God, Shame and anti-semitism - Reviews #128

Plus: Errol Flynn gets famous, Charlize Theron gets nasty and Michael Fassbender gets naked.



Captain Blood (Michael Curtiz, 1935) - Errol Flynn became an instant star thanks to this gripping swashbuckler, which is a little light on action, but riveting entertainment regardless. He plays an Irish doctor, based in England, who is sold into slavery after tending to an injured revolutionary, only to wind up as a (chivalrous) pirate. Along the way, he spars with a French buccaneer (Basil Rathbone), a sadistic British plantation owner (Lionel Atwill), and the latter's sweet, sassy, big-eyed niece (Olivia de Havilland) - who comes in and out of his life, and not always in peace. The script is rich and flavourful - if sometimes damaged by excessive exposition - Curtiz's expressionistic direction is a treat (despite some dodgy painted backdrops) and, when the action finally arrives, it's nicely staged. Flynn may lack the innate, instinctive athleticism of his swashbuckling predecessor, Douglas Fairbanks, but he's ideally cast as the dashing, noble and never-knowingly-modest hero, and he plays the glorious pay-off to perfection. (3.5)

***



Léon Morin, prêtre (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1961) - A very talky, bracingly intelligent and deeply spiritual story about the relationship between a sexually frustrated, atheist widow (Emmanuelle Riva) and the handsome, fiercely articulate socialist priest (Jean-Pierre Belmondo) she finds whilst trying to punk the Catholic clergy. Set during and following the Occupation, the film has a few flaws, largely scenes from the source novel that are extraneous on film - Riva being stopped by a German guard, or picking up her daughter (the great child actress Patricia Gozzi) from a farm - but Belmondo is absolutely sensational, Melville directs with his usual poetic economy and the final scenes are blessed with a remarkable power. It's one of the best movies I've ever seen about our connection with the Almighty. (4)

***



*SPOILERS*
Lovers of the Arctic Circle (Julio Medem, 1998) – For 70 minutes, this is an astonishing metaphysical love story that traces, in alternate chapters, the dovetailing lives of palindromically-named Spanish stepsiblings Otto and Ana. He’s sensitive, romantic and perhaps sees her as his mother; she literally thinks he has consumed her father’s spirit. Dealing with destiny, happenstance, the circular nature of existence and the intangible nature of love, the film is profound, funny and – like its adolescent female lead – exhibits flashes of vital sexuality. Then the coincidences that play such a large part in Ana’s view of life start to pile up too heavily, reducing rather than enhancing their impact, and Otto winds up dangling rather impotentently from a tree, a metaphor for the film’s third act struggles. For all that, the film is never less than good, and there’s no way you’ll be prepared for its denouement, even if you anticipate it. As a whole, it remains a remarkable achievement, armed with a tireless but revolutionary concept of the human condition, and the surefooted grasp of aggressively non-linear narrative required to sustain it most of the way. (4)

***



*SPOILERS AND A RUDE WORD*
Young Adult (Jason Reitman, 2011) – Reitman scores again, re-teaming with Juno author Diablo Cody for this tough, funny, uncomfortable and yet incredibly entertaining movie about letting go of your past, whether it involved untold glories or having your penis horribly mangled. Charlize Theron plays Mavis Gary, an author of young adult books, a rotten core beneath her perfectly-manicured surface, who returns to her hometown of Mercury to steal her high school sweetheart from the mother of his child. Instead, she quietly implodes and then publicly explodes, before drawing somewhat selfish affirmation from a pair of uncool contemporaries. It’s cleverly conceived, perfectly-paced and very well-acted, if perhaps lacking the one classic scene that would shove it into the pantheon of the greats. Having your heroine shouting “You fucking bitch” at the mother during a baby’s naming ceremony is a decent go, though. (3.5)

***



*SPOILERS*
The Old Dark House (James Whale, 1932) – Here’s a glorious oddity from Universal’s horror cycle: a star-studded comedy – based on a JB Priestley play and set in the remote venue across one stormy night – that delivers an escalating number of shocks and chills. Melvyn Douglas gives his best early performance as a debonair, war-soiled music lover, while Charles Laughton matches him as a bluff, self-made Yorkshireman pining for his lost wife, though perhaps best of all is Ernest Thesiger, playing our terrified host. The scene in which he provides a litany of feeble excuses as to why he can’t go and fetch a lamp from the top floor is uproariously funny. The cast also includes Old Rose from Titanic, Raymond Massey, Lilian Bond, and Boris Karloff, who we're assured in a self-aggrandising written prologue is the same Karloff who played the "mechanical monster" in Frankenstein. That hulking, wordless, groaning psychopath is the same one as here? Well I never. Perhaps the film’s concessions to action could have been a little slicker, and shorter – for a film that only runs 71 minutes, a little too much time is spent unconvincingly brawling – but it’s a clever and knowing film, sending up the genre in straight-faced style, and possessing a smattering of romance, sentiment and good, old-fashioned terror, like Whale’s camera alighting on the hands of a maniac, descending the stairs to set the house on fire. (3.5)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Le goût des autres (Agnès Jaoui, 2000) aka The Taste of Others – This ensemble romantic comedy, about the attraction of opposites and the vagaries of love, sees an uncultured factory owner (Jean-Pierre Bacri) fall for a tragedienne (Anne Alvaro), while his bodyguard (Gérard Lanvin), an ex-cop, begins an affair with a weed dealer (Jaoui). Written by husband-and-wife team Jaoui and Bacri, it’s engrossing, appealing and wise, with a few big laughs – most of which concern Bacri trying to learn English – a satisfying conclusion, and a laissez-faire attitude towards fidelity that’s quite exquisitely French. The always apposite music includes three pieces by the great British contralto Kathleen Ferrier. (3.5)

