Trouble in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise, 1932
Dir: Ernst Lubitsch

If you think about all the ridiculously terrible rom-coms that come out of Hollywood now, you often wonder how the genre came to such prominence, and if it wasn't always filled with fluff. Well, films like The Killers (2010) and every other "criminal couple" movie owe a debt to Trouble in Paradise, though they'd never be able to hold a candle to it. Elliptical in structure and tied to witty romance with suggestive pre-code banter, this film could demolish anything today and definitely stands above all of the screwball comedies that it helped to inspire later in the decade.


Romancing both Miriam Hopkins and Kay Francis, Herbert Marshall is the epitome of handsome rakishness, playing a master jewel thief who schemes with his lover (Hopkins) to swindle perfume heiress Francis, falling in love with the sexually aggressive proprietress instead.


Lubitsch’s revered style is surprisingly fluid for a film of the early 30’s, and his collaboration with playwright Samson Raphaelson, his most frequent partner, is filled with the kind of innuendo that would be virtually impossible to get away within the coming code era. Luckily for us, that makes a lot of the comedy very fresh and almost seemingly modern. But most of all it's just funny, and never wacky. Lubitsch was far too sophisticated for that.

A Woman, a Gun and a Noodle Shop

三枪拍案惊奇 (A Woman, a Gun and a Noodle Shop), 2009
Dir: Zhang Yimou

This is a retelling of the Coen Bros. film Blood Simple (1985) in an Chinese desert saga (I think you know what I mean). And it's completely retarded. I'm mad that I paid to see this. Visual effects simply to have fucked-upped Asian-ness (even when he sets up some nice shots, Zhang does all this time lapse shit, like we couldn't figure out that "some time has passed"), ridiculous, over-the-top slapstick tied to black comedy that is pretty much insulting to anyone watching it. By that, I mean it insults your intelligence. Not one likable character, either. Blood Simple is alright I guess (though if I watch it again I might think less of it simply for inspiring this), but this is just bottom of the the barrel. Steer clear of this turd.

Teorema

Teorema, 1968
Dir: Pier Paolo Pasolini

This blog hasn't had one of these in a while, but I guess I've just been lucky in my picks. Well, this was pretty fucking unbearable. Just another Euro art film trashing "bourgeois" culture and being way too much for me. Somewhere along the way you realize that it is utterly and bombastically silly, so just strip away the 60s Italian sophisticated mystique and let yourself laugh.


At the beginning there's this sort of T.V. reporter/interview rant about bourgeois culture, and it raised my hackles big time. Then it turns into this weird, semi-silent movie where the main family goes about their lives, but you never hear anything they say. It's kind of enjoyable, actually. And then the "stranger" comes and ruins it. Played by Terence Stamp, the film never gives you any answers for why he's there, but all of a sudden everyone in the house is really horny. They all have this big "transformation" by his being there, and when he leaves, the whole household begins to fall apart. The sexually-awakened daughter goes into a coma, the wife who "was never interested in anything" becomes a huge tramp and starts to pick up guys on the street, the son goes all homo-artist, the maid becomes this divine force and can cure chicken pox and levitate, and most importantly (or annoyingly, depending how you look at it), the head of the household, a successful Milanese industrialist, begins to "question it all" while also starting to have some homo leanings as well. An then there's the desert motif. Good grief.


Stamp's character is supposed to be this angel, or maybe even God, and he's "opening up" the eyes of all the characters to real life. But he ruins their lives, so maybe he is the devil? Or maybe I just don't give two shits about any of this? Seriously, I was really only interested when people were making out/humping, and that's just 'cause it's sex. I do know this though: Atonioni did Italian bourgeois malaise a million times better than this.

Judge Priest

Judge Priest, 1934
Dir: John Ford

So apparently John Ford could do "courtroom comedies" just as well as he could do Westerns. Will Rodgers has a great deal to do with why this is so good, but Ford's sense of place had no equal at this point in Hollywood. Even more than Stars in My Crown (1950), Ford establishes a southern, Reconstruction-era Kentucky town that has this amazing sense of cinematic poetry, the kind that only Ford could create.


