Truffaut, Gazza and not re-evaluating Hitchcock - Reviews #125

In part two of the summer round-up, I spend a day in the dark with Truffaut, don't bother re-appraising Hitchcock's alleged "lost masterpiece" and go on about Joseph Gordon-Levitt again.



*SPOILERS*
Jules et Jim (François Truffaut, 1962) - An introspective Austrian (Oskar Werner's Jules) and a moustachioed ladies' man (Henri Serre's Jim) find their intense friendship variously compromised and cemented by their dealings with the capricious Catherine (Jeanne Moreau), who marries one but makes an intangible connection with the other. This is one of Truffaut's two most famous films - the other being the unassailable, unimpeachable Les quatre cents coups, one of the most remarkable achievements in all of cinema - but it's really not all that great. It's intellectually stimulating but emotionally deadening, with an intrusive, almost ever-present third-person narration that strives for a novelistic feel, but winds up dominating the picture, and either telling us what we already know or reeling off exposition, while failing to adequately convey the passage of time. The film's fabled atmosphere of exuberance - which extends to some inspired freeze-framing and a joyous dash across a bridge - evaporates after a half-hour, leaving us stranded in the company of the annoying audio commentary, an unsympathetic heroine and the inscrutable Jim. The movie does have moments of unusual clarity - the points it makes about the gender of language are memorable and fascinating - and there's a lovely airiness to the outdoor scenes, but it's one established classic that doesn't quite stand up to its fearsome reputation. (2.5)

***

Three encounters with Antoine Doinel:



*SPOILERS*
SHORT: Antoine et Colette (François Truffaut, 1962) – Truffaut made five films featuring his alter-ego Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Léaud), of which this short movie was the second. It followed Les quatre cents coups – the film that got me into films, and still one of my absolute favourites – and was part of a portmanteau project combining the efforts of five directors from around the world, called Love at Twenty. Truffaut's segment is a simple story that sees the self-sufficient, 17-year-old Antoine throwing his ordered life to the wind as he falls in love for the first time. Sadly Colette sees him as a friend, rather than a lover, and seems slightly perturbed when he installs himself in a hotel opposite her bedroom. Still, her parents take a shine to the polite young man. This isn’t a classic as Les quatre cents coups is – a landmark movie about adolescence, told in a freewheeling yet neorealist style – but it’s very deftly done, the potentially minor storyline brought to vivid life through skilful editing, witty, quietly lyrical direction (spotlighted in the first concert sequence and three balcony shots, each significant in their own way), as well as Léaud’s lovely characterisation, closer to the semi-improvised realism of what had come before than the quiet mugging and hair-flicking of those subsequent sex comedies. I also like the timeless way Truffaut’s monochrome movies look; his colour films are positively hideous in comparison. (3.5)



*SPOILERS*
Bed and Board (François Truffaut, 1970) – Further seriocomic adventures in the life of Truffaut’s self-destructive, self-obsessed alternate self, Antoine Doinel, who is blessed with a son, lands a ridiculous, undeserved job, and fouls up his marriage – having fallen for a taciturn Japanese temptress. It’s entertaining, wise and funny, with several gags worthy of Lubitsch, and there’s a typically charismatic lead performance from Léaud, but if I have a criticism, it’s that both his performance and the film lack the naturalism that made Les quatre cents coups so very special. This is very much a movie, and his turn is very much that of a movie star, rather than one which draws you in through attractive or desperate realism. As movies go, though, it's great fun. (3.5)



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Love on the Run (François Truffaut, 1979) – The last in the Antoine Doinel series draws so heavily on footage from the previous four films that it sometimes resembles one of those sitcom episodes where the characters get stuck in a lift and then just remember things that have happened. The film does eventually find an identity of its own, though, and the final scene is very moving, segueing artfully and powerfully into footage from the theme park sequence of Les quatre cents coups in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s really the only time that the archive clips really work, while the storyline – such as it is – relies too much on coincidence, just as the film leans a little too much on our goodwill, and our fondness for Léaud’s wayward protagonist, a character who in Truffaut’s words is “only comfortable in extreme situations”. There are effective moments, not least Antoine's farewell to his mother's lover, but as the director acknowledged, this is more a “curtain call” – a nostalgia trip for Doinel fans, and a chance to tie up a lot of loose ends through cold, analytical talkiness – than a coherent and important movie in itself. (2.5)

And, from the archive, here's a review of Les quatre cents coups, from a Top 100 list I did in 2009.



Les quatre cents coups (Francois Truffaut, 1959) - Thanks Mr Hutton. He was the fifth-form French teacher who treated us to a module on French cinema. Having screened Jean de Florette in previous years – and accidentally shown us Vigo's Zero de conduite due to an incorrectly-labelled video – he then ignited my burgeoning passion for cinema with Truffaut's rulebook-eschewing New Wave classic. Applying the innovations of that nascent movement to a semi-autobiographical story about a 12-year-old misfit, former film critic Truffaut created a movie that cut deeper and raised you higher than his contemporaries (among them Godard, Chabrol and Malle) could ever manage. Jean-Pierre Léaud is Antoine Doinel, unhappy at home and at school as he graduates from innocence to cynicism. He bunks off his comprehensive to go to the fair, almost burns down his house with an ill-advised shrine to Balzac and gets sent to reform school after a litany of misdemeanours. Like lying to his teacher that his mum is dead. Exhibiting a sense of assurance that's dazzling for a debut filmmaker, Truffaut utilises a loose narrative style that has time for fairground fun and a heap of freeform, improvised character stuff. In doing so, he creates a movie that's beguiling, funny and utterly unique. It's hard-hitting too, but deceptively so, as it presents the world through Doinel's eyes. There's misery there, and a sense of bristling injustice, but contrasted with moments of childlike euphoria - particularly in the opening half hour. The offbeat ending is one of the great unresolved climaxes. I was obsessed with the movie for about five years. I suppose I still am.