***



On a Clear Day (Gaby Dellal, 2005) - An unusually mature, serious-minded and consequently entertaining spin on the familiar British underdog story, done to death since the success of Brassed Off. Peter Mullan is nothing short of superb as a moody, unhappy and now unemployed working class father-of-two, who has lost one son and alienated his other, a sensitive stay-at-home dad (Jamie Sives) with whom he's can't communicate. Searching for purpose in his life, Mullan decides to swim the English Channel, but the film offers no climactic, cliched contest peppered with colourful caricatures. Instead, it gives us a story of a desperately lonely, conflicted and haunted man doing battle with himself amidst the waves. A supporting story about Mullan's wife (Brenda Blethyn) training to be a bus driver is out-of-place and uninteresting - though she does well with the character she's given - but the film only really missteps when it incorporates a couple of broad, idiotic comic scenes featuring characters with names like Mad Bob and Merv the Perv, who seem to have wandered in from a Guy Ritchie movie. When the script allows the humour to come organically from its compelling, character-driven storyline - and from a likeable supporting cast led by Billy Boyd - it's much more believable, effective and amusing. Except perhaps when everyone falls off the speedboat. I was expecting something altogether more trivial and disposable than what the film ultimately offers, thanks in no small part to Mullan's commanding and uncompromising performance. (3)

Trivia note: Training scenes were shot in the sea off Port Erin on the Isle of Man, while nearby Fleshwick Bay doubled for Dover.

***



*THIS WAY FOR HUGE SPOILERS*
Shame (Steve McQueen, 2011) – I’m sure sex used to be fun. McQueen’s follow-up to Hunger is what a Loose Women presenter thinks a man’s life is like, as Magneto (Michael Fassbender) spends every spare minute sexing up women, destroying his laptop with filth or hiding in the work toilets. McQueen makes his point about the potential disconnect between love and sex (and the difference between those things and BEING A MASSIVE WEIRDO) in a superb, wordless subway sequence near the start, then somewhat belabours the point for a further 70 minutes, before things start to get really unpleasant. Still, while the material is somewhat repetitious and some of Abi Morgan’s dialogue is typically clichéd, it’s a very well-directed movie, with the glass-fronted New York looking as cool and impersonal as any setting for a film about urban alienation should. And Fassbender is truly exceptional. People keep saying they can’t believe he wasn’t nominated for an Oscar, but I would have been surprised had he been. For one thing he’s playing a sex addict whose exploits... well, you know... there’s that guy... and then those two women he’s... with... as his sister lies dying. And for a second thing, he’s actually good. Lolz. A lot has been said in reviews about Little Michael (“Fallusbender”, if you will), but no-one seems to have mentioned yet that the star’s coital face looks like the son of Guy Pearce and Skeletor. Fans of awesomely-talented British actresses will be pleased to note that Carey Mulligan gives a good showing as Fassbender’s troubled sibling, with the pair displaying a credible and enduring chemistry, no matter what melodramatics the story throws at them. James Badge Dale is also gratifyingly annoying as the Fass’s overly pally boss. I don’t think the film is quite as good as everybody else seems to, but as a character study, a confrontational take on a largely taboo subject and a showcase for Fassbender, it’s memorable and striking enough to bother checking out. (3)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Gentleman’s Agreement (Elia Kazan, 1947) – An earnest, groundbreaking but dated treatment of anti-semitism that’s saddled with numerous flaws, but just about scrapes by on the strength of its convictions, which are watertight – aside from a toxic rant about Jews “always causing trouble for everyone” that isn’t quite righted. The opening is a triumph of bad writing, as essayist Gregory Peck searches for a way into his latest assignment on the subject of anti-semitism. It takes him literally half an hour to decide to pretend to be Jewish, and the scenes in which he strikes upon his plan, and then puts it into action at an office lunch are hilariously awful. And I can say that, being a Jew myself, as Gregory would put it. His self-righteousness gets to be a little much when he lectures his Jewish secretary on her behaviour, sustaining his ruse all the while. Moss Hart’s script lacks the wit and the satirical edge of his best work; maybe he thought the subject too serious or maybe he was in awe of the task, both in terms of adapting a noted bestseller, and in its human context. Whatever, it features far too much speechifying, and flounders whilst trying to incorporate a dreary romantic subplot – featuring a disappointing turn from the mighty Dorothy McGuire – that has a point but spends far too long getting to it. There's no such justification for the woeful thread about Peck's ailing mother (Anne Revere).

