Reviews

  • Trapeze (1956)

    Trapeze (1956)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) There are a few good reasons to have a look at Trapeze, but almost all of them start with the casting: Burt Lancaster as a crippled trapeze artist, Tony Curtis as an up-and-comer seeking guidance, and the deliciously-named Lola Lollobrigida as (obviously) the woman that comes between them. Probably the next-best reason is the trapeze footage, still impressive today due to the impressive physicality of the performers (some of it without stunt doubles), and the apparent danger of some of the acts. Considering that the story is about the pursuit of the elusive and dangerous triple somersault, visual danger appropriately reflects the stakes at play here. Otherwise, much of Trapeze runs along familiar tracks once you exclude the (rather impressive) Parisian circus aspect of the story: a veteran, an up-and-comer and the love triangle that takes place once a woman comes along. Director Carol Reed does his best in the circus ring, with the rest of the film being along more familiar lines. Still, the Lancaster/Curtis pairing is interesting as a preview to their far better-known Sweet Smell of Success, and Lancaster notches another film in a more interesting filmography than you’d expect from a multi-decade leading man.

  • Racetime aka La Course des Tuques (2018)

    Racetime aka La Course des Tuques (2018)

    (In English, On Cable TV, February 2021) Interestingly enough, you can make a case that sequel Racetime is in a better position to impress than its predecessor Snowtime. The earlier film, after all, was an animated remake of an all-time classic of French-Canadian family cinema — expectations about it ran high and were not necessarily fulfilled. Racetime, by striking out on its own with its renewed approach and cast of characters, is a bit freer to make its own mark as something more than a remake. While the result is not all that great, it’s not bad. Taking the fantastic engineering conceit of the series farther and farther, the film boils down to the mechanical achievements that a group of kids must accomplish in order to win a race that will determine the fate of the building they’ve rebuilt to their wishes. Good nerd vs. bad nerd is a big conflict this time around, and the film lets loose during the climactic race sequence that it builds to during the entire running time of the film. Aesthetically, it’s very much of a piece with its predecessor, which will make some viewers happy and others not so much. The morals are obvious, the pacing is a bit slack and the character work is generally unsurprising. I liked the result without being overwhelmed by it: as far as family films go, Racetime is adequate without being particularly good. But at least it’s not hampered by comparisons to a 1980s original.

  • Clash by Night (1952)

    Clash by Night (1952)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) On paper, Clash by Night feels like a must-see film: An intense small-town drama directed by Fritz Lang, featuring a late-career performance from Barbara Stanwyck and one of the first featured turns from Marilyn Monroe? Who can resist that? Alas, the film itself is not quite as gripping. While the drama’s bubbling into melodrama can be momentarily intense, the film feels poorly paced, with numerous lulls, overdone moments and an unsatisfying conclusion. The relatively small stakes (in a small coastal town setting) don’t add much more, and you can almost feel Lang itching to take the film firmly into noir crime thriller territory, while being held back by the material stemming from a realistic Broadway play. In other words, Clash by Night feels far from being even the sum of its parts — not a particular highlight for its time, and a minor entry in everyone’s filmography.

    (Second viewing, On Cable TV, August 2021) It’s not so easy to assess films that competently do something that you just happen to not like very much. So it is that Clash by Night does have a clear intention in mind, as it follows a woman coming back to a small town after years living in the big city. The film is clearly split in two acts, and the melodrama inherent in the premise means that no one will be all that happy with the ending. It’s a story about picking between a dangerous but exciting man and a safe but dull one, set against a small fishing community. As the lead, Barbara Stanwyck here clearly demonstrates why she’s widely considered one of the best actresses of Classical Hollywood, and then there’s a younger Marilyn Monroe doing well in a supporting role. Robert Ryan and Paul Douglas play the poles of masculinity that the lead gravitates to. The small-town atmosphere is effective and clearly weaved into the plotting. Fritz Lang’s direction is straightforward, and perhaps less beholden to the film noir style he was using in other movies at the time. That drama is strong (fittingly for a film adapted from a play) even if it frequently dips into what twenty-first century viewers will see as melodrama with a woman making poor choices and creating all sorts of problems for herself. Of course, that’s the point of the film: the lack of temporal unity is deliberate, as are the theatrical anguish, overdone antagonist and manipulative elements of the conclusion. All of which may explain why I end up appreciative but generally cool to the results – Clash by Night is a fine melodrama with good performances, but I’m having a hard time mustering any enthusiasm about it.

