It’s a week of masterworks at your local brick and mortar, as the ennui infused release calendar of the summer months gives way to more honorable, high brow product. With four titles on SE&L’s select list, Criterion proves once again that no company does considered preservation better than this DVD distribution dynamo. In addition, two recent entries in 2006’s race for the year’s best argue their individual claims to such a status. Toss in a familiar giant lizard from the ‘50s and you’ve got a diverse collection of wallet emptying essentials. Indeed, over the next few weeks, your entertainment budget will be ballooning as your bank account shrinks. The digital dog days are definitely over. Time to wallow in the wonderful excesses of a media maven’s dream. The selections SE&L will be picking up this week include:
Amarcord: Criterion Collection*
Considered by many to be Fellini’s final ‘masterpiece’ (the rest of his career would be marked by several noble failures) this 1973 memoir is actually a strange combination of fact and fiction. Using his real life hometown of Rimini as a backdrop, the Italian auteur devises a ‘year in the life’ narrative centering on the Biondi family, the rise of fascism, and the never-ending human pursuit of sex. Yet unlike his previous efforts such as Satyricon or Juliet of the Spirits, Fellini tones down the visual excess, finding the perfect cinematic tone between art and artifice. The result is a kinetic crazy quilt of a memoir, a movie that mixes memory and fantasy to illustrate how the past forms and defines us.
Brazil: Criterion Collection*
Who would have thought Monty Python’s ex-pat animator would turn into one of the most gifted moviemakers of the 20th Century? Anyone who saw his agitprop approach to Orwellian future shock, that’s who. Mythic even before it’s release, director Terry Gilliam battled his studio sponsor (Universal) to get the film released. When his pleas fell of deaf bean-counter ears, he went the route of the critic. A couple of awards later, and Brazil became his breakout film. While its overloaded imagery and reliance on physical effects may put off some modern moviegoers used to CGI candy, it’s the remarkable ideas behind the visuals that mark this film’s most unforgettable facets.
Every now and then, the action genre needs a good kick in the clichés. Leave it to French filmmaker Luc Besson (who executive produced here) to find a way of supercharging the standard gangland shtick. Borrowing a little of Escape from New York (in the future, parts of Paris are walled off to keep “undesirables” in check) and incorporating the unique ‘free running’ style of stunt work known as Parkour, this rollercoaster on rocket fuel goes for a hyperstylized energy that’s highly addictive. While its storyline may suggest one too many trips to the Scarface plot pool, its look it so wholly original, and its setpieces so inspired, such copycat complicity is forgivable.
Gojira: Deluxe Collector’s Edition*
Forget bad dubbing into English. Forget Raymond Burr as a kind of creature feature color commentator. In fact, forget everything you know about the traditional Toho titan and check out this attempt to reclaim his original motion picture majesty. This is the timeless Japanese monster movie classic the way it was meant to be seen. Those used to Perry Mason’s appearance amongst all the Tokyo destroying mayhem will be happy to see the American version included as well. Toss in a collection of commentaries and bonus features and you’ve got a DVD presentation that forever vanquishes the film’s Saturday afternoon kid vid matinee aura. Godzilla was meant to symbolize nuclear technology run amuck, and with this release, his b-movie babysitting days may finally be over.
Playtime: Criterion Collection*
Call him France’s answer to Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton, or a post-modern throwback to the days of silent comedy, but no one can deny Jacques Tati’s filmmaking acumen. A stickler for detail as well as a painstaking perfectionist, his films often took years to complete. A comic consideration of modern technology, Playtime began production in 1964…and didn’t wrap until 1967! Still, many feel it is one of Tati’s greatest achievements. Focusing on his classic character, the bumbling Monsieur Hulot, and his 24 hours in Paris, this pop art poem glitters with cosmopolitan gloss and delightful urban angst. Thanks to Criterion, this forgotten master’s unique vision is preserved for future generations to marvel over.
Seven Samurai: Criterion Collection*
Akira Kurosawa elevated Japanese cinema into a internationally recognized art form, and this is, arguably, his greatest achievement. A masterpiece of tone, detail and performance, this influential fusion of modern moralizing and typical Eastern traditions makes for a classic examination of duty and honor. Setting up layers of interaction – the samurai vs. the farmers, the collective vs. the oncoming attackers – and utilizing the inherent drama supplied via the mesmerizing monochrome cinematography, Kurosawa creates a tragedy of epic proportions, an incredibly human saga expanded out across the entire Asian horizon. And thanks to a new transfer from the classic film conservators, this director’s dynamic vision has never looked better.
