The 100 Greatest Maniacal Laughs

 

Video Courtesy of Youtube and James Chapman

Video Pick: The Hunger Games

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But it treads forward with the surviving children battling on while the film slowly drifts into a more cliché-ridden action-movie formula: enemies are dispatched and quickly forgotten.  Before we can ingest any sense of futility, we’re off to the next skirmish.  Rinse-and-repeat.  The actual conclusion lacks the same element of danger or suspense or grief.  The real capper: CGI dogs enter the fray to remind us that we’re in a summer blockbuster.  What a shame.  Before the third act, I was about to declare The Hunger Games one of the most daring Hollywood franchises in recent years–with one whammy of an ending.  Instead, it remains a good film that just happens to feel more like Mortal Kombat than, say, Taxi Driver.  

Having not read The Hunger Games, I can only guess the principal purpose of the story–if there is one all.  On an aesthetics level, I was enchanted by the world the film-makers created and its dazzling display of contradictions.   In the future, the social classes are bifurcated between the extremely wealthy and the destitute, with the middle class all but eradicated.  I especially love the rich class’s disconnect from genuine human emotions and their wardrobe selection which makes every show on Bravo look tame by comparison.  North America is now under the rule of the nation of Panem.  As retribution for a failed rebellion, the government created a tournament where one male and female teenager–between 12 and 18 years of age–are drafted from 12 districts to complete in a battle to the death, where only one will survive.  

The main reason to see Hunger Games is the dazzling performance of Jennifer Lawrence as District 12 “tribute” Katniss Everdeen, who quickly jumps in to replace her “tribute” younger sister.  In a wonderful bit of coincidence, the male draftee is Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson), who shares a personal history with Katniss.  The two are transported to the nation’s capital where Katniss, Peeta and the other 22 draftees train, don fake smiles for the media frenzy, and wait with dread for their fatal ends.   Katniss and Peeta’s coach, former Hunger Games winner Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrellson) sells their love saga to procure sure-fire fandom and sponsorships.  As an added incentive, during the opening ceremonies, the two ride a chariot with burning flames protruding from their torso backsides.   The crowd eats it up.  As Maximum Aurelius once uttered in Gladiator, “Win the crowd…”  

The pre-tournament conditioning is splendid.  The waiting game twists the insides of Katniss as she exchanges glances with her future competitors, including Peeta, who must die in order for her to survive.  The long-winded prelude to the fight allows us a chance to ponder over the predicaments and think about how we would handle this, especially when it involves people we love.  

The suspense and intrigue builds up to the tournament’s beginning when Katniss is elevator-lifted through a port hole smack dab in the field of battle, where half of the combatants are killed within seconds.  There’s no glory, just a plethora of discombobulated shots that emphasize the chaos, confusion and overwhelming tension of the turmoil.

The first half of the tournament is intense, focusing on Katniss’s clever, stealthy maneuvers to evade her competitors.   She chooses to hide rather than fight.  The show’s technicians recognize the folly and toy with the world and the rules in order push her back into the fray (ala “cue the sun” from Truman Show).  It’s truly a reality show where the only certainty will be the 23 corpses.      

The Hunger Games only occasionally has fun with the concept of feverish fandom for competitive violence, but generally, everyone maintains a straight face.  It’s not too difficult to swallow that in the future TV viewers will become so desensitized to violence that they are able to stomach and even relish kids being slaughtered.  But, the dynamic of having children, rather than adults, engaged in combat doesn’t entice more intrigue.  
For example, during the film’s most tragic moment, a father witnesses the slaughter of his child on television.  In dismay and anger, he rallies the masses to start a mob up-rise.  Why start now?  Weren’t children being slaughtered each year?  What did he expect was going to happen when a young child is pitted against older, stronger teenagers?  The odds are so overwhelming given the sheer number of combatants and age gaps, that it’s hard to believe that such displays of dismay would be reserved up until this moment.  The film also misses a prime opportunity to make a bolder statement such as showing the unflinching rich classes cheering on in the face of the horrors.  Instead, the film chickens out–leaving us to wonder why this tournament remains a ratings bonanza.  

As the tournament presses on, an alliance of tributes chase Katniss.  She perches on top of a tree, unable to do anything but wait while her assailants stalk below.  Her pursuing combatants are single-minded antagonists without much dimension or emotion.  We don’t really care when they bite the dust.  Apparently, their scheme is to rally together to eradicate the competition before, supposedly, they sever their truce and off each other—an enticing subplot that isn’t exploited.  Katniss’s enemies laugh, joke and mock; sleeping soundly within their unholy allegiance.  Essentially, they’re just a bunch of Biff Tannens.  

There is the faint stench of a Twilight-inspired love-triangle with Katniss and Peeta hinting at sparks while Gale Hawthorne (Liam Hemsworth) jealously observes them through television screens, patiently waiting for more to do in the sequels (I’m assuming).  Unlike Twilight, the teens are more fleshed out, even likable.  Lawrence remains the film’s emotional rock throughout the chaos even until the very end as an invisible “to be continued…” hovers above the credits. 

But Hunger Games is too capricious.  It adds a confused, tepid amount of social commentary onto a B-movie action film.  The first half builds to a haunting display of aggravating violence that is disturbing and scary but eventually caters to more conventional fare.  The script is more eager to indict the wishy-washy rules of television competition rather than reach even further–as if to suggest that all would be justified if the kids could kill each other without any mid-game meddling.    

Inevitably, the film half is very effective–it’s suspenseful and enthralling with some genuine intelligence speckled throughout.  I am eager to see where to story goes in the next installment.  I hope the saga will scale beyond the single-minded reality television gimmicky and the “two boys chasing one girl” formula.  The film-makers paint the world of Panem with a canvas too rich to evade such interesting ideas for the sake of focusing exclusively on the trials of one boy getting the girl while the other, supposedly, winds up as a corpse on the battle field–while both the TV-viewing audience and, we, the actual film fans collectively clamor for more.