The film is built around a trial, but it isn't entirely confined to it (though all the scenes in the courthouse are really great). William Priest (Will Rodgers) has been the local judge for quite some time. His unorthodox, laid-back style isn’t exactly professional, but his personality has become woven into the fabric of the town. His nephew, Jerome (Tom Brown), has recently returned home from a "Yankee" law school and now has a job as an attorney. When the local barber and his pals are severely beaten up by the town’s “quiet” character, it is Jerome that takes his case. This, of course, creates a possible conflict of interest, which leads many to question Priest’s fairness as a judge. In the meantime, he also sets up his nephew with a girl who, according to his nephew’s mother, isn’t up to the family standards. Probably the really only uninteresting thing in the whole film is the "relationship" that the two youngsters have.


This is the first Ford film that I've seen with Stephen Fetchit in it, and it's really hard to talk about it without saying outright that it's "disgustingly racist." Fetchit plays a sterotypical "negro," talks in incoherent jigaboo (which Rodger's understands somehow; must be a southern thang), and is constantly chided for being lazy (even if it's mostly by Priest, who is teasing). It is racist. But there is something about the way that it is just out in the open in the film that helps it a lot, and along with Hattie McDaniels, who plays Aunt Dilsey, the maid/servant in the Priest household, helps the segregation/racism seep into the community. It's there, but there isn't anything malicious about it. If the film was about racism (which Stars in My Crown sort of turns into), it wouldn't be very good. This is cinema though, so obviously it's an alt-reality, and Ford was all about perpetuating Americana myths, but most likely Kentucky was probably kind of like this after the Civil War. Perhaps the circumstances are not that pleasant, but sometimes, real life isn’t either.


That’s not to say Ford was actually a forward-thinking genius or anything, but many directors would have never made Priest’s sidekick a remotely important character. It’s also worth mentioning that no one in the film comes off as being particularly smart (the Reverend at the end, maybe). Will Rodger’s whole persona is “dumb…but charming” but he never comes off as being a superior character. He's not stupid, he's just a Good Ol' Boy who doesn't have hateful bone in his body. Most of the characters are Good Ol' Boys actually, and the way the film ends is indicative of this, given the fact the the trial doesn't really end and southern pride trumps all. In fact, I think Ford’s characterization of all the characters is one of the most curious elements in the film. While it is, like many things Fordian, quite simple on the surface, it does ask for deep pondering.

Johnny Guitar

Johnny Guitar, 1954
Dir: Nicholas Ray

This is not your typical Western, but then again it really isn't a Western. In Truffaut's original review of the film in 1954 he called it a "phony Western." Ray understands the gestures and symbols that define the genre but he uses them to turn it on its head. At the same time, he also used the film to denounce the blacklisting that was taking place in Hollywood, which took huge balls, but Ray always had those in spades.


A stranger (Sterling Hayden) rides into an Arizona town after witnessing a carriage heist and makes for Vienna's, a saloon owned by woman of the same name (Joan Crawford). We soon found out that she sent for him to play guitar (hence, "Johnny Guitar") in the saloon, and that they have a bit of history. However, the people of the town, mostly cattle ranchers, are furious over her "trampishness" and the fact that Vienna made a deal with the railroad to bring more people in. This enrages the ranchers because they feel it will bring in farmers who will run them out of town. To make things worse, a local gang, led by The Dancin' Kid (Scott Brady), often frequent Vienna's and are often suspected of any local trouble. The carriage heist, which resulted in the death of the brother of one of the key antagonistic ranchers, Emma Small(Mercedes McCambridge), along with Johnny's arrival in town, kicks of a series of events that will lead to a unavoidable showdown between the two groups and to which Johnny is witness to all.


So you've got the ranchers, led by Emma, who are unmovable in their position and are willing to lay the blame on the Kid's gang just to get to Vienna. McCambridge's performance was probably meant to mimic McCarthy, and in doing that she did a good job for a character that lacks any real depth beyond her strange attraction to The Kid, which enrages her even more. All of the performances are a little over the top, except maybe Hayden who does a great "stranger in town," observer role (probably meant to be Ray himself). The ranchers hatred turns into a posse mentality, and the allegory is complete.