The film is at its best when dealing with everyday anti-semitism. Those sequences, which should be the movie’s raison d’etre and bizarrely seem analogous to Fred and Ginger’s dance scenes or Val Lewton’s horror set-pieces, are by far the film’s finest moments. There are other effective scenes dotted about the place, though, like Peck’s son (Dean Stockwell) being taunted by the neighbourhood kids, and the aftermath, featuring Jewish soldier John Garfield, who also dominates a climactic tête-à-tête with McGuire. Perhaps the last of those works because it feels like the right place for a summation speech, or perhaps it’s because Garfield does such a good job with rather an uncertain part; by contrast, Peck is pretty weak (his good performances seemed to come without reason or warning). The best characterisation, though, arrives courtesy of Celeste Holm, who won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar. But after injecting considerable life into proceedings, even she has to spend her last scene gazing into the middle distance, pontificating about prejudice. The film remains reasonably watchable, but its childlike idealism is sadly allied to a childlike notion of storytelling. It’s not as bad as some today may have you believe, but it’s certainly not the great movie it was seen as in 1947, when its source novel was still taking the nation by storm, and the film itself scooped Best Picture. Certainly it pales in comparison with Edward Dmytryk’s punchy film noir, Crossfire, featuring Roberts Mitchum, Ryan and Young, made the same year and dealing with the same subject in a sharper, more modern and more visceral manner. (2.5)

***



More Than a Secretary (Alfred E. Green, 1936) – Jean Arthur, who runs a serious-minded secretarial school, is aghast that all her pupils want to do is find a rich boss, and marry him. But, after a misunderstanding, she lands a job with inhuman, allegedly good-looking fitness magazine editor George Brent – now all she has to do is warm him up. It’s a fun if slightly lowbrow romantic comedy, with a couple of moments of the Arthur magic, and a lively supporting cast. Ruth Donnelly is a bit underused, but Lionel Stander is quite funny as Brent's bodybuilding receptionist, and Dorothea Kent steals the show as Arthur’s scheming, big-eyed protégé – the archetypal dumb blonde so beloved of Hollywood screenwriters. Brent was never much of a dramatic actor, and he isn’t much of a comedian, though when he’s being exasperated he pulls some really camp faces. (2.5)

Searching for Sugarman, Jimmy Cliff, et une chat - Reviews #127

Music, music and music. And Jack Nicholson.



*MAJOR SPOILERS, SO TAKE CARE*
CINEMA: Searching for Sugar Man (Malik Bendjelloul, 2012) - In the early '70s, Rodriguez, a singer-songwriter from Detroit, made two folksy political records that flopped upon release, before disappearing off the face of the planet. But in Apartheid-era South Africa, his music took on a life of its own, inspiring a whole generation of activists and musicians. In every white, liberal household there were said to be three records: Abbey Road, Bridge Over Troubled Water and Rodriguez's Cold Fact. The myths around this mysterious figure were legion - largely due to South Africa's heavily-regulated media - and so a group of dedicated musicologist "detectives" decided to find out what had happened to their hero - and whether he had really died after setting himself alight on stage following a disastrous comeback gig. It's a riveting tale, very well-told, with a fine selection of talking heads - whose infectious enthusiasm and eulogising of the subject provides the movie with much of its pathos, heart and humour - intelligent use of Rodriguez's songs and even some nice snippets of animation, which feed cleverly into the film's later chapters. And what begins as an eerie, ominous and apparently sad story is flipped on its head at the halfway point, becoming an unexpected, uplifting story about nice things happening to nice people. It really is a very affecting, appealing film, similar in some regards to Anvil, and only undermined by lingering city-scape shots that occasionally feel like padding and a series of false endings in which the chronology seems a little off. Some critics have questioned the film's decision to ignore a parallel story concerning the singer's links to Australia but, while you can see their point, you can also understand why it was excluded: after all, the movie is about the way Rodriguez's music about oppressed peoples resonated in South Africa. Highly recommended. (3.5)

***

This next one screened in York the other week, to mark the 50th anniversary of Jamaican independence.



*SOME SPOILERS*
CINEMA: The Harder They Come (Perry Henzell, 1972) - Jimmy Cliff is a jobless singer who moves to the city in search of a break, cuts a nifty reggae record, but can't buck the studio head's stranglehold on the industry. Then someone nicks his bike, so he stabs them repeatedly in the eyes. The movie that brought reggae to big chunks of the globe has some sensational music, a charismatic performance from Cliff and a trio of genuinely great sequences: footage of poverty accompanied by his spellbinding Many Rivers to Cross, the neat photoshoot sequence that gave the film its one truly iconic image, and a classic, vital performance of the title track (which ultimately gets played to death). But it can never get over its completely ridiculous story, the generally abysmal acting and some of the most incompetently staged scenes I've ever seen. Every so often there's a well-constructed set piece - like the gospel choir's concert - or a clever gimmick, such as the camera itself being shot off its bike; but then the film will confound you with 20 minutes of the most unintelligible nonsense you've ever seen, sequences that look like they were shot by mistake and then edited in a garage. The story could have been a hard-hitting piece about Jamaican society in the '70s, and does offer a borderline-insightful portrait of the country in its opening reels, but ultimately emerges as a series of barely-connected scenes in which characters do things for apparently no reason. Like shooting a policeman. Or the eye thing. Cliff, who can't deliver dialogue but has undeniable star power, is kind of cool, but that's the only reason to like his character, who goes from amiable drifter to gun-toting fugitive in as much time as it takes to say: "Uhfuhfuhfuhfuhfuhfuh, man." Because, yes, this movie has a supporting cast who make Bane sound like Alec Guinness. There is also some spectacularly gratuitous nudity, in the Blaxploitation tradition. If I'm about to be shot, I always make sure I'm naked first. The film is a fairly interesting period piece and worth seeing for the sounds - which also include You Can Get It If You Really Want and Limbo - but ultimately it's too tawdry, silly and incoherent to actually be any good. (2)