The first, and so far best movie centering on the events of 9/11, United 93 benefits from a stellar storyline and upfront direction by Bourne Identity helmer Paul Greengrass. Instead of infusing outside elements into the narrative, or putting a particular political spin on the situation, Greengrass simply takes the circumstances that occurred on that doomed flight and lets them play out in all their undeniably nerve-wracking tension. What we end up with is a sensational, cinema vérité glimpse at what the final moments in a symbolic struggle between terror and heroism looked like. Sure, it’s depressing, the atmosphere of impending doom clouding all concerned. But there can still be catharsis in such filmic foreboding, as this memorable movie clearly demonstrates.
And Now for Something Completely Different
In a weekly addition to Who’s Minding the Store, SE&L will feature an off title disc worth checking out. For 5 September:
It took nearly six years of Midnight Movie cult celebrity for 20th Century Fox to pursue a sequel to 1975’s Rocky Horror Picture Show, and everything seemed right for a solid repeat success. The original was doing gangbuster business, playwright/songwriter Richard O’Brien was back to continue the pop song surreality, and director Jim Sharman was also on board, hoping to recapture the spirit of the first film. Yet instead of the continued kitsch and gender bending brazenness of the previous effort, O’Brien delivered a scathing slam on the modern media, turning Brad and Janet’s hometown of Denton into a giant TV station, and the paramours into participants/prisoners in some strange, sinister reality show. Ahead of its time in both approach and attitude, it naturally bombed. Still, the faithful have been waiting for this film’s return to the home theater fold. With the release of this 25th Anniversary DVD, it’s time for reconsideration may have finally arrived.
To call Joseph Stefano’s writing credits varied is like arguing that his one time collaborator, the Master of Suspense Alfred Hitchcock, had an ‘interesting’ way with the camera. Brought onto the director’s dynamic Psycho after James P; Cavanaugh’s script was rejected, Stefano seemed an odd choice to adapt a murder mystery. After all, his first few scripts had focused solely on his ethnic Italian heritage - most notable in the 1958 Sophia Loren/Anthony Quinn melodrama The Black Orchid. He had also created an award winning Playhouse 90 piece about racial prejudice in the military (1959’s Made in Japan). But when his agent asked him who he’d like to work with next, Stefano provided a list of names. Hitchcock’s was right near the top. When, shockingly, the famous auteur responded, it was with a copy of the famous low budget slasher film’s screenplay in hand.
With his passing on 25, August, 2006 the legacy of Norman Bates lost its central guiding light. Yet it would be his adaptation of Robert Bloch’s seminal story of an out of the way motel, an unusual desk clerk, and his domineering “mother”, that would also point the scribe in the direction of genre fiction over the next three decades. Though already established, the overwhelming success of Psycho led Stefano to other opportunities. An old friend, Leslie Stevens, asked Stefano to become a supervisory writer and a producer on the seminal speculative series The Outer Limits. Contributing stories and scripts for some of season one’s most memorable episodes (including the creepy “Zanti Misfits”) he helped lay the foundation for Limits’ claim as one of the best sci-fi shows on television.
After rejecting a chance to return to Hitchcock’s fold for The Birds – he supposedly found the idea laughable – Stefano went on to make strides in made for television movies, including A Death of Innocence (a 1971 murder mystery starring Shelley Winters) Home for the Holidays (a 1972 thriller about a husband who fears his wife is poisoning him) and the oddball Live Again, Die Again (Donna Mills is frozen and brought back 30 years later in this 1974 sci-fi effort). After 1977’s Snowbeast (another of the era’s Bigfoot movies), he had grown jaded and cynical. He took the 1980 death of his friend Hitchcock hard. He also hated how Norman Bates (a character he more or less created, avoiding Bloch’s decidedly drunken original) had been marginalized by the two sequels that eventually followed.
