and dialogue as accessible to children as to their parents and grandparents, provide an alternative and a necessary corrective. I too grew up in a world filled with junk, and noise: G.I. Joe and Barbie dolls, Rankin-Bass specials, terrible cartoon series, dopey music, inane commercials (and kiddie shows that existed to endorse them) and endless hours of Saturday morning pap. But it was also a world that offered the gentle, friendly presences of Captain Kangaroo, Kukla, Fran & Ollie and Charles Schulz.

Thanks, Mr. Mendelson, for adding a small measure of grace to a largely graceless medium and an increasingly boorish world.

Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

Nothing but work: “The Thief and the Cobbler” (1993/2013)

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By Scott Ross

“I’ve never understood why some people in animation are so desperate to save work. If you want to save work, what on earth are you doing in animation? It’s nothing but work!” — Richard Williams

The animator Richard Williams died earlier this year, and this past week I finally sat down with the re-constructed edition of his despoiled life’s work, The Thief and the Cobbler, cleverly subtitled “The Recobbled Cut” and made available online by the filmmaker Garrett Gilchrist. Gilchrist completed the picture, to the pre-recorded soundtrack, occasionally using pencil-tests or otherwise incomplete animation to fill in the 15 minutes that remained unfinished when the picture was taken out of Williams’ hands in 1992.

To call the movie astounding is to do it scant justice. It’s one of the most technologically dazzling, glorious-looking animated movies I’ve ever seen.

I’ve written elsewhere about the picture’s troubled history and how, after a reel of footage from it won Williams the job of preparing the animation for Who Framed Roger Rabbit Disney suddenly decided an Arabian Nights tale would be its next animated feature following Beauty and the Beast. That the 20-plus year pet project of a three-time Academy Award-winning filmmaker was first undermined and forcibly wrested from him is a tragedy. But, as “Stevem” in his excellent video analysis of The Thief and the Cobbler observes, Williams didn’t know when to stop, or when too much was too much. The movie’s climax serves an example. It’s gorgeously designed, superbly executed, and absolutely astounding, especially for entirely hand-drawn animation. But it goes on for 15 minutes. That’s three times longer at least than it needed to be, and a good producer would have insisted it be trimmed down considerably. (Williams, alas, was his own.) Yet even while we’re wearying of this over-extended sequence involving a monstrous War Machine we can’t help appreciating how ingeniously it’s being done. It’s brilliantly conceived and animated — violent death as a Rube Goldberg construct.

The Thief and the Cobbler - War Machine

The Thief and the Cobbler isn’t remotely like a Disney cartoon; it’s its own genre. It doesn’t have the heart or well-defined characters of a Disney cartoon, and it doesn’t try to. (The King’s daughter Yum-Yum is especially poorly defined.) If it had gotten completed, and released as Williams planned it, it probably wouldn’t have pleased many people other than animation mavens. One thing you have to concede about the Disney animators and story men (and they were almost always men) is that they were masters at developing character in a two-dimensional medium, and Williams’ characters — perhaps because he did so many short films and animated movie titles? — are, with the magnificent exception of his Grand Vizier, thin; he introduces them, and once you’ve grasped their essential qualities you realize they aren’t going to change much, or deepen beyond your first glimpse of them. But who says every animated feature has to be like a Disney? The Thief and the Cobbler creates its own, unique world, based on the rich, colorful tradition of Muslim design and while it is odd that neither titular character speaks (at least until the very end) the picture is wonderful to watch, and has its own weird rhythms, which the Disney artists would certainly have deemed confounding… although you can see exactly where they stole from it.

The Thief and the Cobbler - Zigzag with cards

The most obvious “borrowing” is from Williams’ most well-defined character: Zigzag, the Grand Vizier voiced by Vincent Price. Although the figure is itself a borrowing — he was clearly inspired by Conrad Veidt in The Thief of Bagdad (1940) as is some of the movie’s action — he’s entirely fresh, whereas the corresponding character in Aladdin is really just an animated Veidt. Zigzag is wonderfully designed, and animated: He has five fingers and a thumb on each hand, when he walks his feet cross, and his huge, bulky shoulders are hunched like those of a bird of prey (he has a vulture called Phido for a pet).* And Price caresses the character’s dialogue, all of it in rhyme, as only he could; he has such a high time of it he’s still rhyming even as he’s about to be devoured by crocodiles.†

The Thief and the Cobbler - Tack

The Cobbler, called “Tack,” is a large-eyed, pale-faced figure who lives to cobble; he knits shoes in his sleep, and nothing seems to faze him. What’s most distinctive about him is the way the tacks he holds in his unseen lips indicate his moods. We seldom see his mouth, but he don’t need to. “Stevem” calls Tack “Chaplinesque,” and I suppose he is, but he lacks dimensions. He’s charming, and fearless, but there’s no real reason for Yum-Yum to fall in love with him except that he isn’t the Vizier.

The Thief and the Cobbler - Thief and Cobbler

The Thief is equally one-dimensional, but he’s a great deal funnier. Tack is a believable human figure; the Thief is entirely a cartoon, with a small swarm of flies perpetually hovering over his malodorous head; when the Thief falls into a moat they fly above the water and calmly wait for him to resurface. The character has his best sequence while attempting to steal the three golden balls atop the city’s highest minaret, as he tries to vault his way to the top, each time with a longer pole, eventually flying entirely over it. He sees everything in life in terms of whether or not it’s worth stealing. When it is, he forgets everything else but the object he’s in pursuit of — he represents the Id in extremis. He’s the Wile E. Coyote of elaborately planned larceny yet his luck nearly always holds; he’s almost never hurt, as Wile E. is, and when he loses one object he instantly becomes enamored of another. He’s one of the few genuinely happy characters in the movie aside from Tack. Diametric opposites, they complement each other. The only other comic character of note is the Holy Old Witch, who is marvelously designed and animated but, as voiced by Joan Sims (who also provided the voice for Yum-Yum’s Nurse) is annoying rather than amusing.

The Thief and the Cobbler - The Holy Old Witch

The Thief and the Cobbler is so beautifully done one’s mouth waters to see it projected in a theatre. And since it was made in widescreen, seeing it that way would have been a truly spectacular experience. But even though the movie, and Williams’ struggle with it, has been made the subject of a documentary (Kevin Schreck’s 2012 Persistence of Vision) it seems doubtful anyone will provide the funding necessary for the picture’s proper completion and distribution.

What happened to Richard Williams with The Thief and the Cobbler makes my stomach lurch, the same way I get physically ill whenever I think of how The Magnificent Ambersons was taken from Orson Welles and destroyed by RKO. And when I consider Williams’ story, I cannot help comparing him to Welles, and to the true iconoclasts in all fields of art: Those whose vision is unlike other men’s, and women’s, and who are punished for that persistence. As the writer and publisher Eliot M. Camarena recently said on the subject, “The biggest sin is leaving the herd.”

Here’s to the clever sheep who slip away.

The Thief and the Cobbler - Thief


*The great Ken Harris, whose work graced hundreds of Looney Tunes and Merry Meolodies as well as the main title sequences Williams designed for two Pink Panther movies, is given prominent billing in the credits as “Master Animator,” and Zigzag’s movements bear his hallmark elegance.

†Several other noted actors performed voice-overs for the picture including Felix Aylmer (opening narration), Anthony Quayle (King Nod), Donald Pleasence (Phido) and Joss Ackland (the chief Brigand) as well as Kenneth Williams and Stanley Baxter.

Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

Everything gets old: “The Last Picture Show” (1971)

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By Scott Ross

Following a remarkable writing/directing debut which very few people saw (Targets, 1967/1968)* Peter Bogdanovich, on the advice of his then-wife Polly Platt and working with the author, adapted Larry McMurtry’s 1966 novel, one of the best brief “coming of age” books by an American writer. Shooting on location in Archer City, Texas (McMurtry’s hometown), in black-and-white, with a cast of actors who might be familiar but were certainly not (or not yet) stars, and on a modest $1.3 million budget, Bogdanovich delivered a small masterpiece detailing the dreariness, and the extreme anomie, of a small, windswept Texas town in the early 1950s that can, of course, stand as emblematic of any community, then or now, in which hope dies pretty much at birth, and the only things that hold people  — especially young people — together are drink, meaningless sex, and the tiny incidental pleasure of the movies they see that in no way reflect their own lives or experience.