Favourite bit: The puppet show, in which the unquestioning glee of the children is contrasted with the growing cynicism of Doinel and his pal.

See also: Truffaut's ode to childhood, Small Change, damaged by poor plotting and one truly terrible special effect, but full of superb vignettes. The scene in which a baby unpacks his mum's shopping is one of the funniest, most anarchic things you'll ever seen on screen. Truffaut revisited Doinel in five subsequent films. The first full-length sequel in Stolen Kisses: a decent comedy of deceit and sexual longing that's a little too rooted in time.

***



*SPOILERS FOR THIS FILM AND PRETTY IN PINK*
Some Kind of Wonderful (Howard Deutch, 1987) - Teenager Keith (Eric Stoltz) is hard-up, likes art and works part-time in a garage. So in '80s American high school terms, he's an outsider. His sole ally is a drumming, quietly smitten tomboy called Watts (Mary Stuart Masterson) - who bears more than a passing resemblance to Pretty in Pink's Ducky - until he catches tiny-mouthed belle of the school Amanda Jones (Lea Thompson) on the rebound. A little while ago, I suggested Pretty in Pink was John Hughes' best film, but actually this is, with Hughes fixing the problems with both that film (the lead ends up with the wrong person) and The Breakfast Club (that hideous makeover scene). It's complete escapism, but also affecting, intelligent and funny, with the writer-producer's usual stylised characters and vivid dialogue, and wonderful performances from both Stoltz and Masterson, who may be my favourite movie chauffeur. Only quibble: they should have let Brilliant Mind by Furniture play out, as it's great. (4)

***


This is definitely what teenagers are like and how they get girls.

10 Things I Hate About You (Gil Junger, 1999) - Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew is transplanted to an American high school (Padua High) in this bright comedy-drama. Sweet-natured Joseph Gordon-Levitt loves arrogant, coquettish Larisa Oleynik, but her protective father will only let her date when rebellious elder sister Julia Stiles gets a boyfriend too. So Gordon-Levitt and his scheming pal get obnoxious Andrew Keegan - also after Oleynik - to pay loser Keith Ledger to snare Stiles. Got it? The film has little idea of how teenagers actually behave (a Riot Grrrl genuinely goes gooey over someone publicly singing an Andy Williams song at her), but it's fast-paced, witty and very nicely-played, particularly by Stiles and Gordon-Levitt, whose singular style was somewhat unformed, but whose talent and natural likeability shine through. "And I'm... back in the game!" (3)

***



Rio (Carlos Saldanha, 2011) – Formulaic but fun animated feature, from Brazilian director Saldanha and the rest of the Ice Age gang, about rare macaw Blu (Jesse Eisenberg), who decamps from Minnesota to his birthplace of Rio, but finds himself out of his depth, as he can’t fly, he’s chained to a withering free spirit (Anne Hathaway) and he’s about to be stolen by bird smugglers. The film continues an inauspicious tradition, that began with Merrie Melodies and persists apace, of non-sequitur songs in which animals spoof contemporary acts; odd, then, that a rap number featuring an evil cockatoo called Nigel somehow emerges as a comic highlight. There’s a lot to like about the film: it has an excellent score, some very attractive visuals and Eisenberg’s likeable voicework, while Saldanha does acknowledge some of Rio’s more unsavoury aspects within the framework of a kids’ feature. But the story is over-familiar and unadventurous, and there are just too many characters, the majority given a single funny moment at most. (2.5)

***



*SPOILERS*
The Trouble with Harry (Alfred Hitchcock, 1955) ... is that he's dead. People are forever trying to re-evaluate this as Hitchcock’s lost masterpiece, when really it’s just a passable black comedy with enough of The Master’s hallmarks that eager theorists can link it to his better films. Single mum Shirley MacLaine, modern artist John Forsythe and ageing romantics Edmund Gwenn and Mildred Natwick are among the small-townsfolk who stumble across a dead body, and then either think they’ve killed it, bury it, or dig it up, across 99 minutes. It starts quite iffily, hampered by a self-satisfied script that keeps giving Gwenn dreadful asides which he has to read to himself, but its comedic and romantic elements do congeal, making it reasonable if unexceptional entertainment. MacLaine’s charming debut performance is a major bonus, as is the autumnal cinematography, though it jars somewhat with the studio interiors. Bernard Herrman’s score was his first for Hitchcock. (2.5)

***



One Night in Turin (James Erskine, 2010) – Erskine’s documentary about England’s 1990 World Cup campaign has most of the flaws of his subsequent movie – From the Ashes, which dealt with the 1981 cricket series – but few of the virtues. There are no insightful talking heads, so the slack is picked up by an unbearable pseudo-poetic script, written by the director and read by Gary Oldman, while the match footage is constantly interrupted by unnecessary, amateurish reconstructions that serve only to spoil pivotal moments in the action. The attempts to contextualise the tournament in socio-political terms are also as hamfisted as in Erskine's later film: yes, bring the hooliganism aspect into the discussion, but why bother offering an irrelevant, sketchy crash course in Thatcherism? The central story remains a fine one – even when it’s framed in an unconvincing way that paints Gazza as a second Maradona, and Bobby Robson as a tactical genius – and there’s a very moving (and intelligently subtitled) sequence that reveals just what the manager said to his tear-flecked playmaker before the shoot-out against Germany – but this is a film that doesn’t do its subject justice. And no-one ever called Gary Lineker “Golden Boots”. (2)