In 1991, audiences saw him contribute to the hack horror film The Kindred (1987), and he did do some work on Star Trek: The Next Generation and the Swamp Thing TV series. He would visit his ethnic past once again for the Al Pacino weeper Two Bits (1995), and even returned to the Norman Bates legacy with his prequel effort Psycho IV: The Beginning (1990). Near the end of his career, Stefano was also the unfortunate beneficiary of Hollywood’s remake fever. His “Feasibility Study” (based on a 1964 episode) was redone for the modern update of Outer Limits in 1997, and Gus Van Zant committed the ultimate redux sin, creating a near shot for shot remake of Psycho from Stefano’s original script. After that 1998 fiasco, Stefano turned his back on Tinsel Town, convinced it was bankrupt of originality and ideas. He would stay in the shadows until his death from a heart attack. Yet it is safe to say that no writer had more of an impact on the post-modern horror genre than Joseph Stefano. He helped popularize and legitimize the genre of slice and dice cinema. Yet he should be remembered for much more than Norman’s shower savagery. While iconic, it was not endemic of Stefano’s incredible talents.
He was the original Pa Kent, giving an infant from the planet Krypton a home here on earth. He was also the original Mr. Eddie’s father, looking for love while trying to raise his son solo. From his early days as a Columbia contract player, to his heroic service in World War II (where he helped build safe houses in France) Glenn Ford remained wholly original. His death at age 90 on 30, August 2006 was not so much a shock as a reminder of how much his presence in film was missed. Having long since retired from acting (his last onscreen role was in 1991) and in relatively poor health in recent years, Ford’s recognizable fame had more or less faded. But even without a current high profile celebrity, no one could match this amazing man’s considered career.
He was born in Canada, and came to the US when he was eight. Fresh out of high school, he was scouted by Tom Moore, a representative of 20th Century Fox. When the war arrived in the early ‘40s Ford took a break from his occasional bit parts to fight for his adopted country. After marrying fellow star Eleanor Powell in 1943, he returned from service to pick up his career. But it wasn’t until Bette Davis gave him a break in 1946 (with a role in A Stolen Life) that Ford found his footing. That same year, an appearance alongside Rita Hayworth in Gilda (they would go on to make six films together) shot him to superstardom. Thanks to his talent, Ford never again had to look back. He parlayed that success into roles in classic Westerns like 3:10 to Yuma (1957) and crime thrillers like The Big Heat (1953).
By the mid ‘50s, Ford was viewed as a Hollywood stalwart, a level-headed leading man who came across as decent and determined. But with his 1956 turn as the inner city schoolteacher fighting delinquency in The Blackboard Jungle (1955), the actor became a kind of subtle symbol for the growing problems between the generations…and the races. Thanks to the film’s youth appeal, and the Bill Haley and the Comet’s theme of “Rock Around the Clock”, Ford found himself in even bigger demand. He would go on to make Teahouse of the August Moon (1956), Experiment in Terror (1962) and the forgotten gem Rage (1966), among many, many others. He even dabbled in television, starring in the series Cade’s County (1971) and The Family Holvak (1975). But time was slowly catching up with Ford. After playing Superman’s dad in the original 1978 big screen adaptation, and a sinister psychiatrist in the silly slasher film Happy Birthday to Me (1981), he watched his star stock drop. Between ‘81 and ‘91, he only made six more films.
Though his marriage to Powell produced a son (Peter), it didn’t last. Ford never found the right person to share his life with, all three of his marriages after his divorce from Powell being short lived (none more than three years) and, sadly, childless. Ford adored children, and was said to spend most of his retirement playing with his grandkids. Over the years, he appeared in documentaries on Hollywood’s Golden Age, but continued complications with respiratory and heart ailments, as well as a series of strokes, left him frail and faltering. On the occasion of his 90th birthday in May of this year, he was scheduled to attend a 70th anniversary revival of a newly remastered print of Gilda. Regrettably, his ill health prevented his appearance. It would have been nice for this former Tinsel Town icon to have one last shot at the public adoration he so richly deserved. No matter what the current culture thinks, he was never forgettable. That’s because, no matter the role, Ford was always an original.