There is scarcely a character in The Last Picture Show who is not either seeking sex, having it off with someone else’s spouse, or who has not done so in the past, sometimes from lust or even genuine love but (for the adults anyway) largely out of sheer boredom. The only exceptions that come to mind are Eileen Brennan’s Genevieve, the mother-figure toiling as a waitress due to her off-screen husband’s illness, and the smiling, mute and backwards boy Billy (Sam Bottoms) — and even he is initiated, in a disastrous encounter with a fat middle-aged whore (Helena Humann), courtesy of a few teenagers looking for something, anything, to do on a Saturday night. (We are at least spared the sequence in the novel in which the boys take turns humping a poor blind heifer, although in the movie they consider it.) I don’t wish to seem critical of these people for their erotic obsessions; half the characters in the movie, after all, are adolescent, and thus naturally preoccupied with sex; anyone who says otherwise about his or her own teenage years is either lying, a Pentecostal, or both. But there appears to be, in Anarene/Archer City, no other activity that can engage them, aside perhaps from billiards or high school athletics. And it’s telling that the only book we see in the movie is a well-thumbed paperback of I, the Jury being surreptitiously passed from one masculine hand to another in a high school classroom. Perhaps the Coach (Bill Thurman) is right when he complains that the boys on his basketball team might be better shooters if they practiced more and jacked off less.

It is the Coach’s request that Sonny Crawford (Timothy Bottoms) drive his wife Ruth (Cloris Leachman) to her physician that sets The Last Picture Show’s most important chain of events in motion, and it is there too that McMurtry and Bogdanovich commit a curious omission. In the former’s novel, Coach Popper is known for bedding certain of his players on out-of-town trips in which he contrives to get his current favorite to share his hotel room, and that he has had only the most perfunctory conjugal relations with his wife. The screenwriters elide over this detail in their movie; thus when Ruth, weeping, says to Sonny, “You really don’t know, do you?” she seems to be referring, not to his ignorance of her husband’s furtive sexuality, but to a general naïveté in the boy’s personality. Since Genevieve warns Sonny, “One thing I know for sure. A person can’t sneeze in this town without somebody offering them a handkerchief,” we can be sure that in Anarene the Coach’s “secret” is clandestine only in his own guilty brain. It seems accepted, the way the teenagers in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys accept their teacher’s expected groping of their groins when he takes them home on his motorcycle — with a shrug and, maybe, a curious, virginal thrill.

The Last Picture Show - Leachman and Bottoms

It’s been several years since I read The Last Picture Show, so I no longer recall whether the Coach acts as a kind of procurer, sending Sonny to Ruth in the hope that he’ll satisfy her, but it wouldn’t surprise me. In any case, the relationship between Sonny and Ruth is, along with the lingering love Sam the Lion (Ben Johnson) feels for a girl he once romanced, the movie’s heart, and it is to the point that it is in no way sentimentalized. Their first sexual congress is, on Sonny’s part, oddly tentative and, on Ruth’s, so emotional her tearful gratitude is quietly agonizing. Even at the picture’s climax, when she confronts Sonny with his caddish selfishness with white-hot fury, she is pathetically incapable of not needing him. As Bottoms sits at her kitchen table, devastated by a death he probably could have prevented and by his guilt over that and his treatment of Ruth, she holds his hand to her face, beaming tearfully. It’s a shattering moment, filmed by Bogdanovich with his customary grace and measure and his laudable avoidance of the overly emphatic.

It became fashionable to knock Bogdanovich in the 1970s, for — in the eyes of his (possibly envious?) former fellow critics, anyway — making nothing but hommages to his favorite filmmakers. Ford and Hawks were the two most often cited, but if those reviewers had really been paying attention they might have noticed that if there was a true referent in Bogdanovich it was Orson Welles. Not the Welles of busy tracking sequences and kinetic editing but the Welles who made The Magnificent Ambersons and Othello: The Welles who pulled off extensive scenes without an edit while not calling your attention to his having done so, and whose concerns were more with the small and revealing moments between people, and with limning their loneliness and loss of innocence — to borrow from Thoreau, their quiet desperation — than in dazzling your eyes, although only a fool would fail to note that he did that as well. As with the idea of a young man’s falling into a bass viol during a drunken serenade having, ultimately, tragic repercussions in Ambersons, the memory of a man and a young married woman carrying on a long-ago affair, the girl lacking the courage to break with convention or her own need for security becomes heartbreaking by the end of The Last Picture Show.

Peter Bogdanovich - The Last Picture Show

If Bogdanovich took from Welles (or Ford, or Hawks) any particular stylistic or pictorial cues, it was those Old Masters’ penchants for long, sustained sequences played in full before a static camera lens. It is, pace Martin (“Look at Me!”) Scorsese, the richest and most assured form of motion picture photography, requiring, as Welles told Bogdanovich, “much more confidence from the director, and a great more skill, and presence, from the actors,” to pull off. Bogdanovich was defeated in this technique only once during The Last Picture Show, and crucially, when due to the clouds overhead and to Timothy Bottoms’ actorly pauses he was forced to make what looks like an extraneous cut to the foreground near the end of the otherwise beautifully sustained dialogue between Sonny and Sam the Lion as the latter reminisces about his one great love affair.

Bogdanovich’s director of photography on The Last Picture Show was the excellent Robert Surtees, whose career stretched back decades and who was responsible for the look of a number of superbly-shot movies: The Bad and the Beautiful (1952), Ford’s lush Mogambo (1953), the exquisitely mounted Oklahoma! (1955), Ben-Hur (1959), The Graduate (1967), the gorgeous Sweet Charity (1969) for Bob Fosse, William Wyler’s criminally under-seen and underrated The Liberation of L.B. Jones (1970), The Cowboys (1972), The Sting (1973) and The Turning Point (1977). The look of the movie is almost more Depression-era Texas than the headiness of post-War, oil-boom 1951; if there were tumbleweeds in Anarene, they’d be blowing down the un-paved streets. But that, it seems to me, is the point; Anarene is one of those places in America, if you have any sense or push, you run from as soon as you can.

The Last Picture Show - Shepherd, Burstyn

I once had a woman friend who referred to Cybill Shepherd’s Jacy Farrow in the picture as a girl “who gives bitches a bad name.” Yet even she is explicable, if perhaps the furthest thing from admirable. Jacy is that emptiest of small-town miracles, the wealthy beauty with no brains and nowhere (and no one) on whom to truly focus her desires, which are in any case so vague and diffused they are only a nagging overall sense of futility she can neither name nor dismiss, much less escape from. In her first acting role, and at 21, the former model is not only strikingly lovely but remarkably assured. You can see, observing her, why her director fell in love with her. And even when Jacy is cavalierly playing with people’s lives, she’s almost impossible to hate, although you’d rather she was more like her unhappy mother Lois (Ellen Burstyn), who at least has developed some poise — although we suspect she’s always had it, and by the end proves it — and a clear vision of what she cannot change, regardless of how much she drinks or how many lovers she takes on to ameliorate her essential loneliness. “Everything gets old,” she warns Jacy, “if you do it often enough.”