Ray's use of color is just as impressive here (using TruColor) as it will be in Rebel Without a Cause (1955). While most critics say that it's expressionistic, I'd almost say that it's impressionistic, though it's probably just because it's color. From the gang's (including Vienna) colorful garments to the the drab and dark cattle ranchers, it's pretty obvious what Ray was trying to do. I don't know overall though, there is something about Ray that I like, but he's just so full of melodrama and over-the-top theatrics that he uses to demonstrate his points that I doubt any of his films would ever end up on one of my "favorite films" lists.

Spring in a Small Town

小城之春 (Spring in a Small Town), 1948
Dir: Fei Mu

I suppose this is sort of the beginning for a lot of the moody, dreamy, lush, etc. films that come out of east Asia. Which is awesome. Someone could make a 4 hour movie with a wind blowing against a tree and a soft female voice-over in Mandarin and I'd sit through the whole thing. Probably enraptured. The voice-over is very nice in this, too. It's a little awkward at first with Yuwen literally vocalizing every action she is about to make ("I am going to see my husband...") but on the other hand, the whispering tone is just beautiful. When I say dreamy, I think it has something to do with the poor production value actually. A lot of the skies are blown-out because the film was overexposed, but during the scenes on the city wall, you can actually see white wrapping around rocks, which only adds to the dream-like state of Yuwen's dilemna. The film itself is fairly easy to watch in the classic melodramatic sense, though it's obviously more subdued than it's peers in America. That, among other things, make this a pretty awesome find despite the condition of the print.

Thanks for the tip, Alex.

The Naked Spur

The Naked Spur, 1953
Dir: Anthony Mann

Another great Western from Anthony Mann. And under Mann’s control, Jimmy Stewart delivers another one of his better performances. His blunt, unsympathetic turn as Howie Kemp really helps makes this a winner. He dramatizes the internal duality of thee character in every aspect of his performance; his guilt, indecision, and ethical introspection are practically tangible. It also probably helps that, like many of Mann’s heroes, Stewart doesn’t really have much to say. This bodes well for the film for two reasons, one because the audience doesn’t have to deal with Stewart’s far too familiar voice that often and two, it reinforces the “contemplative” nature of Mann’s cinema as well as the notion that he is pretty much the best genre film director ever.


Bounty hunter Howard Kemp (Stewart) captures long time rival and outlaw, Ben Vandergroat (Robert Ryan) and plans to turn him in for the $5,000 reward. However, he needed the help of shady ex-cavalryman Roy Anderson (Ralph Meeker) and hard-on-his-luck old prospector Jesse Tate (Millard Mitchell) to do so. The men reluctantly decide that they must split the money three ways. Greed begins to get the best of everyone and to make things worse as Ben sows seeds of discord, making the trip is take much longer than expected. In addition, Howard begins to fall for Ben’s "girlfriend," Lina Patch (Janet Leigh), which only deepens the complications of the scenario.


This is far less subtle than Winchester '73 (1950), and it probably has to do with the fact that we are with the same characters the whole time instead of following around an inanimate object (a gun). The back story of Howard Kemp and his wife’s betrayal is a nice touch, but Mann’s hints at it are pretty obvious. There’s one particularly embarrassing sequence in which a dazed Kemp starts speaking to Lina as though she was his ex-fiancé. I would have greatly preferred for such exposition to end at the little mention that Robert Ryan makes at the very beginning. Other than that, though, this is standard Mann, which is to say it is pretty much amazing. The addition of technicolor provides for some of the most lush visuals moments in the history of Hollywood filmmaking (I mean, seriously, look at these snapshots). Then again, I expect nothing less from Mann.

The Steel Helmet

The Steel Helmet, 1951
Dir: Samuel Fuller

This is kind of what I was expecting from Fuller, but I was not expecting to be so underwhelmed. I mean, it's "cool" and everything, but just kind of obvious. I know that the stuff that Fuller was saying was controversial and whatnot, but in cinema it really is about how you say it. Maybe Fuller thought that these issues could only be tackled by aiming his film like a gun at the American public, but that just kind of turns me off.


