I’ve been asked to contribute “capsule” movie reviews for an upcoming book. I figured I’d post them here for feedback and discussion before I submit them.
I have not yet gotten a handle on the spoiler threshold for these mini-reviews, so I’ll err on the side of caution and blank them out for now.
The first one is Richardson’s Mademoiselle from 1966, screenply by Marguerite Duras (!) from a story by Jean Genet (!), and starring Jeanne Moreau.
Mademoiselle, 1966, directed by Tony “Natasha’s Dad” Richardson from a Jean Genet story adapted for the screen by Marguerite Duras and starring the oddly young Jeanne Moreau, is a kind of proto-Verhoeven film that seems to be about the dangers of sexual repression. At least at first. But the quiet madness of the demure schoolmistress, a passionless sadism that brought to mind Mark Twain’s darkest work “The Mysterious Stranger,” is ultimately unleashed by the fulfillment of her desires rather than inflamed by their frustration. A powerful melodrama about the power of female sexuality—Mademoiselle (Moreau) is explicitly labeled a goddess at one point–Mademoiselle wears its Freud on its sleeve: when Mademoiselle’s passions bursts the dam, they burst the dam*. And the snake means exactly what you think it means.
Style choice; nothing is as nebulous as the comma in modern English usage—with the possible exception of the em dash. Comma’s not critical there, and I prefer the flow without it.
liss, admirer of your admiration, and (also) professional editor.
Hmm. Pedantic. Would it be less so if I explained the parallel? or is it the “proto”? I’m going to be writing the Verhoeven capsules too, so ideally they’d just leaf over to that section, but . . . hmm.
I’m not familiar with Verhoeven, so an off-the-cuff reference like that just makes me feel a little stupid. Which is completely justified in most cases, y’unnerstand! Though if there were a Verhoeven section, as you say, I would certainly turn to it and check out what you meant/what I am missing.
The first time I saw this movie reminded me of my first time seeing The Passion of Joan of Arc, or Solyaris: like I had found something I had lost. Ugetsu is the story of two couples in 16th century Japan (a brother and sister and their respective spouses) and the misadventures that befall them when they set out from their village to sell pottery in the city. A hauntingly beautiful meditation on the private but universal struggle between love and greed, Ugetsu, which translates (it says here) as “Tales of a Pale and Mysterious Moon After the Rain,” feels exactly like you’d expect film with that title to feel: it has the visual texture and depth of Dreyer’s greatest films and the comfortable sadness of Ozu’s masterpieces. Truly one of the most rewarding moviegoing experiences of my life.
This is an odd but thoroughly enjoyable little film, at the same time a kind of return to the silly Japanese giant-monster flicks of our badly dubbed childhood and an utterly original work. Michael Moriarty, in perhaps one of the most quirkily impressive performances ever captured on film (let me put it this way: he handily steals the film from the eponymous flying lizard) is Jimmy Quinn, a total loser who seems aggressively bent on screwing up anything decent that ever comes his way. Until one day, the hapless Jimmy finds a way to extort a little glory, and a lot of money, from the most outrageous bit of luck imaginable. Only Larry Cohen (It’s Alive I, II, and III, and screenwriter of Abel Ferrara’s brilliant retake of Body Snatchers and 2002’s dismal Phone Booth) could convince you this easily that, sure, a small-time hood fleeing a botched jewel heist might very well stumble across a leathery egg the size of a VW in a nest at the top of the Chrysler building. What follows is, thanks to Moriarty and a committed (if amateurish) cast that includes Candy Clark and David Carradine, more a character study than a monster flick, and well worth the suspension of disbelief you’ll need to muster for the ride.
Though rife with anachronisms (they’re kind of a leitmotif), this film is very dated: it could only be from the end of the sixties. Greaser’s Palace stars Allan Arbus (of TV’s* MASH) as the Zoot-suited Jessy, who drops out of the sky—with a modern parachute—into the Old West. A series of perplexing but hilarious non sequiturs reveals that he is trying to find his way to Jerusalem to be a “singer/actor”; that he (rather perfunctorily) heals the sick and raises the dead; that he dances better on the surface of a lake than on a stage; and that bleeding from the palms of his hands is his likeliest ticket to fame. The dusty little town is run by the publicly constipated and inexplicably named Seaweedhead Greaser (the local saloon is the eponymous Palace), who keeps his loving mother in a cage; kills his son Lamy Homo again every time Jessy resurrects him; and is inordinately proud of his daughter Cholera, who really packs ‘em in at the Palace. Not to mention the subplot of a woman, who seems to represent the whole of humanity in the film’s odd cosmography, having a VERY BAD DAY at the distant hands (they never share the frame) of a white-bearded old man who can shoot real bullets with an imaginary gun. Confusion reigns, but it’s a hoot nonetheless. Oh, plus there’s Toni Basil riding a horse topless.