David Lynch’s IPhone Commercial

                                                   Warning–adult language

Bel Ami–Review

It was apparent pretty early in the film that I was in for trouble.  This may be the first feature length film I’ve seen with Robert Pattinson since he gathered the envy and lusts of teenage girls from the Twilight saga.  His acting limitations were never more apparent than in Bel Ami, based on Guy de Maupassant’s novel.  Pattinson switches between three expressions: smiling brightly, sulking anger, and utter nauseousness.  Somehow this is enough to seduce three powerful women (Christina Ricci, Kristen Scott Thomas, and Uma Thurman) in 1890s Paris.  The downtrodden George Duroy (Pattinson) is almost always in close-up–as if the directors Declan Donnellan and Nick Ormerod were also being seduced.  I didn’t buy it and neither did my wife, whose opinion really counts for a story like this.  

I won’t dabble into plot details, other than the talentless, penniless Duroy takes turns and occasionally overlaps between charming and sexually exploiting the three damsels.  Two of them even declare they love him.  Based on what little Duroy offers–financially or charismatically–I gather their love is based largely on his cheekbones.

Pattinson’s minimal range, his pretty-boy exterior doesn’t translate into another Don Juan.  During his first meeting with the three ladies as well as their husbands (actors Colm Meany and Phillip Glenister), Pattison says little and has to force any hint of seductive prowess.  It takes the strong wills of three talented actresses to fill in the gaps.  The best is Ricci, whose doe-eyes emote desire and undying love to counter Pattinson’s vacant expressions.  When their “love” is severed so he can hop into the bed after marriage nuptials with Uma Thurmas’s character, Ricci looks dismayed, Pattinson looks like he’s on the verge of vomiting.  

His relationship with Thuman is bizarre.  She seems to have no use for him other than as a plaything.  There is even an unexpected (and poorly shot) sequence where Duroy pleads for sex and she obliges.  Soon she ravages Duroy untils he’s on the verge of pleading for mercy.  If you walked into Bel Ami midway, you might believe that the film was about Thurman’s character tempting–and even dominating the poor Duroy.  Seriously, she’s practically raping the guy! 

How in the hell did Duroy seduce any of them?  This kind of film conjure images of the famous male sexual figures who charm ladies off their feet and out of their corsets.  There was the average-looking John Malkovich seducing Michelle Phieffer (as well as Thurman, imagine that) in Dangerous Liaisons, which involves women falling prey to the seductive powers of mischievous men with hidden agendas.  Hint: it has more to do with charisma than how they look in top hats.  Pattinson’s smile is so bright and ill-timed that one could mistake Duroy for a possessed serial-killer rather than a suave seducer.  There is not one moment where he conjures up a subtle smirk.  Again, my barometer was based on my wife’s reactions, who found Pattinson charming for the first two minutes and an amusing bore for the rest. 

The story is also a mess.  Somehow Duroy is yanked into becoming a writer.  There are moments when he showcases some glimmer of talent, but I couldn’t quite understand what he wrote or who wrote what for him.  There’s never even one word of his writings that’s read aloud to hint at his talents.  The story also includes much murmuring of the social political upheaval in France at the turn of the century that’s completely lost in the translation.  Thurman, particularly, seems motivated by nationalistic agendas that don’t lead anywhere.

Inevitably, the film boils down to some variation of a battle-of-the-wits between Duroy and Thomas’s husband (Meaney), who knows he’s bedding his wife.  There’s a scene where the two play a game of cards with suggestions of a fierce negative and combative vibe.  The always pleasurable Meaney looks fierce and determined.  Pattinson looks bored and eager to get back to Twilight.   And my wife was digging Meaney more. 

Note: Considering how formulaic these films have become, it might have been interesting to see a film in which Uma Thurman turns Robert Pattinson into her male sex-slave.  Tell me that wouldn’t attract the Twilight crowd!

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 3–Double Indemnity (1944)

“Yes, I killed him.  I killed him for money–and a woman–and I didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the woman.  Pretty, isn’t it?”  

Oh, the delicious irony. When I think of film noirs, images of Double Indemnity dance in my head.  It was the film that truly defined the noir as I know it today.  If The Maltese Falcon was the sketching, then Double Indemnity was the paint, leaving brush strokes of black, white, and a wonderful mix of gray.  In just three years since Bogie cynically smirked through the whirlpool of lies, deception, inner-demons (and one phony bird statue) of the reformed Hollywood, Double Indemnity poured in characters even more vile, self-serving and murderous–and as engrossing as any characters in films that have been produced before or since.

Take, for example, femme fatale Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwychk) as she drives her car with her husband in the passenger seat and her lover, Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray), hiding in the back. Suddenly, she pulls over and honks the horn.  Instantly, Walt strangles her husband to death.  We only hear the sounds of a struggle–the camera stays on Phyllis’s face.  Her lips curl into a slight smile–as if she relishes the danger almost as much as the freedom and monetary gain from her husband’s demise.  Or maybe more so.

The allure of suspense and danger is perfectly expressed through the moments of dark shadows; the stark contrasts within its black-and-white canvas and the moments of suspense injected by director Billy Wilder, who devilishly teases our sensibilities of right-and-wrong.  Following the murder, the duo arranges a charade that ends with them dumping the body on railroad tracks in order to give the appearance of an accident.  As they are about to peel away, the car refuses to start.  Walt tries again and again until, finally, the car springs back to life.  The two leads breathe a sigh of relief.  At that moment, so do we. 

Originally, Wilder filmed the scene of two simply driving away without any hiccups in the plan.  Afterwards, Wilder got in his car and couldn’t start the ignition.  Then the epiphany hit him.  He ran back into the studio and reshot the scene as it plays in the finished film–with the car stalling.  MacMurray thought the idea was ludicrous.  Why would the car not start immediately?  But the gimmick worked so well that it has been duplicated hundreds of times in many films that followed (to the point where it’s become a cliché of horror movies).  Yet, even after numerous viewings, my heart always skips a beat.  As Walt desperately cranks the engine, I always pray that the damn engine will start. 