The Steel Helmet is basically about Sgt. Zach (Gene Evans) who survives an execution by communist soldiers in the Korean War, is freed by a South Korean orphan (William Chun), who Zach nicknames "Short Round" (so that's where this comes from...), and then teams up with some other GIs to set up an observational post in a buddhist temple. They will see plenty of action along the way, and snappy dialogue will occur.


The beginning of the film, or at least until they get to the temple, is pretty interesting. You don't know what they are doing, just walking around foggy Korean forests trying to stay alive. After that though there is a pretty definitive dramatic thrust, and with Fuller's one dimensional characters each giving their own spiel about war, the entire weight of the film to starts getting pushed on you really hard.


You have to give the film some credit though. It gives major supporting roles to an African-American, a Japanese-American, and a tiny Korean kid. It was one of the first Hollywood films to talk about segregation with a progressive derision, and was probably the first film anywhere to talk openly about the Japanese internment camps during WWII. These things, along with the fact that Sgt. Zach shoots a POW in a fit of emotional rage, got Fuller in a ton of hot water with the Army. It was his intention to show war as it really is, and that deserves at least some respect. It's just the way he went about it that you can pick bones with.

Stars in My Crown

Stars in My Crown, 1950
Dir: Jacques Tourneur

My first encounter with Jacques Tourneur is, for the most part, a pretty good one. He is really proficient in building and establishing an atmosphere and that seems to be the single most important element in this particular film’s success. It is, after all, a story that is largely based within the repercussions surrounding a central community rather than your normal thrusting plot, and his aesthetic precision helps in making the simple observations of a classic rural town so enjoyable. Otherwise, this would probably just be remembered as a really heavy-handed indictment of racism being handed down from 1950s America.


Josiah Gray (Joel McCrea) is a country parson who arrives in the small town of Wellsburg sometime after the Civil War and he quickly alters the community so that it becomes almost his own (in a good way). He has seemingly been a key figure in the town for a while when it is struck with typhoid fever. The town’s new doctor (James Mitchell) is young and, unsurprisingly, not welcomed by the townsfolk. However, typhoid is spreading and Mr. Gray continues to see more of the young doctor, who strongly dislikes Gray based on his own belief that Gray may have spread the disease when he visited the school while his nephew was sick. Meanwhile, Uncle Famous (Juano Hernandez), one of the town’s black residents, is threatened to have his land taken away from him by greedy residents who are also in the Klu Klux Klan (or some vague resemblance of it).


There are some dramatic flourishes (and such moments are the weakest in the movie) but for the most part, is is essentially plotless and held together by a beautifully crafted sense of Americana. It seems like a small feat, but it is rather impressive how Tourneur creates a sense of community without much exposition to clutter his efforts. The only point where anything seems out of place it at the beginning, where we are given a rapid-fire montage of how Josiah Gray became the single most important person in Wellsburg and Gray’s nephew narrates it. There are plenty of impressive shots in this opening, but that is pretty much the only compliment I can give this essentially meaningless bit of exposition. The film then settles down to the standard 50s Hollywood pace.


Not all is lost, though, as Tourneur’s shots still have a peculiar beauty to them. It’s that beauty that can only be found in Westerns from the early 1950s, a time when greats like Anthony Mann and Budd Boetticher were slowly transitioning from Noirs to Westerns. These pictures inadvertently spawned the “noir-western” which probably only become a genre (if one can call it that) in recent years. Stars in My Crown is neither Western nor Noir (a "Southern"?), but it captures the spirit of both and that is probably what counts the most. If there’s really any problem with this film, it’s that it doesn’t seem to be cohesively great. Some fantastic spots here and there, but some dry ones as well. Still, I’m definitely looking forward to seeing more from Tourneur when I get the chance. Directors who "lose the plot" are right up my alley.

Monsieur Verdoux

Monsieur Verdoux, 1947
Dir: Charlie Chaplin

Chaplin goes seriously dark and it actually fits him and the style of film that he makes really well. This was originally written by Orson Welles, who wanted Chaplin to play the lead, but Chaplin refused to be directed by anyone else and bought the script and reworked it to suit his own style. It's hard to say what would have been better, but having this is good enough.