***



"I'm a very manly Muppet..."
The Muppets (James Bobin, 2011) – I saw this in a cinema room on a boat. It was very noisy and I missed a couple of little bits (what happens with Gonzo’s act on the show?) as they were flashing up announcements, but I really, really enjoyed it. The narrative is framed in a remarkably effective, nostalgic, heart-tugging way – even for someone who didn’t previously feel quite the same warmth for these characters that the filmmakers clearly do – Segel is great (as is his Muppet alter-ego), the new songs are uncharacteristically superb and there are a lot of laughs (Walter sprinting out of Muppet Studios screaming had me in hysterics). A few scenes drag a little and the meta elements of the script only work about half the time – it’s an easy, slightly lazy way of writing – but this is still a very fine, very entertaining piece of work, and the Muppets’ best feature so far. If proof were needed, the film takes the idea of a Beaker-led barbershop quartet performing Smells Like Teen Spirit, and makes it work. Brilliantly. (3.5)

***



A Cat in Paris (Jean-Loup Felicioli and Alain Gagnol, 2010) - A young girl, struck mute after her father's death, is aided by a jewel thief and their mutual cat after a psychotic gangster threatens her life, in this attractive hand-drawn animation. The first thing to note is that, like Kung Fu Panda 2, this is a lot better than Rango, which hilariously won the Best Animated Feature Oscar. The second is that while most animations are either aimed at five or six-year-old kids, aimed at five or six-year-old kids but with enough gags for grown-ups, or made by Pixar, this one's a little different, ideally suited for nine or 10-year-olds, with more adult themes and a touch of artiness about its slinky, distinctive, slightly skewed visuals. Let's just say it, it looks really French. I especially like the way our Lupin-esque looter spins in a circular whirl as he leaps between improvised platforms on another of his exciteable Parkour runs. The story is agreeably straightforward and entertaining, with strong comic relief from some typically incompetent criminal goons - every one of the villain's henchmen seems to be an idiot of some description - and an exciting, imaginative climax. Many Paris-set films, particularly the thrillers, conclude with their characters legging it up the Eiffel Tower, but this one does what only an animated film can (unless of course a live-action production constructed a large replica of the Notre-Dame Cathedral), by having its hero and villain duke it out at - well, I suppose I spoiled that with the parentheses. Notre-Dame Cathedral. That's where they have a fight. If there are criticisms, and there are usually a couple, it's that the characters' faces appear too simplistic (and curiously hairy) when contrasted with the sometimes spectacular settings, while the film is a little short on that intangible movie magic that its premise promises. It's good solid entertainment, though, with a streak of style. (3)

***



*SOME SPOILERS*
Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (Peter Sollett, 2008) - I imagine some people will find this unbearable: a twee romantic comedy starring Marmite's Michael Cera, in which his burgeoning relationship with gobby Kat Dennings is built on a shared love of indie rock. It's actually not bad, benefiting from Cera's doe-eyed sentimentality and fine comic timing, and emerging as a contemporary, neon-lit spin on John Hughes's Sixteen Candles, right down to the tiresome gross-out excesses. One could argue that it'd be nice if Cera did something a bit different, but then he did that in Scott Pilgrim (unless his annoying, self-centred character was supposed to be attractive from the off, which I don't think he was), and I didn't like it. He plays high-school student Nick. Still unable to climb out of a slump after being dumped by vacuous, scheming Tris (Alexis Dziena), he insists on bombarding her with mix CDs in which the likes of Bishop Allen rub shoulders with the likes of him moaning about how he was dumped. Then he meets Tris's arch nemesis (Dennings), a lonely, smart-mouthed music fan who's been admiring him from afar - or at least his mix CDs. And across one long, sometimes interesting night, they fall in lurve. The film starts off funnily, introduces a lot of mediocre archetypes (nowadays Cera is usually equipped with at least one witty, unapologetic gay friend - here he has three), goes on too long and then somehow manages to have an abrupt ending, but there are some nice moments along the way (I'm thinking of Cera's whining CD interlude, rather than the public toilet filled with vomit) and it's lifted by the leads. Cera and Dennings are hardly Nick and Nora, but he's a very nice actor - within his apparent limitations - and they work well together. That's despite the discrepancy in their head size - when they kiss it's like a T-Rex (Dennings) getting off with someone who's inadvisedly annoyed a tribe in the rainforest (Cera). (2.5)

***



Lucky Partners (Lewis Milestone, 1940) – A penniless, smooth-talking and “lucky” artist (Ronald Colman) goes halfsies on a lottery ticket with the bookseller across the street (Ginger Rogers). The deal? If they win, she has to join him on a horizon-expanding “honeymoon”, before her wedding to bespectacled, suspicious insurance agent Jack Carson. The film starts off stagily but winningly, stumbles through some erratic farce and then winds up, as per usual, with everyone in the courtroom; though here they spend a whopping 16 minutes trying to untangle the plot threads. Lucky Partners flirts with philosophy and fantasy, but doesn’t go far enough along either of those intriguing avenues, preferring instead to keep things on the romcom straight-and-narrow. Colman, with his creamy upper-class English tones, could be utterly charming or overly smug – here he’s largely leaning towards the former. Rogers is her usual inconsistent self: nailing some gags, over-selling others and offering the odd glimpse of sentimental brilliance. Carson doesn’t have as much to do as in later, better comedies like The Male Animal or It's a Great Feeling, but he’s always good value. It’s a slightly frustrating film, as you can see how it could have been so much better, but it’s diverting enough and Milestone’s skilful direction incorporates some delicious door gags worthy of Lubitsch: including a hilarious running joke about Rogers inadvertently terrorising a hotel maid. (2.5)