***



Wedding Daze (Michael Ian Black, 2006) – Atrocious romantic comedy about strangers Jason Biggs and Isla Fisher getting engaged on a whim. There are actually six or seven laughs, and Biggs is quite good, but the story makes literally no sense – none at all – and the movie is overflowing with horrible, indefensible jokes and detestable characters, including Edward Herrmann degrading himself in a part that he presumably thought would reinvent him as another Eugene Levy. Yuck. (1)

The Lorax, Spidey and sprinters on steroids - Reviews #124

Here's the first of a three-part summer reviews round-up. This one sees me living in the cinema, investigating a rare silent comedy and watching a BBC4 documentary about running.

MOVIES



CINEMA: The Lorax 3D (Chris Renaud and Kyle Balda) - In a plastic town where fresh air is controlled by a ruthless, smarmy capitalist, a young boy goes out in search of a real tree - to impress the ginger he loves. This amiable eco-animation - on the controversial topic of not cutting down all the world's trees - is from the burgeoning studio that created Despicable Me. But while that original, deeply funny and winningly sentimental concoction had something for everyone, this one's aimed squarely at kids. Told largely in flashback by a be-whiskered man hiding in a shack, The Lorax has some very nice moments - especially a sumptuous, uplifting journey along a river peopled with colourful, amusing fish, fowl and bears - and a fair number of jokes from its busy supporting cast (the fat bear is great value), but also an obvious story, a mediocre voice cast led by Zac Efron and Taylor Swift, and a disappointingly bland title character. I also have an issue with a film on this subject that shies away from referencing global warming, presumably due to concerns that it wouldn't rake in as much money. The kids in the theatre laughed quite a lot, especially at anyone being hit in the face, but this isn't in the same league as Renaud and Balda's last film. Good news, though, Despicable Me 2 is on the way. (2.5)

***



*SPOILERS*
CINEMA: The Amazing Spider-Man 3D (Marc Webb, 2012) – Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) bullied spider-bite superhero fights monster. That’s the premise covered, so what’s the new version like? Well, it’s a lot better than Raimi’s first effort, for starters, eschewing that cartoonish universe to present something real, credible and attractive, the emotions of the piece never far from the surface. Dealing with the hero’s abandonment by his parents makes the loss of his father substitute, Uncle Ben (Martin Sheen), far more resonant and powerful, giving the film a teary undercurrent that's aided immeasurably by the performances of Sheen and Garfield. The former can really phone it in at times, but for once he’s giving it his all, and the results are lovely. Garfield excels at playing these troubled, sensitive types, and creates sparks with real-life girlfriend Emma Stone (as his peppy girlfriend Gwen Stacy), who's fast becoming one of my favourite actresses. And has the laugh of a 50-year-old trucker. The film never quite gets over the main problem with Spider-Man movies – that seeing Spidey whizz between buildings is exhilarating, but seeing him fight a monster is boring, especially if it’s up a tower – but this is still a superior superhero movie, the tedious passages dealing with baddie Rhys Ifans (who turns into a big lizard) offset by fine performances, jolts of directorial invention (including a fantastic POV gimmick in two action sequences) and handling that keeps a lump in the throat for most of the running time. Unlike in the ludicrous Spider-Man 3, its passages of humour spring from the mythology itself - like the hero barely able to comprehend his new-found strength - rather than from lazy legacy-bashing. It isn’t as good as Superman Returns, or even Spider-Man 2, but I’d take it over The Dark Knight or Avengers Assemble any day. PS: Has anyone noticed anything Freudian about the globs of gloop springing from the wrists of this teenage superhero? Because I certainly haven't. (3)

Trivia note: Ifans' lizard looks like the goombas from the Super Mario Bros movie.

***



CINEMA: Seeking a Friend for the End of the World (Lorene Scafaria, 2012) – An unfulfilled nice guy (Steve Carell) and a flaky 30-year-old (Keira Knightley) take a car trip to see their loved ones, just ahead of the apocalypse. This end-of-the-Earth romcom is too unfocused, episodic and erratic to be truly special, but it expands on its scenario in genuinely thoughtful ways, packs a significant emotional punch and benefits a great deal from Carell’s excellent performance, doing the quiet/sad thing familiar from Dan in Real Life and Crazy, Stupid, Love. Knightley’s also a lot better than she used to be. It's like Melancholia, but with jokes. (3)

***



*SPOILERS*
Exit Smiling (Sam Taylor, 1926) – Talentless bit part player Beatrice Lille dreams of being the vamp in the latest stinker from her cheapo touring company, Flamin’ Women; then she’s forced to play the part for real, waylaying a scurrilous banker to save the name of potential beau Jack Pickford. This witty silent comedy, co-devised and directed by Sam Taylor (who did some of Harold Lloyd’s finest) has a very funny first half, full of clever sight gags and amusing details - special mention to the "tail" joke - but a less satisfying second, built around two extended set pieces that don’t quite work. Still, there’s a lovely performance from Lille – a musical comedy stage star who was married to Robert Peel – appearing in her only silent film, and the melancholic pay-off is beautifully realised. Franklin Pangborn, in his first movie, is amusingly cast as a fey ham masquerading as a rugged stage hero. (3)

Hear also: I sought this one out because Chris Edwards, of the Silent Volume blog, nominated it as his favourite pre-talkie comedy, on this podcast here. It's a great listen.