Chaplin plays a serial killer (who goes by many aliases) who seduces women (a modern "Bluebeard") and takes all of their money. He had been a respectable banker until a financial meltdown, and when he couldn't find new employment, he decided to start his own "business." He has a wife and son from his previous life, who adore him, but he spends most of his time running around France either meeting (and killing) the women he has already wooed or trying to bag new ones. There are people on his trail though that have to be evaded, not to mention the looming possibility of another economic crisis.


Some of the voice-over is annoyingly expositional, and at the end, when Verdoux is on trial, he gives this big speech about how everyone cares when a single man kills, but when mass killings (war) takes place it is championed. It didn't really need to be said, as there were undertones of it running through the whole film. Other than that though, this is thoroughly enjoyably, and as a fitting dark comedy, Chaplin actually makes murder awkwardly funny.

The Best Years of Our Lives

The Best Years of Our Lives, 1946
Dir: William Wyler

I totally get why this won the Best Picture Oscar in 1946 (it sort of had to), and I totally get why it's a favorite of cinephiles, but that doesn't necessarily make it a great film. The story of three WWII vets (one navy, one army, one air force...what a coincidence) returning home to deal with their lives and trying to rehabilitate themselves while coming to grips with the fact that the civilians around them who weren't there can never really understand what happened has serious potential. The shifting, multiple-character drama also makes it interesting and right up my alley. But only to a certain point. Some of the dramatic gestures are so obvious that they are eye-rolling, e.g. a war vet can't get a plane ticket home, but the rich business man just has to throw a couple of bones down and he gets a ride (TREAT YR VETS RIGHT AMERICA), and almost patronizing. If you're interested in deep-focus cinematography, this was one of the last films Gregg Toland shot before he died. Not that Wyler does a lot of interesting stuff (in fact, he's kind of a by-the-books, "safe" Hollywood choice director if you ask me). Some interesting stuff, but mostly soup.

Ivan the Terrible

Ivan the Terrible, Pts. 1+2, 1944+1945 (1958)
Dir: Sergei Eisenstein

I had this whole spiel about these two films that I was going to write, but the drunk brigade rolled through my house last night and they were in no mood for my thoughts on Russian montage. These two films (out of a planned trilogy, but Eisenstein died before he finished) are without a doubt the culmination of a lifetime of thought on film for Eisenstein, and his being let loose from the restriction of propaganda (however so marginally) is a God-send (though it is the reason why Pt. 2 wasn't released until 1958). The way the films are constructed is absolutely genius, where you get a sense of beauty that emerges from the setting, the unbelievable close-ups and Sergei Prokofiev's musical score. Watch how every character is framed and presented. There is a specific representation being pushed. The only problem is that all the performances are so theatrical and over-the-top it's pretty much off-putting, at least to me. Stream these on Netflix. They are Russia's Citizen Kane (1941).

The Expendables

The Expendables, 2010
Dir: Sylvester Stallone

Is there anything else that you can ask for from a film where Bruce Willis mockingly asks Sly Stallone and Ahnold whether they are going to suck each others dicks? How about throwing in a ton of action-movie stars (in the classic sense, of course, so beat it, Michael Cera) converging in a cluster-fuck of hackneyed non-sequiturs and brutal forced melodrama yet still deliver a heap of entertainment by throwing at you an array of deaths and explosions that includes Steve Austin being set on fire? God dayuuuuuuum!


The whole film follows the action film formula to a tee, and if Sly Stallone didn't also have his hand in the writing of this beauty, I'd think it was a parody instead of an homage. But there's actually a great amount of sincerity in everything about the film, especially in its reverence to a certain stereotypical action film of the past and the manly men who blow shit up in them. No girly men allowed. I was actually kind of mad at the end when Sly restrains himself from "getting" with the girl he saved. Dude, who cares if you are 62. Nothing else in your film makes sense anyway. If you pressed your monstrous mugg down on that chica bonita in an over-blown 10 second make-out it might have pushed this into GREAT territory. Jason Statham's character also has a "love interest" ("Who wrote this line? Oh yeah, me...") of sorts as well, but it's just so he can kick the asses of six dudes who are apparently all for abusing women and playing basketball (the two go hand-in-hand). Gotta' make unnecessary statements.