I see I have scarcely begun to limn the beauty of Bogdanovich’s great ensemble cast, which includes the always-splendid Jeff Bridges as Duane, Sonny’s best friend and Jacy’s doomed squire; Timothy Bottoms’ gentle, if Callow, Sonny; his younger brother Sam’s sweet, docile Billy who loves as, in my experience anyway, only a retarded individual can, and cannot be made to hate even when he’s the unwitting butt of misguided adolescent cruelty; Eileen Brennan’s warm, sad and maternal Genevieve; Leachman’s achingly needy Ruth; and Johnson’s simple, understated Sam the Lion. Sam was a role Welles badly wanted — he knew it would win the actor who played it an Academy Award ™ — but Bogdanovich was correct in going for Johnson, who was vaguely familiar, mostly to Western movie habitués, and that Welles would have over-balanced the part. The director was also convinced that Ruth Popper was a certain Oscar-winner, and both he and Welles were right, as Johnson and Leachman took home the Supporting Actor and Actress trophies in early 1972. For Leachman it’s the role in toto, and the raw vulnerability with which she plays it. For Johnson, I suspect, it was that long monologue about the perfect love of his past that did it.

The Last Picture Show - Bottoms, Johnson, Sam Bottoms

It’s interesting to note that although she praised the movie Pauline Kael (whose spurious essay “Raising Kane Bogdanovich would blast the following year in Esquire) also found Bogdanovich’s rise as a filmmaker troubling and wrote that “even Nixon could like The Last Picture Show.” This is as bone-headed a view as those of critics a couple of years later who thought American Graffiti an exercise in nostalgia. The people in Bogdanovich and McMurtry’s picture are no less desperate than the kids in George Lucas’. If you have axes to grind, or when you see only what you want to, you miss the big picture. Speaking of which, The Last Picture Show does hold a certain nostalgic reference for me, as I first saw it in the mid-1980s when it was the final booking at a local art-house just before, like Sam’s Anarene movie house in the picture, it closed its doors for good. But McMurtry and Bogdanovich differ on that ultimate offering: In Bogdanovich’s movie it’s the 1948 Red River, clearly a special booking (and by a woman who confesses she doesn’t know how to run the place.) In McMurtry’s novel, it’s a standard 1951 “B” oater, one presumably chosen months in advance.

I suppose the director couldn’t resist making an affirmative statement in the picture he chose to run clips from. But I prefer McMurtry’s solution — it’s just another undistinguished movie, for a town that probably doesn’t merit anything better, and wouldn’t know the difference anyway.


*Bogdanovich also, under the pseudonym Derek Thomas, directed something called Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women (1968) for Roger Corman, who gave him the opportunity to make Targets.

Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

See also:
https://scottross79.wordpress.com/2013/12/26/paper-moon-1973/

Quarterly Report: July — September 2019

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By Scott Ross

Home-viewing from The Armchair Theatre over the last three months; because there isn’t a single bloody thing in the cinemas worth the time, petrol, cash or personal energy it would take to go out. Although I will admit I was convinced by a friend to attend a special screening of Daughters of the Dust… thereby proving the point.


Tootsie (1982)
Tootsie Jessica Lang and Dustin Hoffman
Take one vanity project for a notoriously self-involved actor (Murray Schisgal writing a screenplay about acting for Dustin Hoffman); mix with a separate script by Don McGuire concerning an out-of-work performer donning drag for a soap-opera role that borrows a bit too liberally from Some Like it Hot, even unto its blond object of affection and unwanted middle-aged suitors; add in re-writes by a small army of scenarists headed by the great Larry Gelbart and including, un-credited, Barry Levinson, Robert Garland and Elaine May; bake by a director widely known as one of Hollywood’s most notorious writer fuckers (Gelbart claimed the movie was stitched together from any number of scenarists’ drafts), and the result should have been a disaster. Instead, through some weird alchemy it not only wasn’t but somehow those ingredients contrived to blend so well the picture became a small classic of its kind. Revisiting Tootsie from a 35-year remove, it seems almost miraculous: A popular comedy that tickles the mind as often as it does the ribs. And the direction, by Sydney Pollack, never a favorite filmmaker of this writer, looks as good now as it did in 1982; whatever its internal flaws (including a series of consecutive events supposedly encompassing a single evening that Gelbart later wrote was “a night that would have to last a hundred hours”) the picture is strikingly lovely, with Owen Roizman’s sumptuous lighting and the crisp, witty editing by Fredric Steinkamp and William Steinkamp giving it a patina of warmth and sophistication, a rare combination for any movie comedy. Hoffman’s “Dorothy Michaels” ranks as one of the great comic creations in American movies, yet the actor also locates the loneliness of the character — or, rather characters, since everything Dorothy says and does is filtered through Michael Dorsey’s brain and emotions — and an essential sweetness and decency Michael himself lacks when he’s wearing pants.* As the unwitting object of Michael’s interests, Jessica Lange was a revelation in 1982, lightness and gravity in balance, and what she does is still astonishing in the sheer rightness of her every glance, inflection and wistful hesitation. Terri Garr is no less entrancing, in what is surely her best screen performance, and Bill Murray gets the picture’s best lines as Michael’s playwright roommate. (May created the character, and wrote his speeches.) Against his own wishes, Pollack took on the role of Hoffman’s agent, and their scenes together, reflecting some of the very real anger and frustration each felt toward the other, are among the movie’s comic highlights. The great supporting cast includes Dabney Coleman as the sexist television director, Charles Durning and George Gaynes in the Joe E. Brown role(s), Doris Belack as the savvy “daytime drama” producer, Geena Davis as a nurse in the soap-within-a-film’s fictional hospital, and the late Lynne Thigpen as the show’s floor manager. Dave Grusin, who often floundered when composing for dramatic pictures, wrote for Tootsie one of his most felicitous comedy scores. It isn’t funny in itself, nor does it try to be; its alternate moods of peppy urbanity and plangent emotionalism make for a perfect juxtaposition that reflects the plot’s development and moods without attempting either to compete with them, or to ape the action.

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* Hoffman based Dorothy’s soft Southern vocal mannerisms on those of his friend Polly Holiday.


They Might Be Giants (1971)

They Might Be Giants - finale

George C. Scott and Joanne Woodward in the movie’s radiant, moving final moments.They Might Be Giants (1971)

James Goldman has long been one of my favorite writers. While nowhere near as prolific (nor as well known) as his brother William, his smaller output includes the 1965 play and subsequent movie 1968 The Lion in Winter (for which he won an Academy Award); the beautifully compressed book for the landmark Stephen Sondheim/Harold Prince Follies, arguably the single greatest theatrical musical of the 20th century; the wonderfully conceived and unexpectedly moving Robin and Marian (1976); a superb novel about King John, Myself as Witness, in which Goldman re-examined an historical figure he felt he had maligned in his previous writing; and the play on which this lovely picture was based and for which he wrote the beautifully structured adaptation. Hal Prince produced the play’s only major production in London, later castigating himself for hiring the wrong director (Joan Littlewood) for the piece, although Goldman himself said he was unhappy with the script, which he subsequently withdrew from further production. The movie, while disappointing financially — presumably those involved expected another Lion in Winter — is a blissful variation on Arthur Conan Doyle, in which a mad retired jurist (George C. Scott) called Justin Playfair, who believes he is Sherlock Holmes, is examined by a psychiatrist (Joanne Woodward) named Mildred Watson. They meet as antagonists, form an uneasy alliance and drift toward romance, while Playfair seeks a rendezvous with the elusive Professor Moriarty. It may sound twee, and there are many on whom its gentle charms are no doubt lost, but it’s a funny, and surprisingly emotional, rumination on the relative insanity of a brilliant, harmless paranoid and of the increasingly mad society to which he is expected to conform. That last notion no doubt seems trite, but it has seldom been handled with such deftness and wit. Anthony Harvey, who also directed The Lion in Winter, shot the picture with a nervy energy that captures the New York City of the early 1970s, not as if under glass but as a living stage for Playfair’s intrigues. Scott and Woodward tear into their roles with the relish of great actors who know in their bones they’ve got their hands on some of the choicest dialogue around, and the rich supporting cast includes Jack Gilford, Al Lewis, Rue McClanahan, Theresa Merritt, Eugene Roche, James Tolkan, Kitty Winn, Sudie Bond, Staats Cotsworth, F. Murray Abraham, Paul Benedict, M. Emmet Walsh and Louis Zorich. There’s also a brief but extremely effective chamber score by John Barry, arranged and augmented by Ken Thorne. Two home-video versions exist: One (a Universal Vault DVD) running under 90 minutes, reflects the theatrical release while the other, the television edit (on Blu-Ray from Kino Lorber) is longer, and includes the wry, delightful extended sequence in an immense Manhattan grocery store. It could, I suppose, be argued that the story doesn’t need the grocery sequence, and the climax plays well without it. But it also seems to me that the movie is enriched by its inclusion, and diminished by its excision. So, caveat emptor.