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Our Idiot Brother (Jesse Peretz, 2011) - A selfless hippie (Paul Rudd), who really ought to be less trusting, goes to jail for selling weed to a uniformed police officer. When he gets out, he proceeds to accidentally wreck the lives of his nearest and dearest, all the time displaying a charming naivete that they just can't stomach. The film is quiet, ambling and, when it can be bothered, incredibly funny (the second scene with Rudd's parole officer has one stunning gag), with a pitch-perfect performance at its centre, though the way it sometimes squanders the talents of an extraordinary comic cast - giving Zooey Deschanel a largely straight part, while spending too long with Emily Mortimer's mewling sister - and climaxes in unfortunately conventional fashion, suggests something of the lazy, laissez faire manner of its stoner protagonist. It's a very nice piece of work, though, with an unusually idealistic hero. Fans of contemporary comedy will delight in seeing Rudd and Adam Scott on screen together, while the cast also includes Steve Coogan, Rashida Jones and Elizabeth Banks. (3)

***



The Brothers Bloom (Rian Johnson, 2008) - Johnson's follow-up to the incomparable high school noir Brick - one of the best films of the last decade - is a caper movie in the Topkapi vein, set in the present day but dressed in '30s gangster movie garb. (I hadn't noticed the influence of Paper Moon, but Johnson has mentioned it and that also comes through in spots.) Gentle, sweet-natured Bloom (Adrien Brody) and his overbearing, pudgy brother Stephen (Mark Ruffalo) are con men. Stephen sketches the elaborate ruses, which hop continents and require the supporting services of both a phony Belgian (Robbie Coltrane) and a paedophile mentor (Maximillian Schell), but it's Bloom who forces the naive female mark to fall head-over-heels in love with him. Now the target is childlike millionairess Rachel Weisz, only this time he's falling for her. Or is he? And does she like him? And is Ruffalo playing them both? It's a fun movie - startling with a superb, significant, self-contained chapter about the pair's early life that has something of the flavour of Pushing Daisies' opening gambits - it looks and sounds terrific, and it takes unpredictable diversions within the standard heist framework, all the time anchored by Brody's lovely, sensitive, sad-eyed characterisation.

But at the same time there's something slightly insubstantial about the film, at least on first viewing. Johnson has a wonderful ear for clever and colourful dialogue - if occasionally undercut by recourse to post-modern irony - but the film often seems so light that you fear it might untether and float away. That is a criticism in itself, but it also leads to a more important problem. When he attempts to incorporate a subplot about child abuse, it seems firstly unnecessary, secondly implausible and thirdly slightly bizarre. Perhaps Johnson was going for something Withnailian, but that film was adult, morally complex and dealt with men crushing on men - with everyone coming out unscathed. It is only a minor part of the movie, but that wrongheaded attempt to inject something so dark into a veritable souffle of a picture hangs like a pall over the next half-hour. Johnson's introduction of weighty themes concerning love and familial loyalty are more successful, particularly towards the end, but he doesn't invest quite enough realism and humanity in these caricatures to reap the same rewards as, say, The Royal Tenenbaums. There's also a certain smugness that, while fully understandable from the guy who just made Brick, nevertheless grates in places. So: Brody's great, the apposite music, smart dialogue and stylish visuals are a treat, and there's rarely a dull moment, but the film is a little too light, self-satisfied and occasionally confused to form a worthy successor to the extraordinary Brick. Maybe Looper will do it. (3)

***



Monsters vs Aliens (Rob Letterman, 2009) - Apparently jobless cipher Susan (Reese Witherspoon) is hit by a meteor on her wedding day, infusing her with super strength, turning her hair white and causing her to grow about 50ft tall. Recruited (i.e. shut up in a big cage) by the government, she's called into action along with her new pals - all vaguely patterned after apparently misunderstood monsters of years past, like Mothra, The Beast From the Black Lagoon, The Blob and The Fly - following an alien attack. The premise isn't fleshed out particularly well, the action is mediocre and the moral can largely be filed under "common sense" but, after a slow start, the film becomes unexpectedly, disarmingly hilarious, with just about everything Seth Rogen's gelatinous blob Bob does being laugh-out-loud funny. There are still tedious non-sequiturs, and the usual stellar Dreamworks voice cast produces mixed results (Witherspoon, Paul Rudd and Rainn Wilson add surprisingly little), but the comic scenes where Bob discusses his fiancee Derek, Susan reveals her monster name and the group destroy a fence are just magnificent. (2.5)

***



You Again (Andy Fickman, 2010) – Thin comedy about a successful, together PR exec (Kristen Bell), who discovers that her beloved elder brother is set to marry the bully who made her life hell in high school, and returns home to break it up. It’s not very good, or at all funny, and Bell’s considerable talents are wasted yet again on the big screen, but the movie does at least tread an intelligent line between forgive-and-forget and trash-the-wedding, and the final gag is quite unexpected. The supporting cast includes Sigourney Weaver and Jamie Lee Curtis, if that persuades you either way. (1.5)