Statham and Stallone form the core duo of the Expendables, but don't forget Jet Li, who's given a ton of weird changlish one-liners, a small man complex and the name Ying Yang. Not to mention he doesn't even kick ass that much (and kind of loses all of the one-on-ones he in). Also throw in Randy Couture, who basically drops his guns during fire-fights and just starts powerbombing and arm-barring suckas, and Terry Crews (as "Hale Caesar") with a big fuckin' black gun, and you've got yourself a merc team. Conflict? You got it: Eruo-action veteran Dolph Lundgren plays two-timin' Euro-action bad-boy Gunner (good casting choice). But the brains of this baddie brigade is an over-wrought, super smooth Eric Roberts, just looking to make a little money growing cocoa in the tropics. He's followed around by Steve Austin, who is aptly named "Paine." Remember when Austin thought he was going to become an action star? Shit, what happened? The Rock has absolutely been laying the people's elbow on Austin for all those acting jobs these days. I'm wondering exactly where he will end up in the pantheon of professional wrestlers in their quests to convert to "acting": the top or the bottom?


Seriously, though: Where is everyone else? This is one movie where character building could have been cut to zero and just had a bunch of washed up action dudes thrown onto an island to kick dick. Seagal? Norris? THE MUSCLES FROM BRUSSELS?! This could have had it all. It does have Mickey Rourke though. He's an Expendable who doesn't fight (his name is "Tool" strangely enough), so I'm assuming he's there for his acting chops. His monologue about "standing for something" is something else, and the fact that it is the catalyst for Sly to go back to the "action" island is pretty ridiculous. But I guess it's a ridiculous film, which is sometimes entertaining because of it. I'd probably still tell someone to watch Rambo (2007) for better modern Stallone action irreverance though.

The Seventh Victim

The Seventh Victim, 1943
Dir: Mark Robson

I must say after all my recent viewings, I was pretty interested to watch a horror film, especially one that had more than just a cultish, if somewhat dicey, reputation. One might say that this foreshadows many things in its genre, like Psycho (1960) and Rosemary's Baby (1968), in the way that it brings you into a mood and atmosphere rather than being a straight forward visceral experience. The only problem is that it's pretty retarded.


Val Lewton, the producer, was told, in the spirit of the Production Code, to not to make a film with a message, and he replied that this film did have a message: "Death is good." Well, blow my fuckin' brain open. The way that the film foreshadows Rosemary's Baby is that it involves a group of devil worshipers. By the end though, you realize you are not in the least bit interested in the dark motivations of these Satanists who are ashamed as soon as someone utters a Catholic prayer. Like for real, is it like what a cross does to vampires?! Oh yeah, the "seventh victim" is a throwaway line like three quarters of the way through the movie.


Kim Hunter plays the sister of missing woman (Jean Brooks) who is sort of amateur sleuthing around New York, and her acting miserable. Her love story with her sister's husband (Hugh Beaumont), who she just meets when arriving from England, is furthermore pathetic. The Psycho reference can actaully be seen as the films one redeeming part, for as a B-horror/noir, it looks pretty good. The excellent shower scene has some serious creepiness to it, in which the shadow of a lady with a hat looks very much like a horned satanic figure. It kind of caught me off guard in my auto-pilot harrumphing that I go into during awful films. It's too bad the actors had to actually talk. The film clearly gets looked at for the ending, which ends in the sister's suicide (so sry to blow the ending 4 u), having resolved absolutely nothing else (no, death is GREAT). It's all mindbogglingly nonsensical, and not really in an entertaining way.

Heaven Can Wait

Heaven Can Wait, 1943
Dir: Ernst Lubitsch

Hey, color! Woo! Well, anyway...this is the first Lubitsch film I have ever seen, and while not being completely up my alley, this is about as good as a Hollywood comedy (especially from the 40s) can get. The way the film plays out is very elliptical, not only with music queues and the progress of the narrative (from a death to a death), but also the way Lubitsch uses windows and doors over and over again to show and not show. It's really interesting stuff, considering the amount of thought that goes into Hollywood film nowadays, at least in how a film in constructed.