Dr. Mildred Watson: You’re just like Don Quixote. You think that everything is always something else.

Justin Playfair: Well, he had a point. ‘Course, he carried it a bit too far. He thought that every windmill was a giant. That’s insane. But, thinking that they might be, well… All the best minds used to think the world was flat. But what if it isn’t? It might be round. And bread mold might be medicine. If we never looked at things and thought of what might be, why we’d all still be out there in the tall grass with the apes.


Daughters of the Dust (1991)

Daughters of the Dust_Trailer

Cora Lee Day as Nana Peazant

Julie Dash’s dreamlike evocation of Gulla society on a small South Carolina island in the early years of the 20th century was well-received critically but not a box-office success. 20/20 hindsight by knee-jerk commentators now has it that the picture was badly handled by its distributor because its writer-director was not only a woman, but a black woman. Yet I don’t see how this luminously photographed exercise in non-linear rumination could have been a popular success in any era: It’s so diffuse it seems less Impressionistic than merely undefined; we can scarcely tell what the various narrative threads are, much less what they mean. What’s best about the picture, aside from Arthur Jafa’s exquisite cinematography, are the wonderful faces of the expressive actors, especially those of Cora Lee Day as the family matriarch clinging to her African roots and religion, Cheryl Lynn Bruce as her overly-devout Christian granddaughter, and Barbara-O as her mirror opposite, a wayward young woman who left the island for a man but who now is involved with a younger woman. But 60 minutes into this hour-and-52-minute glorified student film my eyes had long since begun to glaze over and even those interesting faces weren’t enough to clear them.


The Last Hard Men (1976)

The Last Hard Men - Heston and Coburn

A tough, bloody Western from an unsparing Brian Garfield novel, starring Charlton Heston and James Coburn as old antagonists on a collision course. Although (unlike in the book’s ending) the movie’s climax seemingly leaves his character’s survival in doubt, and while the actor was too young for the role — as Garfield wrote it, the former lawman is in his 60s, and becoming increasingly frail — Heston is quite a good match for the ruthless Coburn, and the filmmakers (Andrew V. McLaglen was the director, and Guerdon Trueblood wrote the script) don’t flinch from the story’s most horrific moment, when the Heston figure’s daughter (Barbara Hershey) is gang-raped by Coburn’s team of escaped prisoners. The role of Hershey’s earnest suitor is the sort of part the young Jeff Bridges could have turned into a third lead by doing almost nothing, and while Chris Mitchum is attractive, he’s completely out of his depth; as an actor he was never much more than the pretty son of a movie star. While the performance of Michael Parks, as the sheriff who accompanies Heston on part of the quest to retrieve his daughter, suffers from his role being less interesting than in the Garfield book, the actors playing Coburn’s gang (Jorge Rivero, Thalmus Rasulala, Morgan Paull, Robert Donner, Riley Hill and especially Larry Wilcox and John Quade) are an impressively frightening bunch and Duke Callaghan’s widescreen cinematography is lustrous. Leonard Rosenman composed a terse, uncompromising score (it was later made available on CD) which was then replaced by a collection of newly-recorded cues from several of Jerry Goldsmith’s  previous 20th Century-Fox titles 100 Rifles (1969), Rio Conchos (1964), Morituri (1965) and the 1966 Stagecoach. I assume this was due to their being more traditional action cues and Western pieces than Rosenman’s dark, brooding compositions. But while they are splendid in themselves, if you’re already familiar with them from their sources they’re a needless distraction.


Johnny Quest: The Complete Original Series (1964 – 1965)

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The great title card for one of Jonny Quest‘s creepiest episodes. If only the animation for the show had been this good!

When I was a child the Saturday morning re-airings of this 1964 one-shot, an impressive attempt by Joseph Barbera and William Hanna to create and direct a weekly prime-time animated adventure series,‡ made an enormous impression. It was the first “serious” animation I’d ever seen, its often eerie plot-lines were, for a 5-year old, fascinatingly scary… and in the titular figure, the irrepressible blond-topped All-American Jonny, lay my first big crush.† The gifted comics artist Doug Wildey designed the show and its central cast: Plucky Jonny, his slightly mystical adopted Indian brother Hadji, father Benton Quest and bodyguard Race Bannon (who, white hair aside, was, somewhat confusingly for me, almost a dead-ringer for my own father). Produced in the so-called “limited” format pioneered by Hanna-Barbera, and which Chuck Jones astutely referred to as “illustrated radio,” the series, re-viewed from an adult perspective, contains highly variable animation; there are times when the characters are beautifully drawn, while at others they are remarkably poorly drafted, and this older viewer could certainly do with less of Jonny’s annoying little dog Bandit. But the stories are nearly always, despite a 26-minute limitation, well-plotted and exciting, often with an agreeable avoidance of earthly explanation for seemingly supernatural phenomenon. Children, like many of their adult counterparts, love to be frightened, and they especially love ghost stories and impossible monsters; it was a consistent reliance on rationality than killed my initial enthusiasm for the later H-B Scooby Doo, Where Are You? Among the pleasures of the series were, and are, the voices, especially the appealing Tim Matheson as Jonny, the undemonstrably masculine Mike Road as Race, the charming Danny Bravo — who seems to have based his vocal characterization on Sabu — as Hadji, Vic Perrin as the show’s recurring villain Dr. Zinn and occasional guest artists such as Keye Luke, Jesse White, J. Pat O’Malley and even, astonishingly, Everett Sloan as an unrepentant old Nazi. Hoyt Curtin’s superb main title theme, with its bracing mix of big band and James Bond, is another asset; most of the incidental music is his, with additional and uncredited compositions by Ted Nichols. Many of the series’ best (and creepiest) episodes were written by William Hamilton: “The Robot Spy,” “Dragons of Ashida,” “Turu the Terrible,” “Werewolf of the Timberland” and “The Invisible Monster.” Among the others of especial note are “The Curse of Anubis” (Walter Black), “Calcutta Adventure” (Joanna Lee), and “Shadow of the Condor” and “The House of Seven Gargoyles” (both by Charles Hoffman). The recent Warner Archives Blu-Ray collection, while it contains few extras, looks terrific.

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† Like Top Cat and The JestsonsJonny Quest lasted only a single prime-time season. But when you’re a child, you’re not counting episodes, and due to repeated Saturday morning re-airings all three shows seemed to run forever.

‡How typical of me that my first big crush would be not another boy but a cartoon character… Still, I don’t know whether it was so much that I was attracted to Jonny as that I longed to be him. And isn’t hero-worship often what early same-sex crushes amount to?


Klute (1971)

Klute - Fonda and Sutherland (Klute comforts Bree)

The chilling paranoia thriller starring Donald Sutherland and Jane Fonda, who as the call-girl Bree Daniels gives what I consider the finest performance by an American movie actor of the last 50 years.