***

TV



The Race That Shocked the World (Daniel Gordon, 2012) – An excellent, hour-long documentary on perhaps my favourite subject of all time, the 100m final of the 1988 Seoul Olympics. It’s brilliantly edited and researched, combining precise, insightful character studies of the main players – particularly disgraced champion Ben Johnson and lionised annoyance Carl Lewis – with a revelatory (if, inevitably, statistically light) examination of the drug use rampant at the time: there’s one little detail about some athletes wearing braces on their teeth to combat the side-effects of steroids that is absolutely fascinating. The BBC’s Reputations film, from 2001, was also an intelligent and balanced piece on Johnson, but this does a better job of explaining the drugs issue, and also benefits from the scope of the interviewees, which helps put Johnson’s self-serving soundbytes in context. The Canadian remains unable to take responsibility for anything he ever did, which makes it hard for you to side with him, but I can’t help it: I’ll always prefer him to Lewis. My only disappointment with the film is that it somewhat rushes the aftermath of the race, but that’s probably inevitable given the short running time. (3.5)

See also: There's a new book out about the race, which should hopefully drop onto my doormat this week. I'll pop up a review on here when I've finished it.

***



The Office (US) (Season 1, 2005) – This was a decent debut season. The pilot is distractingly derivative of the source, but it soon picks up, and the final episode – guest-starring a slightly ill-used Amy Adams – is the best of the lot. Steve Carell's Brent-alike is often just too embarrassing to be amusing (I know that is some people’s idea of funny), but Krasinski is great in the Tim role (even sporting what appears to be Martin Freeman’s hair), Rainn Wilson looks like he’s going to be the runaway star – he's a very funny guy – and the supporting cast is very promising. I know I’m seven years late to the party, but I’m looking forward to the rest. (3)

The Dark Knight Rises - Reviews #123

*SPOILERS*
The Dark Knight Rises (Christopher Nolan, 2012) - Patrick Batman (Christian Bale) has spent eight years in hiding. Confined to the east wing of Bat Towers and reduced to resting on a walking cane, he's forced to come out of retirement so he can be really badly beaten up by hulking, masked former mercenary Bane (Tom Hardy), who has designs on a nuclear bomb. The film does a good job of reducing Batman to nothing: robbing him of his wealth, his hero status, his health, his stoutest ally (Michael Caine) and finally his freedom, but then isn't quite sure what to do next. The script has moments of profundity - particularly the "Not everything; not yet" exchange so nicely used in the trailer - but the whole thing sags under the weight of its self-importance, and has some strangely weak dialogue ("I needed you for your infrastructure," the psychotic Bane tells a redundant pawn, declining to add: "Now we've streamlined the operation, your resources are superfluous"). That's when you can tell what anyone is saying, which is about 30 per cent of the time, thanks to the pounding music, some ridiculous accents, and Bane's Vader-esque muffler. The bits where indecipherable Russian-Connery Hardy and Batman Voice are shouting at each other are just too funny to carry much import.

The film is rarely boring (though I think I have a far lower tolerance for vehicles chasing other vehicles than most people), and it has a few nice set-pieces - particularly the Star Spangled Banner bit, which is so pictorially impressive and full of conviction that it overcomes the slightly trite concept - while there's a good performance from Caine, a surprisingly lively one from Anne Hathaway (as the perma-quipping Catwoman) and a superb characterisation from Joseph Gordon-Levitt, playing a loyal, troubled cop, whose early heart-to-heart with Bats is easily the best scene in the movie. But the film is sloppily plotted - the relationship between our hero and would-be girlfriend Marion Cotillard is negligibly developed, the detonator concept doesn't make much sense, and Nolan's twist-itis is undone by a rug-pull that's just not very interesting - and it's not sufficiently different to The Dark Knight, with the exception that Bane lacks the mercurial charisma of Keith Ledger's Joker, and Bats spends much of the film off-screen or down a hole. All this is irrelevant, of course, as IMDb and the emerging critical consensus is showing, but I just don't understand why this film or its predecessor have the reputation they do, unless you're just a huge fan of extreme humourlessness and vehicles with fat wheels. The Amazing Spider-Man may lack this film's crashing sense of portentousness, but it's a far more coherent, engaging and exciting movie. (2.5)

(Please note: I do know that Heath Ledger isn't called Keith, but one of my friends thought he was, and the idea is too funny for me to let go.)

Buster, Bogart and idolising New York City out of all proportion - Festival blurbs

The World's Smallest Film Festival took place at Rudding Park, near Harrogate, on Sunday. Myself and Harrogate International Festival programme co-ordinator Graham Chalmers picked the six black-and-white movies: Sherlock, Jr was my choice, The Artist was his, and the other four emerged from a 10-minute discussion in the work canteen. For the programme, he penned blurbs about The Thin Man, Les Quatre cents coups and The Artist, while I wrote the other three, which I thought I might as well peg up here.