***



Prizzi’s Honour (John Huston, 1985) – A “straight arrow” Mafia fixer (Jack Nicholson) falls in love with a hitwoman (Kathleen Turner), who may or may not have been ripping off the family, in this twisty-turny black comedy. Huston creates a credible, slyly subverted world of Sicilian gangsterism, from the throaty, chalk-faced Don apparently on the brink of death (William Hickey), through the outwardly officious consigliere (Lee Richardson) to Anjelica Huston’s scheming, sad-eyed Maerose, spurned first by Nicholson and then by her entire family. It’s a knowing and exaggerated universe, without degenerating into the broad parody of something like The Freshman, and helped tremendously by Alex North’s majestic score. Richard Condon’s script, adapted from his own novel, is never clever, funny or precise enough to give the film a shot at greatness - there's an endlessly repeated joke about Nicholson and Turner taking the plane that is almost insultingly useless - though its often understated sense of humour does build in effectiveness towards the close and there are a smattering of very funny lines (“If Moxy’s so fucking clever, then why’s he so fucking dead?”). The film also features that strange ‘80s cinematography with the glowing whites, as if the DP has let too much light into the shot. The performances are variable. Turner is OK and Nicholson has a couple of good scenes – his phone call near the end is nicely played – but like John Barrymore before him, he largely retired from acting to become a star, relying on an arsenal of lazy tics. In this instance, he also displays an alarming propensity for woodenness. Thank goodness then for Anjelica Huston (the director’s daughter), whose sad, wicked and romantic characterisation lifts the film onto a whole other level whenever she’s on screen. What a fantastic actress she is, and always was. Richardson, John Randolph – playing Nicholson’s sympathetic father – and Hickey are also strong in support, giving the film some much needed pathos and menace. This is hardly among Huston’s classics, of which there are many, but it’s interesting and moderately entertaining, despite its many shortcomings. The director would re-team with Anjelica for his final and finest film, an adaptation of James Joyce’s The Dead. (2.5)

The greatest movies of all time - my Sight and Sound ballot

Despite this special effect, Vertigo has been named the greatest film of all time.

This week, British film mag Sight and Sound published its list of the 50 greatest movies ever made, as voted for by critics. Having topped the list since 1962, Citizen Kane came second this time, with Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo replacing it at number one. The changing of the guard has made headlines worldwide, with journalists confusedly declaring that Kane is "no longer the greatest film of all time".

For me, Kane remains as good a bet as any, its timeless screenplay and arresting performances allied to a matchless sense of innovation that changed the face of movie-making. Taking his lead from a pair of John Ford films, Stagecoach and The Long Voyage Home, Welles proceeded to comprehensively re-write the rules of cinema, employing jaw-dropping deep focus photography (developed with the legendary Gregg Toland), ceilinged sets that opened up the possibility of outlandish camera angles and an arsenal of frankly astounding visual tricks, all to serve a riveting, moving, aggressively non-linear narrative in which a man gains a fortune but loses his soul.

I like Vertigo - it's an interesting, masterfully-directed movie with a fine central performance from Jimmy Stewart, and a cut above much of Hitchcock's later work - but like rather too many films on the list, it engages the brain rather than the heart. And if I was sitting down to watch a Hitchcock film tonight, for entertainment rather than to write a thesis about it, I can think of a dozen I'd rather see. As Pauline Kael said about The Searchers (more of which later): "You can read a lot into it, but it isn't very enjoyable." In fact, that's how I feel about too many films on the list.

Jean-Luc Godard - everyone's favourite annoying, self-satisfied cinematic philosopher - has four entries on the list, including the disappointing Le Mépris, while Jacques Tati's interminable Play Time also makes an inexplicable appearance. The Bergman entry is the intriguing Persona, rather than the affecting Wild Strawberries, the Fellini movies are 8 1/2 and La Dolce Vita - rather than La Strada and Nights of Cabiria - both of which prize dazzling direction over human emotion, while the Renoir isn't La Grande illusion, but La Règle du jeu. Kubrick wasn't renowned for his weepies, but Paths of Glory can destroy a man; can the same be said of 2001? And between them, Man with a Movie Camera, Battleship Potemkin and Stalker don't offer a character you can engage with on any level, even if for fans of montage, double-exposure or having a three-hour nap (Stalker), there's lots to enjoy.

There are, of course, moving movies amongst the selection. Chaplin's exquisite City Lights is there, Truffaut's Les Quatre cents coups, and Dreyer's startling Passion of Joan of Arc, one of the most intense experiences that cinema has to offer. Sunrise is a perfect marriage of style, poignancy and entertainment; Bicycle Thieves makes me weep buckets. But it seems a list of slightly skewed priorities: over-familiar and celebrating the cerebral over the emotional.