In the Heat of the Night (1967)

In the Heat of the Night - Sidney Poitier, Jester Hairston and Rod Steiger

Rod Steiger, Jester Hairston and Sidney Poitier

This tense, unblinking police procedural coated in a patina of social critique was one of the great successes of its year, which also saw the premier of Bonnie and Clyde. And while the picture is very much of its time in its examination of racist bigotry in the then-current American Deep South, it’s also a brisk, exciting detective thriller that holds up remarkably well, not least due to the crisp direction by Norman Jewison and to the picture’s precise Stirling Silliphant screenplay. Indeed, I prefer Silliphant’s creative adaptation to John Ball’s original novel, in which race is an important component, yet is less central to the narrative’s tensions than in the much bolder, angrier, movie, especially via the incendiary central relationship between Sidney Poitier’s Virgil Tibbs and Rod Steiger’s Chief Gilliespie. It should be remembered that the picture was in release only three years after the murders of Goodman, Chaney and Schwerner, and the sense of dangerous rot and slowly simmering violence Jewison captures onscreen is as palpable as the oppressive, humid heat of its Mississippi setting. (Although most of it was  shot in the southern Illinois town of Sparta.) Poitier gives a performance of wit, implacable inner strength and fierce integrity. There are a number of moments in the picture where what we see in a character’s face is more revealing, and quietly powerful, than what is said. Poitier has one such scene, when Steiger dismisses him, and his assistance in the murder investigation. Perhaps the most difficult thing an actor can do is to allow us to see him thinking. Too many actors project thought in those moments, and it’s nearly always phony. With Poitier, the impact registers itself in, first, his disbelief, followed by his fury, and, finally, a soft, subtle smile. He gets it; he’s been here before. Yet none of what we see is obvious, or overdone. Lee Grant, as the widow of the murder victim, has a similar scene where, shocked into silence by the news of her husband’s death, she reacts against Poitier’s gentle attempt to seat her with an anguished, rigid gesture that slowly turns to acceptance and, more potently, the need to be comforted. It’s devastating to watch. As the racist sheriff, Steiger, at the height of his screen prowess, meets his co-star blow-for-blow. Gillespie is as much an outsider in the town as Virgil, and as distrusted by the locals. His tension is coiled deep, and he expresses that inner explosiveness in the way he compulsively chews gum, stopping only when he has something to say, or when comprehension breaks through his consciousness. The supporting roles are so perfectly cast they seem inevitable — absolutely real: Warren Oates as a patrolman with a secret; Larry Gates as  a smooth and powerful old racist; the usually genial William Schallert as the bigoted mayor; Beah Richards as the local abortionist; Quentin Dean as a white-trash slut; Anthony James as a smirking creep; Scott Wilson as a prime suspect in the killing, whose changing relationship to Virgil is far warmer than what transpires between Tibbs and Gillespie; and Jester Hairston as an Uncle Tom butler outraged by Tibbs slapping his employer. (If you look sharp, you’ll also see Harry Dean Stanton as a cop.) That slap was a blow for liberty, and must have resounded sharply in many places across the globe, not merely the Southern United States. The dark, expressive cinematography is by Haskell Wexler — cheated by the constricted budget of a crane, he and Jewison make frequent, and often very effective, use of zoom lenses. Hal Ashby provided the fluid editing, and Quincy Jones’ score, mixing jazz and blues, has a nervous, funky energy perfectly in keeping with the movie’s sense of dark foreboding, and he composed a terrific main title song (with lyrics by Marilyn and Alan Bergman) that’s sung with passionate soul by Ray Charles. Jones’ cue for Wilson’s attempted escape (and suggested by Jewison) is a highlight, puttering out expressively as the murder suspect realizes he’s licked — the musical equivalent of a runner who’s out of breath.


Ghostbusters (1984)

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Horror comedy was far from a new concept when Ghostbusters was made — Harold Lloyd starred in something rather redundantly called Haunted Spooks in 1920 — but until 1981 and An American Werewolf in London there had never been one with elaborate special-effects, and even that was modestly budgeted; Ghostbusters cost six times as much (its budget was between $25 and 30 million.) Most of its predecessors tend to be either comedies with a few ghostly appurtenances (cf., Bob Hope’s The Ghost Breakers, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, Young Frankenstein and Don Knotts’ The Ghost and Mr. Chicken) or genuine horror with black comedy overtones (The Abominable Dr. Phibes, Theatre of Blood, Phantom of the Paradise and, indeed, American Werewolf in London) but Ghostbusters takes nothing seriously. Its writer/stars, Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, see everything as funny, and since The Ghostbusters themselves seldom panic, we spend the entire movie in a state of amused relaxation right along with them; the audience takes its cue from laid-back smart-ass Bill Murray’s Peter Venkman, for whom the entire natural world is a sardonic joke, so why should the supernatural world be any different? Murray’s comic persona is so relaxed he’s like a more sarcastic version of Bing Crosby. The picture is inconsequential — you smile through most of it, even if you seldom laugh out loud — yet at the same time memorable; several of its set-pieces, phrases and gags became instant cultural touchstones, and after seeing the movie you’ll likely never look at a bag of marshmallows the same way. Sigourney Weaver has a good, serio-comic role as the woman whose apartment is being taken over by an ancient deity, Rick Moranis is sweetly oblivious as a dweeby neighbor, Annie Potts is the Ghostbusters’ preternaturally un-fazable secretary, William Atherton is an officious prick from the EPA (why do so many satires go after EPA rather than corporate polluters?) and Ernie Hudson gets a largely thankless role as the token black member of the team. László Kovács shot the movie beautifully, and the veteran Elmer Bernstein composed a score that, anchored to a loping main theme, was almost too effective: Despite his having composed in his long career everything from epics (The Ten Commandments) and Westerns (The Magnificent Seven) to thrillers (The Great Escape) and intimate dramas (To Kill a Mockingbird) and in every conceivable format from symphonic to jazz, the success of Airplane!, The Blues Brothers, An American Werewolf, Trading Places and Ghostbusters got him typecast for years as purely a comedy composer.



Touch of Evil (1958)

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Orson Welles‘ minor masterpiece, and the last time he was permitted the luxury of the studio system’s largess.


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The Pink Panther (1963)
A Shot in the Dark (1964)
The Return of the Pink Panther (1975)

The Pink Panther Strikes Again (1976)
Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978)
The Trail of the Pink Panther (1982)

How Blake Edwards took his love for silent comedy routines deep into the post-War pop consciousness.


Chinatown (1974)

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The modern classic by Robert Towne and Roman Polanski.


Beetlejuice (1988)

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I misunderstood Beetlejuice when it was new; my contemporary review (fortunately now lost to the landfills) betrayed a certain — and to me, now, inexplicable — inability to keep pace with Tim Burton’s patented blend of amiability and dark comic outrage. It wasn’t that I couldn’t appreciate his often exhilarating blend of comedy and horror; the Large Marge sequence in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of my seat. But I somehow wasn’t ready for an entire feature with that sensibility, unfettered. Revisiting Beetlejuice now, as I feel compelled to do every few years, I can’t help wondering why my younger self couldn’t relax enough to embrace such a cheerfully anarchic comedy as this one. Written by Michael McDowell (sadly, one of all too many creative men who succumbed to AIDS) and Warren Skaaren (also now prematurely dead, of bone cancer) from a story by McDowell and Larry Wilson, it’s a spook-fest for jaded children, a supernatural comedy that stints neither on the humor nor the paranormal. As the nice young Connecticut couple who discover they’re dead and doomed to live with the wacko modern artist and her bourgeois real-estate developer husband they can’t scare away, Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis embody the spirit of the whole enterprise; they’re too sweetly gentle to make decent ghosts. As the titular “bio-exorcist,” Michael Keaton was a revelation, and his performance still amazes; nothing he’d done in movies up to that point had prepared us for the primal forces he unleashed in himself as Beetlejuice. His non-stop patter, loopy asides, gross-out wit and sheer brazen crudity were like nothing we’d seen in a movie comedy before. I think you’d have to imagine how movie audiences reacted the first time they saw the Marx Brothers to understand the impact that performance had on us in 1988. The strong supporting cast includes a very young Winona Ryder as the developer’s slightly off, death-obsessed teenage daughter; the peerlessly self-satisfied Jeffrey Jones as her father; the ever-treasurable Catherine O’Hara as his nasty, pretentious wife; Sylvia Sidney, in her of her final performances, as Baldwin and Davis’ case-worker, making the most of a role that is really little more than a delicious sick joke; Glenn Shadix as an obnoxious interior designer§; and Dick Cavett as a blasé society snob. Danny Elfman composed one of his brightest early scores, which deftly incorporates some of Harry Belafonte’s calypso hits. The first time I saw Beetlejuice, the use of “Day-O” offended me; now that sequence strikes me as one of the happiest in the picture. That’s one of the perks of revisiting old movies: Realizing that it wasn’t the original, uncategorizable, picture that was to blame for your dismissal of it, and being happy that you’ve lived to become a person who can surrender himself to it.