Amongst Indemnity’s many trendsetters is the set-up: it starts at the end. The film opens with Walt lethargically entering his insurance building; his face is draped in shadow or turned away from the camera as he makes his way into the office of his co-worker, Claims Analyst Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson).  His face is drenched in sweat, his breath is heavy.  We see a blood spot on his left shoulder as Walt begins to dictate his story into an audio recording.  We flashback and learn how things went so wrong.   

As indicated, Walter Neff, a 35-year-old insurance salesman, was looking to score a big sale with a rich business man, Mr. Dietrichson.  When Walt makes a house call to renew the man’s current policies, he’s greeted instead by his luminous wife, Phyllis, whose subtle seduction brings Neff down to the darkest corners of his soul.  During their first encounter, Phyllis greets him from the top of her staircase balcony, wearing nothing a towel.  She’s formal and cordial, with a hint of obvious sultriness.  Neff is instantly taken by her spell.  As he waits, his voiceover tell us, “I was thinking about that dame upstairs, and the way she had looked at me, and I wanted to see her again, close, without that silly staircase between us.”

Phyllis returns, fully-clothed, and greets Neff in the den, recognizes his immense attraction and sets her trap.  Neff begins telling her about the additional policies he provides.  When Neff mentions accident insurance, director Billy Wilder once again focuses the camera strictly on Stanwyck.  She prances back and forth, listening attentively, thinking hard, never wavering or hinting that he just planted an idea in her head.  Neff won’t know what hit him.

The two begin a love affair.  Walt toys with the idea of killing Phyllis’s husband so the two can be together and possibility collect a huge sum from his insurance.  Later, Neff meets with Phyllis’s husband and tricks him into signing an accident insurance policy that will pay the beneficiary, Phyllis, $50,000 (in 1944 dollars) in the event of his death.  Also, if he suffers an accident in an unlikely case scenario–such as on a moving train–the payment is doubled.  Neff, a tenured insurance man, knows all of the ins-and-outs, all of the loose-ends needed to patch up in order for the scheme to work.  As expected, the murder goes off without a hitch, as does the manipulation to make the death appear like an accident.  Of course, everything goes wrong.

For a film that is lean, taut and has a wonderfully constructed narrative, there is one scene that baffles me.  As Walt prepares the final phase for his murder, Barton visits his office and offers him a job as his personal assistant (for a few dollars less).  Why does he select Walt?  Because he likes Walt and trusts him.  Walt, not wishing to be pinned to a desk, politely turns it down–even though the job is perfect for him.  What is the purpose of the scene?  I can only surmise two possible motives: It suggests the mutual respect and friendship between the insurance co-workers.  It also indicates how Barton represents Walt’s saving grace from his downward spiral.  Barton casually mentions the one woman he almost married long ago—until he had her researched.  Too bad Walt didn’t listen. 

The two represent a bond that’s missing between Walt and Phyllis: one of mutual respect and affection.  Phyllis and Walt even appear more excited by temptation of their murder plot than each other.

Like its precursor, M, Double Indemnity tells the story of bad people who do a terrible thing and spend most of the film trying to cover their tracks and elude capture or something much worse.  Yet, somewhere during the course, we get bamboozled–we can’t help but get involved in their plot–tensing up whenever it looks like Walt and Phyllis will be caught.  Wilder manipulates the audience akin to his peer, Hitchcock, but Wilder is more reserved with his direction of suspense, relying more heavily on the performers’ body language and faces.

There’s the scene Walt gets a phone call in his apartment from Phyllis, who is five minutes away and wants to come see him.  The moment Walt hangs up, he receives a knock on his door.  It’s Barton! At this point, Barton is researching Phyllis’s claim for her husband’s death, but knows nothing of Walt’s connections or scheme.

Walt entertains his unexpected visitor, knowing that Phyllis’s mere appearance will incriminate him instantly.  He plays cool, even as Barton voices his theory that he thinks Dietrichson’s death was neither an accident nor suicide.  What else could it be?!

While Walt labors over this development, his mind races, his eyes constantly wander back to the doorway.  He projects his voice loudly so Phyllis might hopefully overhear his conversation before she enters.  But McMurray plays it just right, maintaining a casual and calm exterior as his mind struggles to tame the escalating nervousness from the dual threat of Barton’s curiosities and Phyllis’s eminent arrival.  McMurray exerts the perfect level of stiffness and quick glances to suggest his worry.  Wilder wisely doesn’t cut back to Phyllis–we don’t know when she’ll turn up–until she’s right outside his door and hears the voices of two men.

Soon, Barton takes his leave.  Walt sees him out, suspecting Phyllis will pop out of the elevator.  Instead, he feels like a slight nudge on the door–Phyllis is hiding behind it.  Of course, doorways to apartment (or homes) do not open outwards, but this is one rule that’s compromised for the sake of the suspense.  Of course, Barton teases us further by creeping close to the door. And like in Fritz Lang’s M, we catch ourselves holding our breath for the bad guys. 

Between Maltese and Indemnity, we have two of the most famous femme fatales of the silver screen.  After rewatching both, I pondered if men, in general, have more of an affinity towards these films than women.  Are these female portrayals liberating or simply demeaning?  One could presume that the noir suggests that women’s freedoms spell doom for the male species.  Or do they actually imbue sympathy for women?  Are the femme fatales committing these actions to escape the confinement of the male-dominated world?

I always lean towards the last option.  The noir seems to present strong-willed females who defeat, or at the very least, attempt to defy the restrictions of the establishment.  They fend off and, in many cases, destroy the domineering men through the limited tools they possess: usually including their power to seduce.  In most noirs, the chief male protagonist is either a lone cynical detective whose keen senses are averted by their sexual desires. Or their thieving, murderous schemes are undermined by a woman, who weaves a thicker layer of manipulation. The women of these films are most dangerous.  They have an agenda they’ve orchestrated on their own, which usually leads to some form of monetary gain or liberation.  They frankly don’t care much for starting a romance, but use the conventional wisdom–the idea that every woman longs for a man, for a love–in order to deceive and undo males who buy into the idea.