Sherlock, Jr. (Buster Keaton, 1924, 45 min) - A cinema projectionist (Buster Keaton) falls asleep on the job and dreams of being a brilliant detective – entering the screen itself to solve a jewel theft – in this groundbreaking comedy. Having served an apprenticeship under "Fatty" Arbuckle, Buster branched out on his own in 1920, unleashing a succession of dizzyingly inventive shorts that blended technical wizardry (The Playhouse saw him play no fewer than 25 parts) with devilishly clever incidental gags and astonishing stuntwork. He made his first feature in 1923 and reached his creative zenith the following year with Sherlock, Jr, a 45-minute comic masterwork that begins with whimsy and wonder, toys with the very nature of cinema and climaxes with some of the most extraordinary physical feats ever attempted on screen. Having been tossed around a vaudeville stage by his parents from the age of three, Buster was – in the modern parlance – as hard as nails, and when the water tower opens on him, you are watching a man having his neck broken. He didn't notice until the 1930s. Sherlock, Jr influenced the surrealists and formed the template for Woody Allen's classic 1984 film, The Purple Rose of Cairo, but, more importantly, it's a rollicking good ride, and still feels remarkably fresh and modern almost 90 years on.

(PS: When @Silent_London recently asked followers to nominate their favourite silent comedy, I sent this tweet, which, to my delight, they read out on this superlative podcast.)



Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1942, 102 min) - Casablanca is a great advert for chaos. Its script was still being written as it was filmed, it came in $100,000 over budget and Warner belatedly decided to re-shoot all the scenes featuring As Time Goes By, only to find that they couldn't, as Ingrid Bergman had cut her hair. Now regarded as the definitive screen romance, it's a vivid, unforgettable and lushly-shot film (think of the tears shining in the leading lady's eyes) that sees bar owner Humphrey Bogart, ethereal Norwegian Bergman and resistance leader Paul Henreid play out a love triangle in the titular city - which is increasingly overrun by Nazi forces. The leads are sublime, just about every line of the wise and witty script has echoed down the years and there's perhaps the finest supporting cast ever assembled for a film, from Claude Rains and silent movie legend Conrad Veidt to Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, John Qualen, Dooley Wilson and S.Z. Sakall. All together now: "You must remember this..."



Manhattan (Woody Allen, 1979, 96 min) - There are some sublime moments in Annie Hall, but really it's a bit of a mess. It was from 1979 that Woody Allen began firing on all cylinders, making a successful transition from those "early, funny films" (his words) to more thoughtful, affecting fare, and embarking on a devastating purple patch largely unrivalled in the history of American writer-directors. Surely only Buster Keaton or Preston Sturges have ever close to matching Allen's 13 years of unbroken brilliance, taking in films like The Purple Rose of Cairo, Hannah and Her Sisters and Crimes and Misdemeanours. Manhattan, with its gorgeous black-and-white cinematography (spotlighted in that classic planetarium set-piece), wonderful Gershwin score and climactic concession to subtle sentimentality, is one of his most distinctive and appealing movies, tracking the romantic entanglements of a group of New York intellectuals (surely not!) in characteristically sure-footed and amusing style. There's a knockout of a supporting performance from Mariel Hemingway – playing Woody's 17-year-old girlfriend – and it all builds to a typically inspired pay-off. Just lovely.

A Star Is Born, John Barrymore and zingers - Reviews #122

In this latest reviews round-up: Canadian dogs, Argentinean dogs, tiresomely dotty grandmothers and Jennifer Aniston's answer to Pulp Fiction.



*MINOR SPOILERS*
A Star Is Born (William A. Wellman, 1937) - The original version of this Hollywood heartbreaker, a romance between two stars heading in opposite directions, is often overshadowed by its 1954 remake, which brought an epic sweep and much musical magnificence to the story – but this earlier film is a masterpiece in its own right, with an immediacy and an insider feel that's absent from the later film. Janet Gaynor is Esther Blodgett, an ambitious farm girl who arrives in Hollywood with stars in her eyes and, after getting her big break from alcoholic matinee idol Fredric March, proceeds to hit the heights, as he hits the skids. Shot in three-strip Technicolor and offering a vivid, sometimes cynical and always exhilarating portrait of Hollywood in the ‘30s, the film is tighter, less flowery and more naturalistic than Cukor’s version, typified by March’s performance: devastatingly effective but straightforward and understated in comparison with Mason’s dynamic, grandstanding exercise in self-loathing. Gaynor, who made her name in dramas – winning the first Best Actress Oscar in 1928 – spent most of the ‘30s making musical comedies, but got a last crack at a meaty emotive part here, and was never better.

The script is one of the best of the decade, stuffed with truly timeless dialogue – the closing line just has me in floods – along with a few killer barbs that you imagine flew from the poisonous pen of Dorothy Parker (“His acting’s getting in the way of his drinking”). And really – if you buy into its ideas about sacrifice and art, and I’m largely able to – the film comes close to perfection, with the minor caveats that a couple of incongruous bits of broad physical comedy drop into the story near the close of the first half courtesy of Edgar Kennedy, and Adolphe Menjou’s endlessly benevolent producer is a touch hard to swallow (the film’s dirty work is done instead by a nasty press agent, played by the legendary frog-voiced leftie Lionel Stander). For silent film nerds, there’s the chance to see Gaynor re-teamed with the villain from her 1929 film Lucky Star: that’s Guinn “Big Boy” Williams (cool nickname) teaching her how to walk with a book on her head; an important skill for any young woman. This may lack the legendary status of Judy’s effort, and the big hair of that Streisand monstrosity (Barbra, that's her name), but this first version – well, second, if you include What Price Hollywood? – still takes some beating. (4)