In Billy (Some Like It Hot, Sunset Boulevard) Wilder’s darkest film, Kirk Douglas gives one of the best performances of his career as cynical newspaperman Chuck Tatum. Chuck’s down on his luck: in one of the best entrances since Rita Hayworth’s in Gilda, Tatum arrives in a small Arizona town riding in his towed, broke-down convertible. He fast-talks his way into a temporary job on the local paper—just until a story comes along that’s big enough to carry him back to the big time. Cut to a year later, and Chuck’s still stuck in Podunk. And then, out to cover a trivial local story, he stumbles upon a goldmine (almost literally: the title is a cynical reference to a man trapped underground by a mine collapse). The film darkens as Tatum’s desperation—he’s tied his entire future to this story—leads him to manipulate events and, ultimately, endanger the other participants. Jan Sterling lends the film a decided Noir tone as Lorraine Minosa, the local married woman who hitches her fortunes to Tatum’s. (Ace in the Hole was such a boxoffice bomb—Wilder’s first—that the studio almost immediately retitled it The Big Carnival, a reference to the media circus that swirls up under Tatum’s orchestration.
Most stories about the misery of a life of fame and fortune are a pain in the ass, but The Barefoot Contessa is different. Writer-director Mankiewicz populates this Cinderella tragedy with his usual almost-too-sparkling dialogue and stylized performances, but as in his better-known All About Eve, these characters breathe real air and cry real tears. The story is told in flashback, narrated round-robin fashion by the men in her life, gathered now at her rainy graveside. That this will not be your everyday rags-to-riches tale is made clear when we first meet Maria Vargas (Ava Gardner): as she’s recruited for Hollywood by Harry Dawes (Humphrey Bogart) and Oscar Muldoon (Edmond O’Brien, in an Oscar-winning role), they offer to bring her mother along—“Every girl needs her mother.” With her response, “I don’t like my mother,” Maria gains the upper hand, and never quite loses it. Professionally, that is; in no time flat she’s the most beloved movie star in the world. At home, however, she soon learns that fame and fortune are fine and all, but real love would be better. A decent drama that never quite crosses the line to melodrama (even the colors are richly muted) with excellent performances all around.
I have a last few reviews to write for this project, and will post them here before I submit them to the editor. Again, feedback is appreciated.
The Naked Spur
dir: Anthony Mann
James Stewart
Janet Leigh
Ralph Meeker
1953
The Naked Spur is a Western in setting and in context–the verdant, rolling landscape of Colorado gives a performance that almost overshadows the work of the human actors–but not in spirit. It’s Greek drama; it’s Shakespeare. It’s a tale of backstabbing greed, with a MacGuffin that won’t shut up. Robert Ryan is Ben Vandergroat, a bad actor worth $5,000 dead or alive. James Stewart is Howard Kemp, the Tortured Man with a Past, who needs that money to buy back his old ranch and staunch (he thinks) an old wound. Kemp meets up with a failed prospector (Millard Mitchell) and a shady soldier (Ralph Meeker, at his snaky, silky best), who help him capture Vandergroat, along with his hellcat travel companion and frontier masseuse (Janet Leigh). What follows is a peripatic chess game of manipulation and deceit, with Vandergroat, the rope-bound frontier Iago (placed atop a burro with the other provisions, lest we forget that he’s just a package to be redeemed for cash) making the most trouble with no weapon but a sly wink and and a mean whisper. The Naked Spur is one of the great “anti-Westerns.” None of these people is innocent, and the inevitable redemption is hard won and well earned.
The Passion of Joan of Arc
dir: Carl Theodor Dreyer
Maria Falconetti
Eugene Silvain
André Berley
Maurice Schutz
Antonin Artaud
1927
Any review of Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc is doomed to leaden, tongue-tied failure. The unbroken string of superlatives that might come close to describing this cinematic achievement would have to transcend language, the way this film transcends the two-dimensional, monochromatic rectangle of the silent movie screen.
There are many serious filmlovers who would not argue with the following statement: The Passion of Joan of Arc is perhaps the greatest single work of cinema ever made. (Personally, I think it’s one of the greatest works of art of the twentieth century, in any medium.) Falconetti’s performance (her only performance captured on film) achieves a kind of fifth dimension of pure emotional communication.
Dreyer lets most of the story of Joan’s trial and execution play out in Falconetti’s eyes and on the planes of her face, which echo the vaguely Escherian planes and shadows of the set’s walls and windows. His edits and angles are illogical and disorienting, and impart an empathetic pull on us and serve to amplify the emotional authenticity of Falconetti’s performance. Dreyer’s orchestration of the film’s two dischordant trajectories–as the world descends into madness around her, Joan approaches spiritual fulfillment and ascends closer to her god–create a mounting power that is, at its climax, nearly overwhelming.
The experience of watching The Passion of Joan of Arc is an experience that will stay with you forever.
Good point, Eve; I’ll fiddle with that bit to see if I can express more clearly what I meant to express, which was not of course to dismiss all other silents.
I’ve seen that too, on imdb, but it’s pretty much gospel that Passion was Falconetti’s only role; this is mentioned in pretty much everything I’ve ever seen written about it. I suspect that the earlier film was perhaps mentioned in some early account, but not really seen by anyone. In any case, I’m not sure if I want to, on the strength of one source, be the ONLY reviewer ever to credit Falconetti with another film.
Though if there were a Verhoeven section, as you say, I would certainly turn to it and check out what you meant/what I am missing.