In this case, Barbara Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson demonstrates her power and authority through her charm and subtle sexuality.  The fault is on Neff for being the sap taken in by the flirtations of a lonely, self-serving woman, but what is Phyllis’s overall scheme?  She clearly doesn’t love Walter, but what does she plan to do after the dust settles?

 

The ultimate fates of Barton, Walt and Phyllis end with an exchange of gunshots–each bullet ringing equally loud and brutal.  Like The Maltese Falcon, most of its influences are commonplace in Hollywood.  But few have duplicated the icy, biting dialog, the dimensions of three leads, the ominous shadows that haunt them, and, of course, Wilder’s taut direction that asks us to question our very natures.  And like Walt, first time viewers may fall prey to the seduction of Phyllis.  Edward G. Robinson was a leading man until Wilder convinced him to take a supporting part.  He chews every ounce of his role.  His final moments with Neff are touching.  They exchange one last cigarette and a tender moment of affection that would lead to another avenue of interpretation that I’ll spare for another time.  Instead, we have two men who inhabit the true love story of the film.  No matter how you interpret the portrayals of women in these movies, there’s always an element of lost love buried within the cracks.  Pretty, isn’t it?

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 2–The Maltese Falcon (1941)

“The stuff that dreams are made of.”

Those immortal words struck a cord with film audiences in 1941 as the harsh failings of Sam Spade and the supporting players echoed the legitimate, grim realities of the war-torn world that waited outside the cinema doors–a reality that continues to ring true seventy years later, during both peacetime and war.  The Maltese Falcon’s influence speckled a fresh shade of gray over the once glamorized and idealistic Hollywood.   The film changed many of the rules.  It also jettisoned the legendary careers of two men: director John Huston and Hollywood icon and star, Humphrey Bogart, whose sleuthing detective, Sam Spade, was instantly cemented as the poster child for all of noir; using a fast tongue, a quicker wit, and a master stroke of deception to unravel the mystery of The Maltese Falcon, the film in which most critics consider as the father of the film noir.

For all the hype surrounding Hollywood’s most famous “McGuffin”–which Hitchcock once coined as the desired object that everyone in the film is after–there’s a startling revelation by the film’s end: the Maltese Falcon, a small bird statue of considerably infinite worth, is a fake.  To those who haven’t seen the 1941 version of The Maltese Falcon, I assure you that I haven’t spoiled anything.  The film has become instilled into our cultural conscious that you’ll most likely know the story even if you haven’t seen a frame.  It’s like knowing the truth of Rosebud or the secret behind Darth Vader’s identity.  If you’re in-tune with pop culture–or watched more than five episodes of the “The Simpsons”–you know the story.

The film’s final bit of irony is more than just one final gotcha moment.  (Like all of those meaningless last-second surprises found in the “Saw” series or any of the post-“Six Sense” Shyamalan films).  The film’s last surprise reveals the underlying truth to infinite greed that predicates the many people who pursued the black bird.  Their desperation leads to a web of lies, thievary, and even a few murders.

When the falcon turns out to be fraud, the four leads briefly sink into shock and dismay.   They soon compose themselves; some decide continue the hunt, even if takes another year.  Their greed has no boundaries.  Even as they unwrap the packaging over the falcon forgery, you can see their salivating mouths and their heavy breathing in anticipation.  They can practically taste their riches.  Among them is our hero, Spade.   Before Falcon, a character like Spade would reject his any personal agenda and aim for the noble cause. But Falcon introduced new standard that defined our movie hero.  What would have Spade done if the falcon was real?

Despite being noted as the father of film noir, I’m always surprised by how many of genre’s ingredients are missing from The Maltese Falcon.  It lacks most of the genre’s recognizable trademarks–the scenes of dark shadows are overridden by the sunny San Francisco daylight skies, the claustrophobia and dread are offset by Spade’s confident self-assured resilience, Adoph Deutsch’s musical score is chipper and light, only bearing down the grimness when necessary.   The film’s hero is deep in a web of deception and manipulation.  But Spade seems to be the one dealing the cards, even if he’s not exactly sure who else is playing.  For instance, when Spade first meets the falcon’s most dangerous pursuer, “fatman” Kaspar Gutman (Syndney Greenstreet), the conversation ends with Spade storming out in a tantrum.  Once the door closes, Spade composes himself and smiles as he exits–the outburst was all a deliberate plan to sway his enemies.  He’s almost always ahead of the game.   In many ways, the film doesn’t even feel like a noir, until we look more closely.   

The most obvious influence is the film’s seedy characters and their illnobilities–a noir trademark if there ever was one.  Hence the anti-hero, Sam Space.  Bogart was a supporting player for Warner Brothers, usually cast as the villain who was killed off in the last reel (usually by James Cagney).  Having just hit his 40s, Bogie was already weathered, his speech impeded by a lisp.  Space is rough around the edges, doesn’t subscribe to a noble agenda–save for an unwritten code of honor and a inkling for self preservation.  He doesn’t even carry a gun.  “I never liked them”, he says.

Only film historians will note all of the elements of noir that began with The Maltese Falcon.  Yet, Falcon endures as one of the best, even to less astute film aficionados or if many of the imitators imbued more eye-catching visual elements of  shadows, allure, sexuality and corruption.  Falcon remains supreme because of Bogart.  His Sam Spade is one of the great film icons.  His dialog, supplied and directed by Houston, in his first film, bristles with arsenic and cynicism.  His biting tongue makes for some of the great movie quotes,  including my favorite “When you’re slapped you’ll take it and like it.”

The story of The Maltese Falcon begins without wasting a moment.  Space greets a potential client in his private detective office: a beautiful damsel in distress, Miss Wanderly.  She suspects her sister is held up against her will with a Floyd Thursby somewhere in San Francisco.  She asks Space and his partner, Mile Archer to find her and pushes two hundred dollars on the table.  The two men exchange a knowing glance.  Wanderly’s overly generous suggests that there’s more to the story than she is sharing, but they gladly turn an ignorant eye and take her money anyway.  “We didn’t exactly believe your story, Miss. We believed your 200 dollars,” he later tells her. 