The story concerns Henry Van Cleve (Don Ameche), a man who has just arrived in Hell after figuring that he had been too bad in life to be allowed into Heaven, so he didn't even try. Satan has to review his file first, and they go over the course of his life. Henry is a scoundrel, from his earliest days where he gets drunk with his family's French maid (Signe Hasso), and then to when he elopes with his cousin's finacee (Gene Tierney) at their engagement party after winning her heart. Through all of it, you understand that Henry, who comes from money, has developed into an idle man, a loafer who lives off of his family's money and who is indulged by them. He is not a real hero in any sense of the word, which is probably why this film didn't do so well during the height of WWII.


The presence of time is always present as well, and as Henry recounts his life, it slips by rather quickly and sadly, and his "misdemeanors" add up to a life of petty pleasures without much regard for others. This is why he goes "down." The sadness that builds up towards the end while maintaining the humor walks a thin line the most films can't pull off, but is reminiscent of Ozu in some fashions (he was a big fan of Lubitsch). Henry's womanizing ways also continue well past his marriage, even to the point in his 50s where he propositions a showgirl who happens to be seeing his son without his knowing. It's not like you're rooting for him in anyway to do anything in particular, but waiting for his next indiscretion to take place is oddly satisfying in a I'm- watching-something-naughty way.


This also kind of reminded me of Hawks' Only Angels Have Wings (1939) in the ensemble comedy/deeper level going on department, and the two films have a light structure that makes it all work. They are similar directors as well; Lubitsch’s tight cutting means he never allows his characters to think or ponder on a situation, to reflect on moral positions (most of which are very gray), or to assess their surroundings. Hawks’ characters are too busy doing something for the luxury of self-reflection, while Lubitsch’s characters are too busy doing nothing. Some of the characters here are a little to one dimensional (like all of the parents) but my favorite supporting cast member has to be Grandpa (Charles Coburn) who is the Van Cleve who made all of the family's money and tends to act as a voice of reason throughout, and is Henry's biggest ally. Henry is a layabout, but you can sense in Grandpa that that is the life he had always wanted to live, and he even says later that Henry is the "only Van Cleve that I ever cared about." When they go to get back Henry's wife after she leaves (because of one his indiscretions) Grandpa comes along and is hilarious. While he's bouncing around the house that they've invaded, he tells one of the house servant giddily, "I've always wanted to runaway with a girl!" I can't see anyone not having a smile on their face. I just convinced myself while writing this that it is better than I first thought. Now I'm certain more Lubitsch will occur.

Christmas in July

Christmas in July, 1940
Dir: Preston Sturges

Not all comedies are satires, but all satires are comedies. Right? Sturges is practically Hollywood royalty with cinephiles, and let's face it: he made good films. Sullivan's Travels (1941) impressed me even before I started to think seriously about film, but unconsciously I think once you have taken in a certain amount of films, you have already begun to build an aesthetic of what you like and dislike, and not in a pretentious way. Once you become conscious of it, staying true to it is the only way to be unpretentious. Christmas in July is not dense, nor really funny, and maybe not even witty, but it stands as testament to the Depression that many films in the 30s couldn't even get right because filmmakers were too busy letting people escape reality instead of making people actually think about it.


I think "South Park" is funny, because I love potty humor. But its biting satire is the only reason why it remains relevant. Would people watch if it wasn't "funny?" I mean, shit, dudes: Alexander Pope wrote satires, and ain't he a barrel of laughs?! I am a product of my own time when it comes to comedy (though it's not truly that simple), and I'm guessing if Trey Parker and Matt Stone emphasized brain work over laughs (though "South Park" is clearly much smarter than your average TV show) it would have gone off the air ages ago. Christmas in July never really made me laugh. It has some "smiley" moments, but they are kind of entrenched in Screwball, a form of film comedy that just doesn't make any sense to me. Maybe it is not supposed to make sense, cause it's so ZANNNNNY! But thankfully, I wouldn't say this is a Screwball comedy (though in some reviews I have read have labeled it as such).