***

My list

For reasons too obvious to document, I wasn't invited to vote in the poll (as you can see, I'm not bitter), so I thought I'd tack up my own top 10 here. All of which have made me cry, because I am a girl.



Remember the Night (Mitchell Leisen, 1940) - Written by comedy legend Preston Sturges and uniting the stars of Double Indemnity four years ahead of the fact, this holiday movie begins as a screwball comedy but morphs into a matchlessly moving romance, as prosecutor Fred MacMurray plays a dirty trick on shoplifter Barbara Stanwyck, then winds up spending Christmas and New Year with her. Spotlighting Leisen's startling visual sense and led by pitch-perfect performances - supporting players Beulah Bondi, Elizabeth Patterson and Sterling Holloway each given one scene in which to sparkle - it's a mesmerising, magical movie.



The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1943) - What does it mean to be British? Powell and Pressburger have a few ideas, serving up a mixture of character study, history lesson and state-of-the-nation address, as they chart the life of colonial-soldier-turned-Home-Guard instructor Clive Wynn-Candy (Roger Livesey, giving the performance of a lifetime). Churchill hated it, but what the hell did he know?



Hoop Dreams (Steve James, 1994) – You won't forget this documentary in a hurry: four years (and three hours) in the company of two teenage basketball players from inner-city Illinois who dream of the big-time, seeing the NBA as their ticket out of poverty. Shocking, exhilarating and heartbreaking, with astonishing twists of fate, it's a virtuosic, unforgettable film that has more to say about life itself than any other movie I've ever seen.



Ghost World (Terry Zwigoff, 2001) - A melancholy, bitingly hilarious crystallisation of teen ennui, which sees school leaver Thora Birch gravitate towards loner-with-lumbar-support Steve Buscemi. Beautifully written, superbly played and endlessly quotable. "It's America, dude, learn the rules."



Les enfants du paradis (Marcel Carne, 1945) - The towering achievement of French cinema: a portrait of a vanished world, a hymn to the art of acting and an allegory about Free France, boasting three of the finest performances ever committed to celluloid. Carné's handling is breathtaking, Prevert's script is clever, witty and worldly-wise and the timeless story seems to grow in strength and resonance with each passing year. Full review here.



The Searchers (John Ford, 1956) - Ford's dazzling odyssey of revenge and redemption has the greatest opening and closing sequences in all of cinema, and what's in between isn't bad either, dominated by John Wayne's towering characterisation. There are 4,000 words on it here.



Major Barbara (Gabriel Pascal, 1941) - There are some performances that bypass your critical faculties altogether, connecting not with your brain but with your soul. They are desperately few, those characterisations of such heightened sensitivity, such emotional resonance that the effect is both exalting and suffocating. I don't know why, or how, but every time Wendy Hiller utters a line or holds the frame in Major Barbara, I am on the verge of tears. It's just such a beautiful, enrapturing performance, the perfect, compassionate, warm and beating heart of a satirical, often cynical Bernard Shaw gabfest that cocks a snook at temperance, the Sally Army and those who see nobility in poverty. Full review here.



Cinema Paradiso: Director's Cut (Giuseppe Tornatore, 1988/2002) - In any form, Cinema Paradiso is a richly evocative movie that radiates a love of film and scales some unforgettable heights - the exam set-piece, the outdoor screening, the montage of kisses. This remarkable cut turns much of what you think you know on its head, twisting the film back from a crowd-pleaser to an upsetting, uncompromising artistic statement. And when Jacques Perrin's aged filmmaker puts his hands behind his head, it's hard to hold back the tears. Full review here.



Diary for Timothy (Humphrey Jennings, 1945) A summation of propagandist Jennings' wartime films: a portrait of Britain at war, made for a newborn child. Scripted by E.M. Forster and narrated by Michael Redgrave, it shows the country as you've never seen it: suffering and hardening, bogged down in a seemingly endless war of attrition as its people struggle to maintain business as usual for a fifth, ravaged year. As he would in his 1949 classic, The Dim Little Island, Jennings focuses on four diverse Britons: in this case a miner, a farmer, a train driver and a wounded pilot undergoing rehabilitation. Theoretically, anyway. In typical fashion, his scope encompasses not just conventional morale-boosting fodder, but also culture (Shakespeare, Beethoven), homelife and the contrast between the industrial heartlands and the tranquil countryside a stone's throw away. It's at once realistic and poetic. The fellow who edited the chaptering on the film's first DVD release said it was impossible to do it satisfactorily, because its themes are so interlocked. But while you could study it for weeks and still draw more from its immaculate construction, Diary for Timothy really works because it speaks not to the head but to the heart, and the part of all of us that will remain forever England.



A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Elia Kazan, 1945) - Kazan's debut is impossible to fault, an utterly draining movie about teenager Peggy Ann Garner's coming-of-age in early-20th century New York, flawlessly-directed, with immense performances in which every detail, every gesture rings true. Dorothy McGuire excels as Garner's mother - hardened by poverty - Joan Blondell is superb in a rare dramatic role as the girl's oft-married aunt, and James Dunn delivers an indelible characterisation as Garner's dad, an alcoholic pipe dreamer oscillating between euphoria and desperation. His reading of the folk song Annie Laurie soundtracks one of the most wondrous sequences I've ever seen on film.