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§ Although Shadix’s performance struck me at the time as an exercise in extreme stereotype, the actor was himself gay.


The Seven-Per-Cent Solution (1976)

The Seven-Per-Cent Solution - Duvall, Arkin, Williamson watch

Nicholas Meyer’s ingenious Sherlock Holmes pastiche.


Blackbeard’s Ghost (1968)

Blackbeard's Ghost - Ustinov and Jones

I don’t know how I missed this one when it was released, as I habitually saw every new (or newly reissued) Disney movie, animated or live-action. It’s just possible it didn’t make it to the small Ohio town we were living in then, although every other children’s movie of the time did. In any case, I only discovered it when I came across the Disneyland soundtrack album — receiving the record for Christmas of 1970, I nearly wore it out through re-playing. It was my introduction to Peter Ustinov, who narrated it, and who starred as Blackbeard; the LP featured dialogue, mostly between him and Dean Jones, with a little Suzanne Pleshette shoehorned in, and I was entranced by Ustinov’s idiosyncratic way with a funny line, his ineffable charm, and (to borrow a phrase from Harlan Ellison in a different context) the “ineluctable rodomontade” of his florid verbiage. As I grew older and became more familiar with Ustinov, and with his performances and his work as a playwright and screenwriter, I began to suspect that he had re-written the Blackbeard script (or at least, his lines) as he had on Spartacus. And if you love Ustinov as I do, Blackbeard’s Ghost, while silly, generates a lot of laughter. Although basing their screenplay on a very good children’s novel by Ben Stahl, in which two boys accidentally conjure up the shade of the pirate, still very much the bloodthirsty ghoul of legend, the movie’s writers (Don Da Gradi and Bill Walsh) ditched that premise in favor of pure comedy, making this far tamer Blackbeard’s more-than-reluctant compatriot the new coach of a hopeless college track team. That the coach is played by Jones is a help; whatever criticisms might be levied at the Disney pictures in which he starred, the actor (on whom I had a slight childish crush) always brought enormous conviction to them, and his outbursts of incredulous anger are as ingratiating as the engaging grin that occasionally splits his handsome face. The slapstick in the picture, directed with no special distinction by Robert Stevenson, is sometimes dopey and occasionally better than that, and the invisibility effects by Eustace Lycett and Robert A. Mattey are, as usual with Disney, well done, as are the lovely background matte paintings by Peter Ellenshaw. The screenplay has a pleasing lightness, enriched by what I again assume were Ustinov’s additions. The laughter the Disney Blu-Ray drew from me was considerable, even if nearly all of it was generated by Ustinov, who still makes me roar at lines I memorized off that record album when I was nine. Although Elliott Reid overdoes his bit as a television sportscaster, Pleshette is, as always, simultaneously biting and adorable as Jones’ inamorata; Joby Baker makes a good showing in the unaccustomed role of the villain; Elsa Lanchester gets a good scene or two as Jones’ dotty landlady; Richard Deacon is amusingly dry as the college dean; and Herbie Faye, Ned Glass, Alan Carney and Gil Lamb all have good bits in Baker’s restaurant-cum-gambling den. The plot revolves in large part around Blackbeard’s old home, maintained as an hotel by his descendants, little old ladies with nothing else to cling to. I mention this because one of them — and I have no idea which — is identified on the imdb as Betty Bronson. That’s a name more forgotten now than it was 50 years ago, but 45 years before, that Bronson was enchanting youngsters as the screen’s first Peter Pan. I would like to think that Walt Disney, one of whose final productions Blackbeard’s Ghost was, knew that, and gave the old trouper a job. Anyway, it would be pretty to think so.


Into the Woods (2014)

INTO THE WOODS

Anna Kendric sings “On the Steps of the Palace,” my favorite number in Stephen Sondheim’s dark/light score. “He’s a very smart Prince / He’s a Prince who prepares / Knowing this time I’d run from him / He spread pitch on the stairs…”

Although I have been a Sondheim fanatic since discovering the Company cast album in 1976, and while the original production of Into the Woods was the first Broadway musical I saw before its cast recording had been released, I deliberately avoided the movie of it when it was new, on the basis of three proper names with which it was associated: “Disney,” “Rob” and “Marshall.” Perhaps only in Hollywood could a minimally talented hack like Rob Marshall reap such rewards (and a-wards) by removing the guts from ballsy musical plays like Chicago and Nine. After countless producers and screenwriters, including Larry Gelbart, had worked at it, what was Marshall’s great “break-through” on Chicago? Turning all the musical numbers into dream-fantasies Renee Zellweger imagines. If you have to justify why people are singing and dancing in a musical, why the fuck are you making a musical? Still, with a screenplay by James Lapine, the original book writer and director of Into the Woods, perhaps there was only so much damage Marshall could do to it. Well, it was someone’s brilliant idea to cast the magnificent Simon Russell Beale as the Baker’s Father and then butcher his role so completely he’s left with no songs and only a couple of lines, confusingly delivered, since we can’t tell who he is, whether he’s real or a phantom, and haven’t any idea whether his son (James Corden) knows either; and to let Chris Pine as an 18th century prince sport a trendy two-day growth of beard on his chin.‖ The picture looks splendid, which I attribute largely to its cinematographer Dion Beebe, its set decorator Anna Pinnock, its costumer Colleen Atwood and its production designer Dennis Gassner. And it’s largely well cast, with actors who can sing: Corden; Meryl Streep, sardonic but subdued as The Witch; lovely Emily Blunt as The Baker’s Wife; cute Daniel Huttlestone as a full-throated Jack; Lilla Crawford as a foghorn-voiced Little Red Riding Hood; Johnny Depp as her Wolf; Tracey Ullman as Jack’s Mother; and Anna Kendrick who, although attractive only from a single angle… and that one her director seldom favors… is an otherwise charming and effective Cinderella. Into the Woods was significantly better than I’d expected. Yet I still tremble whenever I hear another name yoked with this director’s: “Rob,” “Marshall”… and Follies. Hasn’t that poor show suffered enough?

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‖As my friend Eliot M. Camarena once asked, do people like that when they’re children announce, “When I grow up, I wanna look like Fred C. Dobbs!”?


The Art of Love (1965)

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A surprisingly brainless affair to have come from the typewriter of the witty Carl Reiner, riding high in 1965 with the deserved success of The Dick Van Dyke Show, which he created and oversaw, and for which he wrote many of the most memorable early episodes. The best thing about this moderately black farce concerning a failed American artist in Paris whose supposed suicide instantly drives up the prices fetched for his work by his duplicitous best friend (James Garner) is Van Dyke as the artist. His comedic timing, seemingly boneless body and inimitable way with a line or a situation are the equal of the great comedians he worshiped, and it’s one of the great ironies of modern history that he came along at a time when movie and television comedies were so often loud, witless and inane. Had Blake Edwards not already collared Peter Sellers and Jack Lemmon, what a find Van Dyke would have been for that fellow student of slapstick! Reiner can’t really be blamed for the general dopiness of the movie, since he was working from an existing story by two other writers (Alan Simmons and William Sackheim) and the movie’s young director, Norman Jewison, doesn’t appear to have been a great deal of help to him. The Art of Love is attractive to look at — it was shot by Russell Metty — but inert, marking time with things like Angie Dickinson’s fainting shtick (it’s funny the first time), Elke Sommers’ perpetual innocent act and the braying of Ethel Merman, apparently cast as a madam just so she could belt out an instantly forgettable nightclub number. The usually ingratiating Garner has little to play here but his character’s cheesy self-centeredness, and Reiner stoops to such things as plunking a cartoon Brooklynite Yiddishe couple (Irving Jacobson and Naomi Stevens) in the middle of Paris. Still, Jay Novello has a couple of funny bits as a nervous janitor and little Pierre Olaf does miracle work as an umbrella-toting police detective, Cy Coleman provided a perky score (with additional music by Frank Skinner), and DePatie-Freleng came up with some modestly amusing main title animation. There’s little excuse, however, for a comedy — especially one with Dick Van Dyke — whose only big laugh comes at the very end, and absolutely none for its indulging in such feeble wheezes as the periodic introduction of a Madame Defarge-like hag, complete with knitting needles, who shows up every now and then to screech her delight at Garner’s impending execution. But at least I now understand what my mother meant when she once told me that after seeing this one on television when I was a boy I walked around the house for a week saying, “Guillotine! Guillotine!”