***



Twentieth Century (Howard Hawks, 1934) - Stage and screen legend John Barrymore was a great many things - not least a lush - but above all he was a ham. Who better, then, to portray Oscar Jaffe, the egomaniacal theatrical impresario who manipulates the lives of all around him as he tries to get back on top, and reclaim the affections of the monster he created: actress Lily Garland (Carole Lombard), the diva to end all divas and the only person who can rival him for histrionics. The film was adapted from a New York hit by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur, two writers with an unmatched ability for evoking the world of American theatre at its height ("I'll slit my throat," threatens Jaffe; "If you did, greasepoint would run out," retorts Garland). It crams the standard Broadway-on-film narrative of a shopgirl attaining fame on the boards - and winning the heart of her producer - into a conventional but devastatingly deft opening 20 that makes chalk lines seem like the funniest thing you've ever seen. And for their next trick, the writers show you what happens after the happy ending. Because, fast forward three years, and Jaffe is consumed by jealousy, Garland has transmogrified from a sweet, muddled ingenue into a rampaging ball of fur-lined fury with a frankly ridiculous boat-bed, and their romance lies in ruins. As does the face of the private detective he sent to spy on her. The next 65 minutes, all set aboard the Twentieth Century train between Chicago and New York, is a screwball comedy par excellence, as Jaffe - now a nobody, following three years of flops - endlessly plots, schemes and connives in a bid to reclaim his theatrical mantle, while drunk press agent Roscoe Karns cracks wise, Walter Connelly gets repeatedly bawled out, and periodically repentant asylum escapee Etienne Girardot passes out phony cheques, while putting biblically-themed stickers on anything that moves - and many things that don't.

Barrymore is sensational in the part he was born to play: every line steeped in hyperbole and every gesture playing to the gallery. The ways he says: "What was that? That... squeak" always has me in hysterics, and his Hechtian joke about Jews changing their names ("... who is now Max Jacobs, for some mysterious reason") is an absolute beaut. Meanwhile, legendary comedienne Lombard is in peerlessly noisy form - and contributes an inspired sight gag that essentially consists of her trying to kick Barrymore repeatedly with both feet - while Karns peddles a near-endless stream of sardonic retorts. Girardot's preposterous performance only amounts to a handful of screen minutes, but it's truly memorable - one of my favourite bit-parts in '30s film. Happily, while the film deals with a couple of tough topics for comedy - mental illness and suicide - it's reasonably progressive on both counts: the train guards are sympathetic to Girardot's "condition" (fat lot of good it does them and their uniforms), while Barrymore's threats to off himself are the rantings of an inveigling cad, doing nothing to belittle the issue. Hecht and MacArthur wrote many of the cleverest, wittiest and most lyrical scripts of the period, from established classics like The Front Page to neglected masterpieces such as Angels Over Broadway, and Twentieth Century is stuffed to bursting with comedy, greasepaint-smeared patter and even romance, while handled in the characteristically zippy style of Howard Hawks, among the greatest of all classic American directors. Hawks was adaptable, but specialised in two types of pictures: rugged action-adventures and daffy comedies. This one, saturated with the spirit of Broadway, and with an unforgettable performance at its centre, is among his very best. (4)

***



Bombon: El Perro (Carlos Sorin, 2004) – A travelling salesman (Juan Villegas), let go by a petrol station and now flogging hand-crafted knife handles – finds that his luck starts to look up after he inherits a very special dog. It's a Dogo: exhibition-quality. This kind-natured Argentinean film, anchored by Villegas’s wonderful turn as the sad-eyed but optimistic hero, tells a simple feelgood story – with some unfamiliar trappings – made all the more affecting because it’s set against a realistic backdrop of economic depression and social desolation, as if Capra had made the Bicycle Thieves. But not quite as good. (3.5)

***


I've opted here to share a photo of the villains with you. Because they look ridiculous.

Dragons Forever (Sammo Hung, 1988) – The Three Dragons play against type in this action-comedy, with womanising lawyer Jackie Chan, philosophising thief Yuen Biao and greedy arms dealer Sammo Hung teaming up to bust a drugs factory – and save a fish farm. Yes, the plot is a touch hard to follow in the first third and there’s an unpleasant bit where a judge says gay people are “abnormal”, but this is still one of their best: a slick mix of lengthy fight scenes, above-par comedy and unexpectedly affecting romance, including a really nice sequence where Sammo woos a woman using a megaphone. If that isn’t enough to convince you: our heroes also face off against Benny Urqiduez, who is wearing lots of blue eyeliner for absolutely no reason. (3)

***



Never Say Goodbye (James V. Kern, 1946) – Errol Flynn and Eleanor Parker are charming as a divorced couple who would love to rekindle their romance – and find a permanent home for seven-year-old daughter Patti Brady – if it weren’t for his caddishness and carousing. For the most part this is fairly standard fare, and fairly derivative at that, but every so often the quality of the Kern/I. A. L. Diamond writing team shines through with some brilliant comic epithet flying right out of the blue, like Parker’s line about Flynn’s singing, or that cracker about wondering where he is at night. The leads’ first scene together has just one great line after another, though the subsequent date swaps badinage for farce, calling to mind an inferior My Favourite Wife, and not for the last time: Fenwick the Marine bears more than a passing resemblance to Randolph Scott’s he-man from that earlier film. The movie’s main comic set-piece, utilising no fewer than three Santas, isn’t subtle – and borrows liberally from Duck Soup’s legendary mirror routine – but it's certainly memorable, and has wit to go with its thievery and slapstick. The film is a little pedestrian and predictable in spots, but if you like classic comedies it’s well worth seeing, with a few neat in-jokes for buffs – trading on Flynn’s image as a matinee idol and ex-Robin Hood, and exhibiting his best Bogart impression – along with some nice romantic bits and a fair few fine lines. (3)