It’s sad that Jerry Lewis has become the punchline to an endless array of farcical French jokes. Buried beneath all the old school mugging and silent slapstick schtick is a truly gifted filmmaker whose inventive ideas behind the camera didn’t always translate to guaranteed hilarity in front of it. Want proof? Take the crazed comic’s 1961 forgotten masterwork, the bachelor boychick as maid to a mass of Misses entitled The Ladies Man. Certainly, the clothesline premise seems too disjointed to be potent. It was only Lewis’s second film as a director and it had, at its center, one of the largest and most expensive sets ever constructed for a feature film. Lewis demanded and got a full size, scale model dollhouse-like home built inside one of Paramount’s soundstages, an amazing monstrosity containing four separate stories, a grand concourse, several open-walled bedrooms, a series of serpentine staircases, and an old-fashioned elevator running up the side. Shown in several severe long shots by Lewis (who is obviously proud of the perspective it gives the film), this art department masterpiece is stunning to behold.
Just like David Fincher’s desire to have an entire Brownstone mock-up to work within for Panic Room, Lewis uses this amazing effigy very effectively. Anyone wondering why he is often cited for his technical prowess with a camera and a crane need only look at The Ladies Man to determine the filmmaker’s dexterity. Lewis’s lens moves in and out of his man-made half-mansion, passing around absent walls and shooting through glassless mirror frames to give the story a kind of crazy, fairytale feel. Combining primary colors with intricate artistic touches, The Ladies Man is a marvel to behold, a film rich in visual flair and even more powerful production value. Naturally, any movie runs the risk of being overshadowed by such a substantive stunt. It would take a larger than life star to survive within the labyrinthine layout. Lewis is, of course, that more than sizeable superstar. Thankfully, he avoids the obvious love affair possibilities to keep the film focused on the crazy and the crackpot. The result is something sincere and silly - and undeniably Lewis.
Dada seems like a poor subject for a museum retrospective considering how those artists’ mission seemed to be to undermine the credibility of institutional art and its curators while lampooning the tastes and proclivities of the bourgeois philistines who frequent such palaces of pomposity and complacency as museums. Yet there I was, a philistine at large at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, taking it all in. Perhaps the artists would have reveled in this irony. As the paragraph on the wall explained, the Dada artists were pioneers in the art of branding, coining the word Dada to unite the heterogenous art—quasi-cubist painting, embroidery, typographical experiments, pictographs, collages, manifestos, mannequins, readymades, etc.—that went out under its banner. Consequently Dada works seem to be about little more than brand building and self-promotion—it’s not an accident that there are dozens of posters for Dada exhibitions in the Dada exhibition—and the influence this work had on graphic artists, industrial designers and marketers is apparent in how familiar everything in the exhibition looks, how the experimental pieces evoke nostalgia rather than perplexity, how pointedly the provocative Duchamps fail to provoke. Though much is made of the Dadaists devotion to randomness and spontaneity in their methods, these works are outrageous in the calculated way advertisements can be; they use deliberate randomness the way ads now use non sequiturs and absurdity to arrest our attention. So the experience of all this attention-craving Dada in one place—no quiet dignity to these objects—is pretty exhausting, even more disorienting than the usual big, crowded museum show.
The show is organized around the local art enclaves in various cities that the Dada movement was able to manufacture, which gave the appropriate impression that the Dada’s main achievement was to make hip happenings, to create proto-Williamsburgs of self-importance wherever they chose to congregate. I had the feeling the less I knew about Dada, the more I would be able to appreciate the works, which taken in isolation, disburdened of the posturing that surrounded their marketing, could have been quite impressive and moving. Exhibited together, though, one is too conscious of the oppressive art scene, its peculiar anxieties and egoistic concerns. But Dada artists were among the first to discover how to use the emerging mass media as an artistic medium—the collages made of pieces of newspaper and theater tickets and photos cut out of magazines are only a fitting symbol of this.
I liked Schwitters’s collages, though, for an entirely different reason. Though the works seemed to demonstrate the artist’s efforts at mastering the discombobulating proliferation of entertainment and information the era experienced, bringing all the industrially produced pieces of culture together, the works now made by countless, nameless hands, ordering it all and making it coherent and subject to the individual artist’s imprimatur, I appreciated the way they seemed to bring artistic endeavor to a DIY level. They made me wonder why I didn’t try my hand at making some art—all I need is a good matte cutter and some nice frames, and I could maybe put something together. It wouldn’t be as good as Schwitters, obviously, but it would be better than simply consuming art, herding myself through the mass of people. But then the more people who feel like they should be making their own art, the more one has to work to promote oneself, to stand out from the masses, to earn exhibition space and an audience. So the DIY spirit I felt was part and parcel with the revulsion I felt at the branding and attention-grubbing.