Smoking, fireworks and Doug on the ceiling - Reviews #126

Douglas Fairbanks, an ant crossed with a man, and John Barrymore at his greatest, in the third and final part of my summer reviews round-up. To start with, here are the first three films I've watched from the Douglas Fairbanks - A Modern Musketeer box-set, which collects 11 of the star's early movies.



*MINOR SPOILERS*
When the Clouds Roll By (Victor Fleming, 1919) – Before Douglas Fairbanks was a swashbuckler – a transformation that took place with The Mark of Zorro – he was America’s favourite everyman, starring in a series of exuberant romantic comedies that showed off his never-say-die persona, physical prowess and great big smile, and made him one of the most bankable stars on the planet. When the Clouds Roll By is regarded by fans as his best contemporary comedy. It’s the first I’ve seen, but it’s an absolute gem, with passages of dazzling cinematic invention – several of which seem to have influenced Buster Keaton – along with knockout stuntwork and an atmosphere of artistry that extends to intertitle cards decorated with sumptuous paintings, all serving a slightly dubious story that takes itself a little more seriously than it should. Doug plays an Average Joe whose life is manipulative by the psychotic psychiatrist across the hall. Our hero falls in love and gets his dream job, only for the doc’s underlings to sabotage both ventures. Thank goodness, then, that Doug is so good at climbing things and swinging from ropes. The film begins with a bizarre, outlandish succession of gags in which foodstuffs (played by men) leap about inside Fairbanks' stomach, followed by a sublime dream sequence where he's chased by vegetables (a nightmare I also had as a kid), hurdles various outsized obstacles and then walks on the ceiling – 32 years before Fred Astaire was hailed for doing the same. And that isn't the only trendsetting here: the moment where he leaps through the paper wall of a ballroom and into a lake must surely have inspired Buster’s “shifting sets” set-piece in Sherlock, Jr., while a version of the “shadowing” sequence ended up in the same film. A joke with a thrown horseshoe turned up in The Goat, and the waterlogged finale was essentially recycled for Steamboat Bill, Jr. While the story is a little too stressy and serious to make this the pure escapism it really ought to be, it’s still a wonderful film, especially if you’re a sucker for a stunt or a sight gag. You’ll never never swing from a door/leap onto a horse/pretend to be 10ft tall the same way again. (3.5)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
His Picture in the Papers (John Emerson, 1916) – Doug’s first collaboration with director Emerson and legendary screenwriter Anita Loos is a delightful comedy that loves alliteration, hates vegetarianism and features some classic stuntwork, like Doug leaping onto a moving car wearing only a dressing gown. He plays Pete Prindle, the ne’er-do-well son of a vegetable supplement magnate, who finds that the only way he can impress his father, and win the girl he loves, is to get his face in the paper. Cue the gleefully scheming, secret meat-eater running his car off a cliff, becoming a prizefighter and wading out of the sea to lamp two cops. It takes a good 15 minutes to hit its stride, and climaxes with a conventional punch-up, while Pete is sadly talked out of a two-storey leap of faith armed only with an umbrella – something we all want to see – but this is fast, funny and furious fun, and includes a near-mythic sequence in which the hero can’t be bothered to climb the stairs to share some good news with his fiancée, and so clambers up the side of a building instead. (3.5)

Trivia note: the heinous, slightly scrawny hood wearing an eye-patch is Erich von Stroheim.



Flirting with Fate (Christy Cabanne, 1916) - Lacklustre, unfunny black comedy - in which Douglas Fairbanks's artist, down on his luck, hires a hitman to kill him, then changes his mind - that's slightly redemmed by one very nifty action sequence, in which the star manages to escape his pursuer by leaping up onto the roof of a house. The rest is mostly static, set-bound comedy in which he smells a lot of gas lamps. The film's basic story formed the basis of two far superior films: The Whistler and Bulworth. (2)

See also: Doug's swashbucklers include The Three Musketeers, Robin Hood, The Black Pirate and The Iron Mask.

***



Counsellor at Law (William Wyler, 1932) – A scintillating Pre-Code drama, built around John Barrymore’s tour-de-force, brilliantly cast against type as a workaholic, teetotal Jewish lawyer who’s fought his way up from the gutter and may well be returning there, after a scandal breaks. Wyler’s ever-moving camera helps prevent Edgar Rice’s play from seeming too stage-bound, though the serio-comic attempts to immerse us in office life – while successful – do sometimes distract from the startling and compelling story at the film's centre. The stellar supporting cast includes Bebe Daniels, John Qualen (as a reformed stick-up man) and Melvyn Douglas (playing a detestable gigolo), but Barrymore blows them all away in perhaps his greatest dramatic characterisation: his entire body contorting as his legal titan shifts from professionalism through childlike glee to utter despair, the star’s performance blissfully free of the tics that marred his later work, every movement and gesture the measure of economy. His showdown with a Communist firebrand is one of the great set-pieces of early ‘30s cinema. (3.5)

***



Thank You for Smoking (Jason Reitman, 2005) – Strident satire about a tobacco industry spokesman (Aaron Eckhart), who reforms for the benefit of his impressionable son, but perhaps not in the way you were expecting. Like all of Reitman’s films, it’s invigoratingly entertaining, but there’s also plenty going on under the surface, the director skilfully spearing accepted wisdom as he removes his tongue from his cheek long enough to suggest that while free speech has its drawbacks, it’s worth defending all the same. This pungent portrait of the world of spin, with its clear-sighted and original viewpoint, is arguably his best film so far – it’s a toss up with Young Adult – with only the cartoonish scenes about Hollywood product placement and a subplot featuring Katie Holmes' journalist coming across as forced. (3.5)