***



The Kidnappers (Philip Leacock, 1953) - Well, this is an odd film: a British movie set in a Scottish community in Nova Scotia that nominally tells the story of two young brothers who want a dog but instead find a "babby" and decide to keep it – only that doesn't happen until the second half of the film, and even then isn't really the focus. Instead, there's lots of simplistic nonsense about their strict, protestant grandfather and his a) fury at the "Boer" who wants to get off with his daughter; and b) obsession with a big hill owned by another Dutchman. The kids got special Oscars: the elder, Jon Whiteley, is good, while Vincent Winter - as Davy - is so cute that I'm unable to offer any objective or scholarly guarantees about his quality, though I think he is too. Their scenes have a real lyricism to them – especially once the babby enters the story – but exist within a narrative that frequently tips over into self-parody, not helped by Duncan Macrae's silly performance and a Muir Mathieson score that falls just the wrong side of "Ow, my ears". It's worth seeing for some nice passages about childhood and the shedding of innocence, but ultimately overbalanced by a clumsy subplot that turns out to be the actual plot. (2.5)

***



Bagdad Cafe (Percy Adlon, 1987) – None-more-indie film about a “big German woman” (Marianne Sägebrecht) who, after a violent row with her husband, walks out of the desert and into the lives of a black American family running a dusty café and motel. It’s a poor man’s Paris, Texas, really, with barely any story (and what there is moving far too fast), all to the strains of a plaintive theme song that’s done to death. It’s interestingly directed, though, with adventurous camera angles and filtered vistas loading emotion and atmosphere onto a slender script. Sägebrecht is quite good, though Monica Calhoun is am-dram standard, G Smokey Campbell has nothing to do except look through binoculars and say "Oh, Brenda" like some sort of lazy, alienated Frank Spencer, and CCH Pounder seems to have wandered in from a Tennessee Williams play. Jack Palance always did turn up in the strangest places – here he is an ex-Hollywood set painter who falls for Sägebrecht. There was a spin-off TV series starring Whoopi Goldberg, which made me laugh. The concept, not the programme. (2.5)

***



He’s Just Not That into You (Ken Kwapis, 2009) – An apparently hideous book becomes a fairly successful ensemble romantic comedy drama, with a half-dozen characters walking into and out of each other’s lives. You know, like in Pulp Fiction. Or Friends. The best story strand by far Ginnifer (who? Surely you’re joking) Goodwin getting relationship advice from bar manager Justin Long (in an atypically harsh characterisation), though none of the threads or characters are uninteresting, even if we're hardly dealing with Woody Allen at his zenith. Terrible title, risible real-life chapter introductions, but actually not half bad. Or indeed all bad, as you might have feared. (2.5)

***



The Proposal (Anne Fletcher, 2009) – This Sandra Bullock romcom is formulaic stuff, right down to the tiresomely dotty grandmother, but Bullock and leading man Ryan Reynolds are both very good and have an effortless chemistry together, while there’s an enjoyable supporting performance from Denis O’Hare. There aren’t many laughs, but the scene in which Bullock announces their impending nuptials is very funny, and the post-credits sequence works well. (2.5)

***



*SOME SPOILERS*
The Little Giant (Roy Del Ruth, 1933) – After the repeal of Prohibition, bootlegger Bugsy Ahearne (Edward G. Robinson) crashes high society, only to be hoodwinked by a bunch of amateurs. This Pre-Code comedy is enjoyable but something of a missed opportunity, surprisingly light on jokes for the most part beyond its amusing premise – at least until the big guy calls the boys in – though buoyed by Robinson’s typically charismatic star turn and with a simply lovely performance by Mary Astor as the society woman who really loves him. While a touch broad, the final scene has a madcap spirit rather missing from the rest. (2.5)

***



*SPOILERS*
Taxi! (Roy Del Ruth, 1932) – Cagney cries, tap dances and speaks Yiddish in this messy melodrama about warring taxi drivers, which has far more to offer in incidental pleasures than from its tedious, unconvincing narrative. The highlight is a lovely little vignette set at a cinema, with the stars talking about their favourite actors, and watching a fake, specially-filmed Donald Cook romance. But the film – which starts poorly, picks up considerably, and then falls away again – ultimately leaves a sour taste, due to Cagney’s constant threats to punch his wife (Loretta Young) in the face. (2.5)

***



TV: Terriers (2010) – Private detectives Donal Logue and Michael Raymond-James trade zingers and fight their personal demons whilst investigating corruption, murder and high-level scumbaggery amidst the vivid locales of San Diego. The series starts with a bang, toddles off for a few fun, self-contained episodes, then brings everything back together for a final four that are nothing short of phenomenal. The second of those, Sins of the Past, which takes place in two time-frames and strays into perilously dark territory, feels like the best James Ellroy story he never wrote, and packs a devastating emotional punch. I’d heard this was the only series that came close to possessing the singular feel of Veronica Mars – and so it did. Witty, subtly sentimental and possessing a distinct fondness for the twisty-turny, it boasts gripping storylines, fine performances across the board, and terrific chemistry between the leads. It’s nothing short of a national disgrace that it was cancelled after this single, scintillating season. (4)