Murder by Decree (1978)

Murder by Decree

That Sherlock Holmes occupied a revered, albeit fictional, place in the same late Victorian Britain that saw the appalling murders in Whitechapel has intrigued Sherlockians for decades. What more natural meeting could there be than between Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant consulting detective and “Saucy Jacky,” as that figure of horror known popularly as Jack the Ripper styled himself in a letter to the papers? Derek Ford and Donald Ford (the former known primarily for his snickering sex comedies) imagined Holmes investigating the murders in the 1965 A Study in Terror, and the same year in which this more recent attempt was released saw the publication of Michael Didbin’s dark little novel The Last Sherlock Holmes Story, very much concerned with Jack. The elements are there even in the mind’s eye: The dimly gaslit cobblestone streets, the hansom cabs and private cabriolets, the enveloping fog that swallows up forms, faces and screams of terror and pain. That Bob Clark, the onlie begettor of Porky’s should, of all people, have directed as beautiful a fiction as Murder by Decree is as puzzling as his making that perfect adaptation of Jean Shepherd, A Christmas Story. But then, as Orson Welles once told Peter Bogdanovich, “Peter, you only need one.” The literate screenplay by the playwright John Hopkins emphasizes a more riant, and more passionate, Holmes than is the norm, and Christopher Plummer could scarcely be bettered in the role as the filmmakers, if not Conan Doyle, conceived it. His performance reaches two peaks, one infinitely quiet (his reaction to Geneviève Bujold’s heartbreaking madwoman), the other bristling with outrage at what his betters (including John Gielgud as the Prime Minister, unidentified in the picture but clearly made up to resemble Robert Gascoyne-Cecil) have been up to. Hopkins also, blessedly, gives us a Watson who is as far from the Nigel Bruce model as can be imagined. And while the irreplaceable James Mason is a bit hoary for the role, his aplomb is undeniable; a moment of especial charm is the way he expresses dismay at Holmes, and with a look of genuine hurt, when the former squashes the lone pea on the doctor’s plate. And if he is occasionally the voice of hidebound Empire, Mason’s (and Hopkins’) Watson is also equally as capable of wit as Holmes as, for example, when Sherlock asks his compatriot why his friend deems him only “the prince of detectives” and wishes to know who is king. I won’t spoil the joke here, nor the conclusion of this intricately plotted exercise, based on some theories by Elwyn Jones and John Lloyd in their contemporaneous book The Ripper File. The exceptional cast includes a starchily smug and imperious Gielgud; the wrenching Bujold; Frank Finlay as an uncharacteristically deferential Inspector Lestrade; David Hemmings as the police inspector in charge of the case (and who bears absolutely no relationship to the very real Frederick Abberline); Susan Clark as a heartrending Mary Kelly; Anthony Quayle as the dangerously reactionary Sir Charles Warren; Peter Jonfield as a chillingly psychotic chief villain; and Donald Sutherland as the shaken spiritualist Robert Lees, who believes he’s seen the Ripper. Despite a few unnecessary visual flourishes, Clark’s eye is nearly unerring, abetted to an exceptional degree by the rich and expressive cinematography by Reginald H. Morris and the astonishing production design of Harry Pottle; I don’t know whether Pottle is responsible for the staggeringly effective matte paintings of London used in the picture, but whoever painted them, they put you absolutely there. The only real miscalculation in the movie is the highly derivative musical score by Paul Zaza and Carl Zittrer from which I heard distinct liftings from John Williams (the scene in Jaws of Richard Dreyfus investigating Ben Gardner’s boat), Jerry Goldsmith and Bernard Herrmann (those eerie strings) and Richard Rodney Bennett (the opening sequence of Murder on the Orient Express) and in which — aside from the plaintive traditional Irish tune for Mary Kelly — there is little that is either original, interesting, useful or pleasing to the ear.



Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

Some kind of a man: “Touch of Evil” (1958)

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By Scott Ross

Whom the gods would destroy they first make wildly successful. For all his astonishing early success in the theatre and on radio — and despite his self-evident greatness as a filmmaker — Orson Welles was never able to create a popular movie, usually through no fault of his own. Touch in Evil is a case in point: What should have been at the very least a minor hit never really had a hope, re-edited (and, to a degree, re-shot) as it was by hacks and unceremoniously dumped onto the “B” market by Universal when the studio apparently lost all faith in the picture. Welles, having returned from self-exile in Europe, and making waves in other people’s pictures (The Long, Hot Summer and Huston’s Moby-Dick) and television shows (he was a memorable guest on I Love Lucy) was primed for a chance at the brass ring, and even in a form both truncated and fattened by others, Touch of Evil should, ideally, have been the carousel horse he needed to reach it. The source, a Whit Masterson* mystery called Badge of Evil, is mildly diverting but not especially resonant, or even particularly memorable. (I had to read a precis to even recall the plot.) But as Welles re-shaped and re-fashioned it, this inconsequential pulp material becomes something dark, disturbing and, yes, even profound.

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It looks unlike any other director’s work, and sounds unlike any other’s. I do not mean the overlapping dialogue or the fealty to ambient sound, although both are hallmarks of Welles, but the shape and flavor of his dialogue, as when Charlton Heston’s “Mike” Vargas says to Welles’ corrupt police captain Hank Quinlan, “A policeman’s job is only easy in a police state.” (He should have lived to see how well that has worked out in America.) Far more than things like the somewhat showy opening sequence, the characteristic shadows or the menacing camera angles, what distinguishes this as a Welles picture are its concerns, and the means by which the filmmaker explicates, and expounds on, them. In Badge of Evil, an assistant D.A. ponders a killing and a seemingly false confession, and his Latin wife is kidnapped, drugged and framed by his enemies. There’s also a climax involving a hidden wire recorder and a cop called Quinlan who is at the same time a thug, a dupe and a bit of a dope. The basic elements are there, but arranged conventionally. Welles, by making the suspicious municipal attorney (Heston) a Mexican with a Caucasian wife (Janet Leigh), gets instantly to the heart of American racism, which traditionally has looked with horror on dusky bucks squiring lily-white does; he then further compounds this sense of unease by having Quinlan harass and then arrest a young Mexican suspect (Victor Millan), who is later proven to be guilty. My revealing that is not exactly a spoiler; with Welles, narrative detail is scarcely the point. It is less important that the boy is guilty than that he was framed to begin with, and that in trying to coerce from Quinlan a confession for the frame-up Vargas descends to the worst sort of legal maneuvering, convincing Quinlan’s hero-worshiping partner (Joseph Calleia) to betray the man electronically. And Vargas quite literally descends, hiding under a bridge and sloshing through oily, trash-laden waters as he follows his quarry. Welles’ sympathies as a writer-director are divided: Vargas is right… but so is Quinlan. And each is equally wrong. As Welles told Peter Bogdanovich, “I don’t make those judgments, ever, about people in my pictures.” He didn’t paint Charles Foster Kane with a black-tarred brush either. Much more than “arty” camera angles and creative editing, it’s that very ambiguity, which seems to upset many literal people, that ultimately make Welles’ movies so exhilarating. As Marlene Dietrich’s Tana observes of Quinlan at the end of the picture, “He was some kind of a man. What does it matter what you say about people?”