That evening, Archer is shot dead while shadowing Thursby, who, in turn, is also murdered later that same night.  John Huston originally planned to shoot all of Falcon through Sam’s point-of-view.  Archer’s murder was going to be revealed when Sam hears the news over the phone.  But the studio insisted that Huston insert a brief sequence of Archer being shot by a mysterious foe.  Huston would have been right.   Instead, we get the one hokey shot in the film, with Archer keeling over in the good-old-fashion deaths of the period, in which blood and gruesomeness was restricted.  Getting the news of Archer’s death along with Sam would have added an ominous feeling that’s missing.

Houston did manage to pin the rest of the story with Spade, who soon becomes the prime suspect for Thursby’s murder when the police suspect that his death was vengeance for Archer.  The real twist is: Spade never liked Archer.  News of his death doesn’t phase Spade for a second.  The next morning, he even exchanges a passionate kiss with Archer’s mourning widow behind closed doors.  The moment she leaves, Spade commands his secretary to keep her away.  He has no interest in engaging in a serious romance. The man is very cold. 

Our feet are firmly planted along side Spade as he plots his game to unearth the truth to his partner’s murder. Spade’s motives are unclear until the final act as he jettisons from scene to scene wearing different hats and facades.  

As Sam tries to uncover his partner’s murder, he meets with Ms. Wanderly, who is actually named Brigid O’Shaughnessy.  Spade knows there still some truth she hasn’t shared.  He fails to extract the truth out her, but, as are the rules for any femme fatale, she deflects his questioning with her sexuality.  Interestingly, Brigid doesn’t blatantly exude any hint of sensuality.  Spade just falls prey to her with a mere glance.  Does she know this?  Does she actually love him?  Does he actually love her?  By the film’s end, the only truth we do learn is composed to a single moment on Spade’s face that shows regret as the truth finally surfaces.  It’s the one moment of humanity that could, ironically, undo Spade’s own capabiliities as a detective.

The Maltese Falcon is all about the characters, their greed, their lusts and the extent to which they will destroy each other to reach their greedy intentions first.  The protagonists of the films to follow would trail down darker paths, but Falcon was the first to blur the line that separates hero from foe. 

Spade is an adulterer, callous and cold, but still lives by a code of honor.  The more diabolical and evil sins are attached to the supporting cast, including the star-making performances of Peter Lorre (the star of M),  who retreated from Germany during Hitler’s occupation.  There’s also Sydney Greenstreet as the eloquent “fatman” Kasper Gutman, in his first film role.

The last half hour of Falcon acts as a small play, where all the major players are assembled and work out some devious truce in order to procure the falcon.  This single scene is pure joy from end-to-end as each lead gets an opportunity to play their hand.  The levels of distrust nearly boil over as the final moments count down to the falcon’s inevitable arrival.  At one moment, Gutman hints to Spade that Brigid stole $100 out of his share.  Irate, Spade scolds Brigid.  He doesn’t trust her.  But she doesn’t have the money.  It was Gutman who palmed it himself–all for some cheap ploy to exploit the distrust between Sam and Brigid.  Any hope of love between Sam and Brigid is severed by their lies and deception.  It cements the ground rule of the noirs that follow: Never Trust Anyone!  It’s no wonder the falcon was a fake.  The stuff that dreams are made of…

Made in America–Sold in China

If you weren’t among the so-called masses who begged for one more installment to either “Men in Black”, “Pirates of the Caribbean” or even “Ice Age”, then you should look far into the horizon of either the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans.  Across them exists a large audience of film-goers who are asking for films that we Americans did not want–at least not to the same degree.  Although the cries of these foreign audiences are faint to the ears of casual American film consumers, Hollywood has heard their pleas and answered in full.  Despite the diverse landscapes of Africa, Europe, and Asia, Hollywood has spotted pure green.  As a result, a film like “Battleship” was waiving victory flags while it sank at the domestic box office.  Before even one of numerous domestic movie projectors flickered images of Rihanna shooting aliens from a naval vessel, the film had already raked in $200 million dollars.  Liam Neeson was proclaiming victory, albeit in dozens of dubbed languages.     

The top grossing film in the US and in the world has been “The Avengers”, but that is where our commonality ends.  Some of the US’s biggest blunders have gotten a second wind from international dollars, whereas moderate successes here felt the harsh pinch of rejection from Japan, China, Great Britain, and Australia.  Hollywood has joined the many US companies like GM and Walmart that depend on the consumer power of China to keep themselves afloat. 

Hollywood has always had a love affair with the foreign market; today, it accounts for a majority of its business.  To satisfy a multitude of foreign palettes, movies were dubbed, recut, re-scored, rewritten, and repackaged.  Now, American studios are going even further–movies are being tailor-made from the ground up for non-US consumers.  In order for a producer to even dream up a $300 million dollar budget, the film must demonstrate a high potency for international tastes.  For example, to dilute the nationalistic implications of “Captain America” (2011), the movie was retitled to “The First Avenger” in several countries.

Although Americans continue to flock to the movies, many other countries genuinely appreciate our films–including nations long admired for their continued contributions to film art and culture, such as France and Germany.  Jerry Lewis was raking in more dough from the artsy French, who considered him a genius while his homeland branded him a hack.  Now, the universal language in film has become…no language.  Movies that are high in spectacle and low on dialog tend to do very well in foreign markets.  Case in point, “Transformers”.  This year’s “Wrath of the Titans” and “John Carter” were duds, but managed to avoid disaster based on grander ticket sales overseas.  Yes, “John Carter’s” $300 million does not begin to make up for its budget and production costs, but it’s still a far cry from being the worst disaster of all time.    