***



*MINOR SPOILERS*
Tucker and Dale vs Evil (Eli Craig, 2010) - An excellent comedy-horror that ingeniously inverts genre stereotypes, as two pleasant, blameless hillbillies are mistaken for backwoods psychopaths by a bunch of college kids, who in the ensuing panic start accidentally killing themselves. It's a great idea that's expertly developed, with numerous cleverly-constructed gags - particularly Tucker's first meeting with the beautiful people and Dale's chainsaw dash - and some ace one-liners ("I should have known if a guy like me talked to a girl like you, somebody would end up dead"), though the wrap-up exposes the filmmaker's inexperience, with a pointless twist tied to the film's weak backstory, and a boring action climax. For the most part it's a killer spoof, though; one of those rare one-joke comedies that really works. (3.5)

***



Matinee (Joe Dante, 1993) – A larger-than-life schlockmeister (John Goodman), based on William Castle, arrives in a small town to preview his new atomic age monster movie – Mant! (half man, half ant) – against the backdrop of the Cuban Missile Crisis, which is hotting up less than 200 miles away. Dante’s film is a hymn to '50s and '60s horror films, but more significantly an ode to childhood; what he’s really interested in is how these seismic events affect a bunch of likeable teenagers, including a boy on the cusp of adulthood (Simon Fenton), whose father is just off Cuba on a Navy boat. Occasionally the plot machinations feel a touch strained, but the film is very sweet-natured, both Goodman and Cathy Moriarty – as the filmmaker's sardonic girlfriend – are wonderful, and Mant! itself is hysterically funny; maybe the finest, most acutely-observed film-within-a-film that I’ve ever seen, and with a killer trailer too. (3)

Trivia note: Matinee's spot-on spoof of '60s family comedies, concerning a man who turns into a shopping trolley, features a young Naomi Watts.

***



Bad Teacher (Jake Kasdan, 2011) - Spectacularly disinterested educator Cameron Diaz locks horns with aggressive goody two shoes Lucy Punch - her rival for the affections of watch fortune heir Justin Timberlake - while scheming to get the money for the boob job she thinks she needs to land a wealthy man. This one got bad write-ups, but comedy's a very subjective thing and, while it's not overly sophisticated, I laughed pretty much all the way through. At its centre is the only good performance I've ever seen from Diaz - with one of cinema's most notoriously poor comedians suddenly becoming funny - and there are a steady stream of surprising jokes and amusing supporting performances that compensate for a few duff scenes (the predictable car wash sequence) and a plot that comes apart towards the end, starting with the moment Timberlake does something completely out-of-character. Jason Segel is particularly good as Diaz's other love interest, in an old-fashioned, almost Fred MacMurray-ish performance. Well, if MacMurray had ever said: "Give me your panties". (3)

***



Les amants du Pont-Neuf (Leos Carax, 1991) aka Lovers on the Bridge – A pair of homeless lost souls – he a fire-eating drug addict, she a lovelorn painter who is going blind – fall in love whilst camping out on Paris’s oldest bridge, closed for renovation. That promising premise, which might have made for a sweet little film, gets somewhat lost in this long, portentous and frustratingly aloof melodrama. The movie is armed with a striking visual sense that leads to moments of absolute magic – particularly the fireworks sequence, which erupts with sozzled joy – but lacks insight into its characters, meaning that it ultimately gets a little boring. (2.5)

***



Friends with Benefits (Will Gluck, 2011) - Art designer Justin Timberlake and big-eyed head-hunter Mila Kunis are mates who decide to start boffing. (That’s why they’re doing that thing on the poster.) It either isn't explained why they aren't dating, or I didn't understand it, but if you don’t know how this one’s going to turn out, you should go to the movies more. The first half of the film has the attention span of a gnat, making it fun to watch but completely dispensable; the second oscillates between more of the same, and trying to deal with some weightier themes – like self-destruction, and dementia. Beneath the barrage of up-to-the-minute technology references, it doesn’t add up to a whole lot, and the subplots incorporating Woody Harrelson and Patricia Clarkson are frankly useless, but Timberlake is OK, Richard Jenkins has an effective bit as his ailing dad, and it’s a fairly easy watch. I’m not sure Kunis is going to have a stellar dramatic career when her looks fade. (2)

***



Hot Rod (Akiva Schaffer, 2007) – The Lonely Island movie features Andy Samberg (in a role originally intended for Will Ferrell) as a rubbish, self-proclaimed stuntman trying to raise the money for his stepdad’s life-saving operation – so he can finally kick his ass. Lots of it doesn’t work; most of it, in fact, with a central story that provides very little comic capital, and jokes that either fall flat, go on too long, or fall flat and then go on too long (“Cool beans”). But there is the odd funny line or nice comic touch (Bill Hader, high on acid, pointing at a bin and enquring, “Hospital?”), one sequence that's very funny (“I’m Rod, and I like to party”) and another that is genuinely, laugh-long-and-hard-out-loud hilarious, in which oriental dance fiend Richardson attempts to help hand out some fliers. Danny McBride is also marginally more bearable than usual. (2)