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The preferred version of Touch of Evil is the one re-edited by Walter Murch in 1998 and based largely on a 58-page memo Welles famously prepared when Universal showed him their edit… although even this edition contains some footage Welles did not shoot but which Murch needed for continuity. Appropriately for a man who first made his mark as a sound editor, Murch’s great contribution to the restoration was his removing Henry Mancini’s conventional (albeit effective) “thriller” scoring from the opening sequence in favor of the more ambient sound Welles imagined, and which also contained snippets of several Mancini rock and jazz pieces, heard as they would be if an automobile was cruising a border-town’s streets and passing its many clip-joints. (Murch also took the distracting credits off the sequence and placed them at the end of the picture.) That opening, so beloved of cineastes, consisting as it does of three and a half unbroken minutes of tracking shot, while admittedly a tour de force, is to me far less impressive than the much longer, more complex, and more beautifully controlled, scene in the apartment of the accused which is also without a cut and twice as long.† Yet because it is less flashy, it goes unnoticed by most image-junkies and Scorsese acolytes. (Or am I being redundant?) Only once does Welles, who hated symbols, opt for an obvious metaphor, when the crippled, ageing, bibulous and nearly played-out Quinlan is glimpsed beneath a mounted bull’s head decorated with picadors’ lances. As Welles noted to Bogdanovich of a moment in his Othello involving Iago, “It’s instant metaphor, like instant coffee.” And we all know what instant coffee is good for.

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Those who like to pretend, for their own perverse reasons, that Welles was no writer (by which accusation I presume they mean Herman Mankiewiciz didn’t just write Citizen Kane but everything else) never get what an original dramatic voice he had. There is nothing, but nothing, in the Masterson book that corresponds to Vargas’ American wife or to the two-bit gangster Grandi who menaces her, and certainly no dialogue that rivals theirs. Although frightened of this absurd little toupée-sporting hoodlum, she tells him he’s seen too many gangster movies, and he has. Welles said he got that notion from having encountered gangsters, whom he found both menacing and funny, as Grandi is. And perhaps no one could have embodied those seeming contradictions better than the splendid Akim Tamiroff, whose scenes in Touch of Evil lift the picture into a realm it wouldn’t achieve without him, just as he lifted Welles’ Mr. Arkadin and as Dennis Weaver raises the role of the terrified motel night manager here into another form of reality. Leigh somehow managed to appear in a trio of indelible roles in important pictures during this period, and to enrich all three beyond the telling. (The others are The Manchurian Candidate and Psycho.) Her armor includes sex, wit, understanding, a sharpness that camouflages but does not obscure her vulnerability, and the ability to move the viewer unexpectedly. She’d have been the ideal leading lady for Howard Hawks, and I’ve often wondered why he never cast her in anything.

Heston is rather good, although he more or less eschews any sort of accent. I remember being infuriated by the scene in Tim Burton’s appallingly overrated Ed Wood in which Vincent D’Onofrio as Welles (although voiced by Maurice LeMarche) complains bitterly of having to use the actor in his picture, which struck me then and strikes me now as a bit of ignorant snark by the screenwriters,‡ trendily directed toward an admittedly vulnerable target. Whether the story Welles later told of Heston’s inadvertently getting him the job of directing Touch of Evil is true or not — he was allegedly engaged to write and appear in it, until the actor, misunderstanding, said he would be honored to be in anything Orson Welles directed — Welles had nothing but praise for Heston subsequently. Well, what can one expect of people who deify a sub-nonentity like Ed Wood for being utterly without talent and trying anyway?

Welles, who gave a funny mock-Method performance for Martin Ritt in The Long, Hot Summer, blustering in mumbles, if I may be permitted an oxymoron, does something similar here, but to better effect because the character of Quinlan is such a human wreck, and so used to getting his way, he no longer needs to speak distinctly. Viewers of the movie today probably assume that Quinlan’s massive body was simply Welles’ usual heft, but he was well padded in face and physique. (He later told Bogdanovich a very funny anecdote about showing up at a Hollywood party before taking off his makeup and being greeted by old friends with, “Hi, Orson, you’re lookin’ great!”) Despite its obviousness, the metaphor of the bull is not inapt; although hobbled by a limp and too much candy-induced fat, there is still power in Hank Quinlan that goes well beyond the official badge of his office. You can imagine the force he’d been, just as you occasionally catch a glimpse of the rogue who once captured Tana’s heart — or who shared her bed, in any case.

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Although they had relaxed considerably between Welles’ exit to Europe in the late ’40s and his return a decade later, things were hardly free and open in America yet. The Catholic-controlled Production Code was still fully in place, if slightly more flexible than it had been, and it’s rather astonishing how much Welles got away with here, from Janet Leigh’s firmly pointed slip to the butch Lesbian played by a disguised Mercedes McCambridge (“I want to watch…”) to the implications of gang-rape by Grandi’s young hoods at the motel, even if what transpires is an only slightly less traumatizing introduction of narcotics. When Hank visits Tana’s establishment across the Mexican border, the only assumption we can make is that it’s a house of prostitution, lending a frisson of the forbidden to this exchange between the two:

Quinlan: Well, when this case is over, I’ll come around some night and sample some
of 
your chili.
Tana: Better be careful. May be too hot for you.

That Dietrich delivers that line with such bland nonchalance I suppose mitigates the salaciousness of it, but any reasonably intelligent adolescent can read between those lines.

It goes without saying that Tana does not exist in Badge of Evil, and, Welles maintained, not in the original script he adapted. “I only thought up the character,” he told Bogdanovich, “if I could get Marlene. Otherwise, no such character, no such scenes.” Bogdanovich feels Dietrich brings a quality to the picture that is “absolutely cosmic,” that “she becomes a kind of mythic figure in the film,” and it’s hard to disagree. The presence of Tana reminds us that Quinlan, so easily pegged as a villain and (as she later notes) “a lousy cop,” is human, and once mattered to someone. But beyond that, Dietrich almost seems to be summing up everything she’s ever done or been on the screen, from Morocco to Witness for the Prosecution: The cool sultriness, the misterioso, the Continental wisdom, and the sexiness that emanates from her seemingly without effort. When she looks at Quinlan’s floating body at the end, Dietrich’s eyes are both expressive and unreadable, rendering those final lines of hers as more than an epitaph for a movie corpse: They become seeds of wisdom from the earth mother.

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Touch of Evil also benefits from Welles’ appreciation of old actors and old friends, and from his ability to spot something untouched in younger performers. His use of Joseph Calleia, for example, and of Ray Collins (as the D.A.) and Joseph Cotten (as the coroner, although at least one of his lines — “Now you could strain him through a sieve” — was dubbed by Welles) but most especially in his casting of Weaver as the motel night manager who is not merely nervous but psychotic. It’s the sort of role, at that time, perhaps only Welles could have envisioned, and he lets Weaver run with it.

There’s probably a great deal more I might say, about Russell Metty’s striking black-and-white cinematography and Mancini’s effective score, which reaches a kind of glory with his pianola theme for Dietrich. But ultimately it’s Orson’s show, and that either sells it for you, or sends you packing. I will, however, say this: Welles’ last studio picture as a writer-director looks better with every passing year.

If the elegant hacks whose offerings currently hold sway at the multiplexes had the capacity for embarrassment, Touch of Evil would thoroughly shame them.



“Whit Masterson” was the pen-name of Robert Allison “Bob” Wade and H. Bill Miller and H. Bill Miller. Their second best-remembered title? Kitten with a Whip.

† There are actually two long sequences done in single takes, divided by a cutaway to another set of necessary scenes.

‡ Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski.

Text copyright 2019 by Scott Ross

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