Foreign box office revenue has been the one saving grace for studios who are used to depending on home video and television rights to save face.  That revenue has dwindled; the system must now rely on the dollars from big screens through inflated IMAX and 3D prices and films that appeal to various cultures and languages.  “Transformers”, which made a killing in the US, captivated foreigners in part for its lack of dialog (or should I say “necessary dialog”).

There are other trends.  In case you wondering why so many older movies are getting 3D upconversions, take note: James Cameron’s re-release of”Titanic” grossed $343 million, most of which came from China.  That trounces the final take of many new releases like “Prometheus” and “Battleship”.  Given the meager $10 million spent to upgrade James Cameron’s 1997 blockbuster, that is one of the best profit margins in the history of cinema.  The  3D re-branding trend has many more years left in it.  Both “Jurassic Park” and “Independence Day” will hit screens next year.  Even if they make a quarter of the “Titanic’s” haul, they will be huge successes.

I have spoken to many folks about the films I love.  Whenever we discuss foreign movies, the first question that usually comes up is whether the film has subtitles.  Before I answer, I know my response will frighten them off–and I’m usually right.  Apparently, the Chinese don’t want to read Cantonese too frequently at the bottom of their screens either.  So, “Glengary Glen Ross” will never be an ideal foreign prospect.  But blowing up robots and bombastic explosions carry a universal language and appeal.  

The irony of the new Hollywood is fascinating.  In the late 1920s when “talkies” became the rage and silent films were on the verge of extinction, the world’s largest star, Charlie Chaplin, was one of the last to transition to the new format, believing that allowing his Tramp character to speak would isolate his universal appeal.  In a way he was right.  If Chaplin lived today, he might be allowed to revert to his old routine.  Except now he would be running from giant robots and aliens instead of irate cops.

Worldwide Box Office as of August 4, 2012  courtesy of Box Office Mojo  Full listing

Rank	Title (click to view)	Studio*	Worldwide	Domestic / %		Overseas / %
1	Marvel’s The Avengers	BV	$1,461.0	$616.4	42.2%	$844.6	57.8%
2	The Hunger Games	LGF	$683.3	$406.3	59.5%	$277.1	40.5%
3	The Amazing Spider-Man	Sony	$660.2	$247.5	37.5%	$412.7	62.5%
4	Ice Age: Continental Drift	Fox	$656.2	$125.9	19.2%	$530.3	80.8%
5	MIB 3	Sony	$619.3	$175.8	28.4%	$443.4	71.6%
6	The Dark Knight Rises	WB	$576.8	$328.6	57.0%	$248.2	43.0%
7	Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted	P/DW	$501.8	$210.3	41.9%	$291.5	58.1%
8	Snow White and the Huntsman	Uni.	$385.8	$153.5	39.8%	$232.3	60.2%
9	The Intouchables (U.S.-only)	Wein.	$360.3	$5.2	1.5%	$355.1	98.5%
10	Titanic 3D	Par.	$343.6	$57.9	16.8%	$285.7	83.2%
11	Journey 2: The Mysterious Island	WB	$325.9	$103.9	31.9%	$222.0	68.1%
12	Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax	Uni.	$324.6	$214.0	65.9%	$110.6	34.1%
13	Brave	BV	$313.2	$221.2	70.6%	$92.0	29.4%
14	Prometheus	Fox	$302.9	$125.7	41.5%	$177.2	58.5%
15	Battleship	Uni.	$302.8	$65.2	21.5%	$237.6	78.5%
16	Wrath of the Titans	WB	$302.0	$83.7	27.7%	$218.3	72.3%
17	John Carter	BV	$282.8	$73.1	25.8%	$209.7	74.2%
18	Ted	Uni.	$246.5	$199.5	80.9%	$47.0	19.1%
19	Dark Shadows	WB	$236.3	$79.5	33.6%	$156.8	66.4%
20	American Reunion	Uni.	$233.6	$56.8	24.3%	$176.8	75.7%

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir Part 1–M (1931)

M is the kind of the film that preys on the fears, dangers and nightmares that continue to haunt today’s climate as strongly as it did in 1931 (although I’d wager it’s even greater)—the fear for our children and the unseen horrors that can easily claim them.   Watching the film recently, I ran through a checklist of modern modifications needed to mold M for modern tastes, and I’ll be damned if I could identify any.  

M is one of the great film noirs—perhaps the first of the sound era.  Even in today’s cinema, it remains a unique entity, full of ideas, suspense and haunting imagery and sounds.  The story: a child murder runs ramped through a German town, killing many prepubescent girls, turning the town into an uproar.  The police are desperate and exhaust all methods to catch the killer, including putting the squeeze on the organized crime syndicate. Soon the suffering crime bosses give up on the notion that the legal system can catch the killer and decide to try to catch him on their own.  Both the cops and criminals strategize in meeting rooms and devise their individual sets of plans to track him down.  There’s something very telling as to which side catches the killer first.   

The child killer, Hans Beckert, is portrayed by Peter Lorre, whose bulging eyes, eerie voice and obsessive whistling branded him both fame and infamy even before he retreated from Nazi Germany to become a famous character actor in America, where he co-starred in the iconic noir The Maltese Falcon and many Hollywood classics including Casablanca and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. 

M’s director is Fritz Lang, who also fled to America and made success in Hollywood where he continued to craft many brilliant noirs for decades.  However, it’s Lang’s early German films that are his most noteworthy.  He directed the first great science fiction epic, Metropolisduring the waning years of the silent era.  M was his first sound film, which Lang embraced, even establishing a few rules to talkie films that continue to this very day.

Although embracing the new recording technologies for M, Lang uses his sound sparingly.  Due to the cumbersome recording equipment, many of the exterior shots remain silent—an effect that gives the film an eerie undercurrent.  Occasionally the silence is broken by sounds of our shadowy villain whistling “In the Hall of the Mountain King”, which the killer repeats to try to suppress his obsession to murder (and commit other unspecified atrocities).  The music gets louder and the killer comes approaches closer—an effect which Spielberg would use in Jaws. 

