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by Michael Barrett

19 Nov 2015


The Mad Genius (1931)

Now on demand from Warner Archive are two chances to evaluate John Barrymore, once hailed as a great actor if sometimes a problematic professional. He was called “the Great Profile” for his acquiline proboscis, and continually posed himself in a manner to not let the audience forget it.

In the pre-code drama The Mad Genius, Barrymore’s style is what today looks like high camp as he stumps around the space, raising his caped shoulders and snarling with a single raised eyebrow. It’s a type of “great acting” that hasn’t worn well (except that it looks fun). This vehicle directly followed Svengali  and exploits similar themes of an overbearing impressario who controls every aspect of his apprentice’s artistic and sexual life. In the previous film, he mentored a female singer. In The Mad Genius, it’s a male dancer, now allowing a displaced bisexual triangle in which he encourages the boy to sleep around and tell him the details.

by Michael Barrett

18 Nov 2015


Welsh-born Ray Milland combined an elegant, patrician manner with a high, distinctive, harshly metallic voice that allowed him to play angry or anguished neurotic roles, such as his Oscar-winning turn as an alcoholic in The Lost Weekend (1945). He directed himself in several movies, including the overlooked gem The Safecracker (1958). Now available on demand, it’s an absorbing and still fresh combination of genres, every sequence handled with finesse.

Beginning in 1938 England, the first act is a crime drama and character study of Colley Dawson (Milland), a restless man who’s an expert in one narrow specialty: the ability to open a combination lock the old-fashioned way, with his ears and fingers. When earning an honest living doesn’t get him farther than living with his mother, he’s approached by an art dealer (Barry Jones) who happens to know which safes in England have certain valuable objects that have disappeared—because he’s the one who sold them before in similar off-the-books transactions. This should mean that the owners can’t call Scotland Yard, but apparently they do, because the law is soon following Dawson.

by Michael Barrett

10 Nov 2015


The Phantom of the Opera (1925)

Kino has long promoted silent films on video, and we’ve watched certain titles progress from VHS to DVD and now to Blu-ray upgrades, such that an art once abandoned to faded, splicey, jumpy prints at the wrong speed and without the original color tints has been reborn in the video generation(s) to something of its forgotten glory.

Diary of a Lost Girl  is the last of G.W. Pabst’s two famous melodramas that made an icon of American actress Louise Brooks, she of the pageboy bangs, the pointed side-trims, and the soulful gaze that underplays, even withdraws, in a medium devoted to overstatement. While some at the time found her dull, time has been kind to her timeless electricity. She starts this story as a tender teenager who faints into the arms of a man who knocks her up. After that, she’s confined to a regimental girls’ reform school, finding sisterhood and self-assurance as a prostitute, a social critique that departs slightly from Margarete Böhme’s scandalous source novel.

by Michael Barrett

9 Nov 2015


Pitfall (1948)

John Forbes (Dick Powell) has a boring job as an insurance agent, a middle-class suburban home, a no-nonsense wife (Jane Wyatt), and a tow-headed tyke of a son (Jimmy Hunt). He’s wondering where his life has gone. In the middle of his case of “Is that all there is?” he meets a model named Mona (Lizabeth Scott) and decides to sow a wild oat without telling her he’s married. This is the slippery slope for both of them, thanks to a vicious stalker (Raymond Burr, brilliantly cold) and Mona’s jailbird boyfriend (Byron Barr).

As film noir historian Eddie Muller explains in his excellent commentary, Pitfall (1948) is an unusual noir in several respects. Powell and Scott are cast against type to a certain extent, for he spends most of the movie feeling emasculated and chastened while she plays that rare bird: a femme fatale  by fate, not choice. She’s an innocent, non-scheming, good person who’s trying to make her way in the world but keeps drawing rotten luck. She sees herself as a kind of bad-luck charm, and events bear her out.

by Steve Leftridge and Steve Pick

9 Nov 2015


Steve Leftridge: This film is hard to watch because, obviously, it’s a harrowing depiction of domestic violence. It is clearly one of cinema’s darkest, most devastating depictions of spousal abuse, and the escalation of the assaults at the end—the dishware massacre—is chilling. So I’m sure, like me, you watched this one through your fingers. But you didn’t find anything funny about this merciless examination of marriage, did you, Steve?

Steve Pick: Hah! Laurel and Hardy as prime influences on Bergman and Cassavetes, huh? Seriously, though, this is a genuine laugh riot, albeit one based on the all-too common idea of wives keeping their husbands from having any fun. Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy had been teamed for years by this point, starting in silent comedies, and would hold on to their partnership for some time to come. Their personas were well established, and all they had to do was apply their impeccable comic timing to any situation. In their hands, something as simple as trying to get each into their adjoining flats could become hilarious.

//Mixed media
//Blogs

In Motion: On the Emptiness of Progress

// Moving Pixels

"Nils Pihl calls it, "Newtonian engagement", that is, when "an engaged player will remain engaged until acted upon by an outside force". That's "progress".

READ the article