Any sort of connection to Screwball surely comes from the events in the film once Jimmy MacDonald (Dick Powell) wins a radio contest that results in him getting $25,000, and he goes out on the town with his girlfriend Betty (Ellen Drew) to buy all kinds of stuff! Unbeknownst to him, it was actually the handy work of some of his co-workers that he got a telegraph stating he had won, and once the truth comes out, it comes as a pretty hard blow.


His new "wealth" had gotten him a promotion, a sense of pride and a new direction in life, and once it's stripped away, he is not really prepared for the consequences, especially to be labeled a thief and a "swindler." This is the best part of the film. When Betty pleads with Jimmy's boss to let him keep his promotion, it's most definitely wrapped in some sort of ideal American ingenuity that still pervades most Hollywood films today, but it seems like it was placed at the right moment. Of course, he's given a "chance" to prove he can do it. The satire in the film has a great deal to do with the desperate fantasies of opulence developed during the Depression, and scenes of the dreaming couple on the roof at the beginning, and then the proto-Il Posto (1961) drone work of Jimmy's job only hammer this yearning home. The prevailing sadness in this film definitely makes it interesting as a "comedy," even if I wouldn't say it was really funny.

The Story of the Late Crysanthemums

残菊物語 (The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums), 1939
Dir: Kenji Mizoguchi

People usually point to this as Mizoguchi's finest pre-War effort, but considering that this is only the second of his films that I've seen, I can't really say for sure. This is a slow-burner though, being one of the films that saw Mizoguchi's long-take aesthetic come to fruition, and in the end it's probably too long. At the end, there is a good amount of the Kabuki sequences that he could have cut down. Other than that though it is undeniably very good.


The beginning of the film was really strange and seemed stale with the strict style that Mizoguchi employs. I was sort of blown away by how the decent set up, of how a spoiled, adopted son of a famous actor finally realizes that he himself is no good and must make a name for himself on his own, wasn't interesting me at all. Once the initial confrontation happens, where Kikunosuke (Shôtarô Hanayagi) tells his father that he can't live in his shadow forever and is going to marry the family's nurse (Kakuko Mori), I started to get into it though. Once you've watched enough early Japanese (and Asian) cinema (I guess I've watched "just enough" but not nearly as much as I wish I have), you start to notice the gigantic culture clashes being shown on screen as the main crux of conflict; of how modernity is clashing with the strict cultures of proud people; "our" generation vs. old dudez. Kiku's decision to disrespect his father and his father's reputation is unforgivable and he is thrown out right away. Despite some pleas from other people to stay, it is too late. He must go out on his own.


Kiku finds himself sinking lower and lower in the acting world until he ends up part of a traveling troupe (this device is used a lot in cinema, huh?), where even there he still finds himself with a "bad actor" reputation. All he has is his wife, Otaku, who is a constant crutch, especially when Kiku starts to doubt if he can ever prove that he was right to leave and occaisionally tries to indulge himself with "nights out." Small hints of pride bubble up when Otaku goes to an old friend to ask for help and let Kiku preform in his new play, something Kiku was too ashamed to do. The sacrifice that Otaku partakes in here is reflected later as well, when after Kiku proves to everyone that he is a great actor, can only be reconciled with his father and the higher arts of Tokyo if he takes back the famous name, which cannot be connected to a house maid/nurse. So she leaves him for the sake of his "art," much to his agony.


The ending is melodramatic soup, but not strictly bad. Otaku is succumbing to tuberculosis during the moment of Kiku's artistic triumph, and only then is he given permission by his father to go and "be with his wife" on her death bed. It seems like a bit of a cop out concerning the whole generational clash (he seriously still needs "permission?" But I guess by accepting Otaku's decision to leave for his sake, he had already fallen back into his old way of life without her, which might be even more heartbreaking if you think about it), but in its presentation completely effective in how demoralizing her death will be to Kiku (and thus, you as a viewer). The film's bittersweet ending is reminiscent of the ending of Ugetsu (1953) though I wasn't at all conflicted there. Mizoguchi's style and mis-en-scene are already to the point here that allows for beautiful images and actions to be captured, and that alone, for me, makes his entire body of work, including this, work seeking out.