M’s opening moments show children playing and dancing in the street.  One of the mothers scolds them for making too much noise as she tends to chores.  Her child, Elsie, is returning home from school when the murderer approaches her.  Lang introduces the killer off-screen, the shadow of his profile displays over his own wanted poster.   Without one word, Lang has already indicated who he is. 

He compliments the girl’s toy ball and buys her a balloon.  Within moments, the only sound heard is the mother crying out her tardy child’s name.  Lang shows the little girl’s toy ball rolling to a stop, her balloon tangled in telephone wires.  She is dead. 

When Lang first shows the face of Lorre’s killer, there is no dramatic introductory camera move or music cue, only Lorre staring at his cold, dullard reflection in the mirror as his hands fidget and stretch his cheeks and lips, searching for signs of the monster within. 

Faces play an intricate role in M such as the haunting finale in which the faces of the criminals stare down Lorre’s killer in judgment and contempt.  Their thirst for vengeance mimics Beckert’s own bloody obsession.  

 

The hunt for the killer is dazzling in its attention to detail.  The police and criminals ponder all methods within their power to stop the homicides and Lang blatantly cuts between the two factions to show the striking similarities.  Both factions learn the identity of their target with different tactics, and interestingly, the criminals are one step ahead.  They pursue Beckert, corner him in an office building that’s closed for the evening and literally tear it apart, level after level. 

Lang instills tremendous suspense as the criminals trap their man.  There’s also some surprising manipulation involved.  We’re obviously hoping that the criminals will catch Beckert, but there is the sequence always manages to invoke tension as Beckert becomes cornered and out of options.  Beckert picks at a lock when suddenly the handle turns, the criminals are on the other side, and our hearts race.    

When Beckert’s finally captured, Lang teases with our emotions further.  The criminal organization arranges its own trial, with an assigned defense attorney who is none too thrilled.  Beckert pleads for mercy, exploding in panic and dwindling into a morose, sad confession.  He raises a valid point.  Is the man a monster, or just sick?  Does he deserve to be killed or is he entitled to a fair trial—with the risk that he may survive capital punishment or even be free to kill again one day. 

M’s questions of the legal process remains universal and timely.   But the film works primarily because of its construction, which has only one wasted moment—when the cops interrogate one of the criminals who helped capture Beckert.  The police use manipulation and deception to learn about Beckert, although we already have all the information.  

The film gets under your skin.  Lorre’s Beckert makes for one of the most iconic and horrifying villains in cinema and without displaying any of the grisly and horrible crimes he commits.  The cries of the mothers, the paranoia of the townsfolk and dead, Lorre’s piercing stares invoke the imaginations to spell out nightmares.  The closing shot ends without a final verdict over Beckert’s fate, just two mourning mothers warning us of the perils and the need to watch over our children with better eyes.   She’s as right today as she was 80 years ago. 

Genre-Matters: A Taste of Noir–Introduction

Shadowy figures looming in the dark underbelly of America–a loner hero is stalked by femme fatales, weaselly figureheads, murderous thugs and crooked cops.  Welcome to the world of film noir–otherwise known as “black film”.  It’s a genre without a clear-cut definition, but you always know it when you see it.  It’s more or less a sense of mood that invokes some of the most emotionally arousing moments in cinema history.  There’s mystery, suspense, murder, creepiness, and a pinch of cynicism here and there.  The influence of yesterday’s film noirs continuously creep into the frames of today’s cinema, sometimes when we least expect it.

Also, the film noir is one of the few “genres” (again, if you may call it that) that America can claim.  The earlier European films may have spawned some of its ingredients, but the final concoction was shaped under the very noses of the Hollywood studio system.  Hell, even the French concede that–they’re the ones who coined the term.  There is constant debate over its exact origins, when it was officially “invented”, and even if today’s movies fall under its description. 

Over the next few weeks, I will trace through the history and review many of the films that epitomize the film noir–and some that aren’t as apparent.  For those self-appointed film scholars, you may question my blatant decision to overlook some of the most “important” noirs and raise eyebrows over some of these choices I’ve made.

Among the few films I name, I hope to raise arguments for the genre’s vitality and introduce novice viewers to some of cinema’s true treasures.  I could spend the next three months critiquing many more films at the risk of boring people to tears or beating a dead horse until all that remains are bones.  Therefore, I have disciplined myself to 20 titles based on their relevance to film history, their relationship to other films within the list, or my personal connection and nostalgic love (which really beckoned me to write these in the first place).

Inevitably, my point was to re-watch many films I love dearly.  Many of these films can be found online and my hope is this will arouse interest and give others a chance to relish in some of Hollywood’s finest films ever crafted.  Thanks for reading and good screening to you!

First up…The Noir begins with the letter…”M”

After 50 years, Vertigo Unseats Charles Foster Kane

Illustration by Simon Cooper, Sight & Sound Magazine

These greatest movie lists don’t matter!  They are simply a collective consensus of individual opinions that are prone to change, become easily swayed, and are as biased as a Fox News report on President Obama’s approval rating.  Basic human nature prevents us from being able to objectively measure and compare a large selection of unrelated works of art.  Establishing any kind of hierarchy amounts to nothing.    

OK, so maybe half of that is true.  I’ll admit I’ve been stoked about the new Sight & Sound poll for months; waiting eagerly to see what made the cut.  What does today’s movie-going mentality think about movies compared to …say…the voters from the 1992 poll?  Before I run through the final list, allow me a minute to gloat. 

Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” has been my utmost favorite film since 1996 when I first watched the suspense thriller on VHS, just after it received a massive restoration to celebrate its 40th anniversary.  No film before or since has put me under a deeper spell.  Just recently, I had the chance to catch it again on the big screen.  It lunged deep into my heart and never let go.  It pulled me through an emotional and intellectual smorgasbord.  Even after all these years and countless viewings, it’s still as mesmerizing and as brilliant as ever.  Today I now have a respected consensus of film aficionados to back my claim–at least for the next ten years. 

Imagine my delight when Sight & Sound announced today that it crowned “Vertigo” as the greatest movie ever made.   Starting in 1952, the British magazine began it’s Top 10 tradition.  Every decade the magazine conducts a poll among a large grouping of critics and directors to vote for their favorite films.  The results are displayed in two top ten lists: one for the critics and one for the directors, with the former receiving the greater attention.  For each ten years that pass, the list always changes; certain titles climb or sink in rank, others drop completely and make space for new entries.  The only constant has been the coveted number 1 spot.  For 50 years, “Citizen Kane” has maintained its elite status…until today. 

The British Film Institute’s Sight & Sound’s Top 10 poll is perhaps the most prestigious and respected movie ranking hierarchy.  The selection committee is composed of men and women who are all astute film scholars and fans and have free reign to vote for any film they want.  Perhaps the only organization that could compete is The American Film Institute, which unveiled its own top 100 movies in 1997 and a revised listing in 2007.  The first list ranked “Vertigo” at 61, which really baffled me.  I was especially appalled to see it was surpassed by “West Side Story” and “Midnight Cowboy”.  The AFI’s second list made amends.  In just ten years, the film skyrocketed all the way to number 9.  In 2002, Sight & Sound placed “Vertigo” at number 2, just one notch below Orson Welle’s 1941 impenetrable opus. 

That primary difference between Sight & Sound and the AFI is that the latter assembles many of its voters based on recognition value rather than actual merit.  Both of AFI’s lists were revealed during three-hour television special on CBS, which included interviews with actors and film-makers who were affiliated to the presented films.  There were additional participants, such as the late critic Gene Siskel and then US President, Bill Clinton.  There was the occasional odd choice: Dan Rather (forgivable) and David Copperfield (huh?).  The AFI’s main detriment is it limits its initial selection of films that carry historical significance and/or mass appeal.  Perhaps the most glaring issues was its limitations to American-made movies, meaning Fellini was out and Kevin Costner was in.   

Sight & Sound Magazine reserves its polling strictly to filmmakers and critics.  Their choices have always included a variety of films from different eras and countries–many of which won’t be recognized by the general populous.  Some folks won’t even be able to pronounce the titles.  Yet, nearly every film that makes the cut shares a genuine relevancy and brilliance more potent than, say, “Forrest Gump.”  You might assume that the selection committee is full of snooty, pretentious, high-brow intellectuals until you gaze carefully at the members list and eye names like Quentin Tarantino and George Romero.  You might be equally astonished by some of their personal choices.

So, without further adieu, here are the lists.

The critics top ten:

1) “Vertigo” (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958)
2) “Citizen Kane” (Orson Welles, 1941)
3) “Tokyo Story” (Yasujiro Ozo, 1953)
4) “Rules of the Game” (Jean Renoir, 1939)
5) “Sunrise” (F.W. Murnau, 1927)
6) “2001: A Space Odyssey” (Stanley Kubrick, 1968)
7) “The Searchers” (John Ford, 1956)
8) “Man with a Movie Camera” (Dziga Vertov, 1929)
9) “The Passion of Joan of Arc” (Carl Theodor Dreyer, 1928)
10) “8 1/2” (Federico Fellini, 1963)

The director’s top ten:

1) “Tokyo Story” (Ozu, 1953)
2) “2001: A Space Odyssey” (Kubrick, 1968), “Citizen Kane” (Welles, 1941) [tie]
4) “8 ½” (Fellini, 1963)
5) “Taxi Driver” (Martin Scorsese, 1980)
6) “Apocalypse Now” (Francis Ford Coppola, 1979)
7) “The Godfather” (Coppola, 1972), “Vertigo” (Hitchcock, 1958) [tie]
9) “Mirror” (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1974)
10) “Bicycle Thieves” (Vittorio De Sica, 1948)

My general prognosis:  I’m delighted that “Vertigo” also ranked in the director’s Top Ten.  This just adds more credibility to the critics’ verdict.  In the director’s poll, it ties with “The Godfather”. That’s about perfect–if only it could scoot up a few more spots. 

Good call on “8 1/2”.  I always favored it over Fellini’s generally more popular “La Dolci Vita”. 

Biggest shockers: “Raging Bull”, “Chinatown”, “Jaws”, “The Seventh Seal”, “Dr. Strangelove”, and “The Gold Rush” didn’t crack the top 50.  “Rules of the Game” continues to hold firm in the Top 10 after seven decades, standing tall at Number 4.  The most recent feature was David Lynch’s 2001’s “Mulholland Drive” and it crawled all the way to Number 28!  Will this finally convince Lynch to explain the plot?  “Man With a Movie Camera” was the most surprising induction.  I guess I should to track that one down at this point.   Still no love for Kurosawa in the Top 10–neither “Rashomon” or “Seven Samurai”. 

Unsurprising: The critics committee maintained it’s variety, selecting only one film per director in the Top 10.  The director’s poll did award Coppola twice with “Apocalypse Now” and “The Godfather”, which is usually combined with “Part II”, has finally been separated on this round.

What does this mean?  Time remains the greatest critic of them all.  There will be plenty of discussion surrounding the new rankings and that is the best reason to have these polls.  The Sight & Sound rankings have opened a new conversation about film that will continue for another good decade (when the critics and directors change their minds again).  People will question whether “Kane’s” notoriety has tumbled, “Vertigo’s” reputation has risen–or both.  At the very least, the announcement will rekindle interest in both films, along with 48 others.  Now is as good a time as any for you to start-up your bluray players and streaming services.  A perfectly timed bluray release of “Vertigo” will occur next month, along with 14 other Alfred Hitchcock films.  Wouldn’t you like to own the greatest picture of all time?  I would! 

Personally, I admit that I feel a tingling of both pride and regret.  I suspect some may label me as a conformist whenever I tell folks what my favorite film is.  But I’ve loved “Vertigo” long before the AFI and Sight & Sound sang it praise.  I’m just happy many other folks are starting to get the hint.  Today, my cherished film reaches a new level–a new height.  Ironically, Jimmy Stewart’s acrophobic character would rather be much, much lower. 

Sight & Sounds Top 50