  • Bright Lights (1935)

    Bright Lights (1935)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) I find it comforting that even a few years in my exploration of Hollywood history, I still find out unusually gifted actors worth a look. The big revelation of Bright Lights is Joe E. Brown, a vaudeville comedian who reached the peak of his movie stardom in the mid-1930s. This comedy makes great use of his comedic talents, showcasing him as a small-circuit vaudevillian lured to the big city. His showcase act is a drunken heckler routine alongside his wife and stage partner. Their loving relationship is threatened when he (but not she) is brought to the big city stages and a rich heiress enters the picture. There’s an element of showbiz comedy here, but Wilson’s distinctive style (with his impossibly wide mouth) is better suited to more ridiculous moments, including a chase after a hastily mailed letter that goes from Manhattan to Milwaukee. The heckling routine is repeated three times: once as a small-town showcase, another as a Manhattan sensation and finally as a heartfelt reconciliation. Still, the best reason to watch Bright Lights is not just the very funny material, but Brown himself as a prototypical vaudevillian, instantly distinctive and funny. I’m glad I had a look, if only because Brown has entered my list of actors I should be paying attention to. (Fittingly, nearly everyone remembers one of his last performances, considering that he delivers the punchline of Some Like it Hot: “Well, nobody’s perfect.”)

  • Show Boat (1951)

    Show Boat (1951)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) It’s not unfair to criticize a film for shortcomings external to the film itself. If you accept that a good chunk of criticism is assessing if a film meets its own objectives, it becomes fair game to explore the production history for the film to explain on-screen issues — and assess whether the filmmakers were on an impossible mission. On a surface level, Show Boat feels a lot like the pinnacle of the MGM musical circa 1950. The original Broadway show is reportedly a landmark in American musical history, being the first to combine serious dramatic themes in a musical form until then used for more comic pursuits. The big-budget production re-creates the Mississippi on the MGM backlot, along with a show boat that has little basis in reality. The visual sheen of the production is immensely colourful, with dozens of extras milling through the musical sequences as the film re-creates the lifestyle of a travelling troupe of actors making their way up and down the river. So far so good — I really enjoyed Show Boat when it focused on those elements, and would have given high marks to the film had it stuck to that. But there’s a lot more on Show Boat’s mind than what I’ve described so far — in addition to doomed romance between mismatched partners, it makes quite a bit of a subplot featuring a half-black character passing as white, and the impossibility of any interracial relationship at the time the film is set. Unfortunately, Show Boat self-destructs on that subplot: The half-black character is played by the very white (and not-a-singer) Ava Gardner, and a peek at the production history of the film reveals that no less than the divine Lena Horne was considered then rejected for the role, reportedly because her very blackness went against the Hays Code’s ban on interracial relationship on-screen. This is infuriating enough, but it’s even worse considering that the re-creation of the musical in Till the Clouds Roll By did include Lena Horne in that role. It doesn’t help that much of Show Boat, as presented here, is a bit dull — the comedy of the film quickly disappears, and the more dramatic material seems kneecapped by the film’s own production constraints. The only sequence that I completely enjoyed is the acknowledged highlight of the film — William Warfield’s fantastic take on “Ol’ Man River” — an anthology piece if the film has one. I find it telling that while Show Boat was meant to be MGM’s big musical of 1951 and was initially a solid box-office success, contemporary audiences only have eyes for that other mildly successful MGM musical of 1951: Singin’ in the Rain.

  • The Four Musketeers (1974)

    The Four Musketeers (1974)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) There are informal series of remakes out there that become generational touch points of sorts. Well-known stories are reinterpreted every few years with a new crop of actors, giving us a glimpse at how each era makes its movies. The generational updates to dramas such as Little Women and A Star is Born certainly count, but Alexandre Dumas’ Les Trois Mousquetaires is in a category of its own. As an adventure with strong dramatic content, the Musketeers story can be adapted to a variety of contexts, either as out-and-out action spectacles, as costume dramas, or as classic swashbuckling adventures. Actors as different as Douglas Fairbanks, Gene Kelly and Luke Evans have played in well-known versions of The Three Musketeers, and the 1974 version fits right in the middle of 1970s Hollywood. To be fair, this is the second half of a story begun with 1973’s The Three Musketeers, so the comparisons are not exact — this film covers the second half of the Dumas novel that often gets short thrift in other adaptations. (Something not apparent to viewers is how both movies were originally conceived as one and led to movie contract history — with producers splitting the film in two during production, and getting in such incredible judicial problems regarding the cast and crew contracts that the film led to the imposition of the SAG’s “Salkind Clause” to prevent such shenanigans from happening again.)  Watching The Four Musketeers isn’t as much about the story as it is about how they made mid-budget adventure spectacles in the 1970s — with an all-star cast of actors such as Michael York, Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain, Charlton Heston, Faye Dunaway, Christopher Lee and Raquel Welch (!!!), a director like Richard Lester (who was still a few years away from superstardom as Superman director) and expansive European on-location shooting. Alas, movies from the 1970s also share the putrid cinematography of the time, with flat colours, dull images and perfunctory sets. I’m not interested in whether the entire shoot was done under overcast weather — I’m interested in the results, and they are as gray and featureless as the story should be vivacious and fun. Some biting dialogue and voice-overs make the film almost as interesting as the Dumas original, but the impression left by this film is one of heaviness and gracelessness: the action sequences pale in comparison to other adaptions of the story, and even the star-power can’t quite elevate the material. I may, however, be interested in watching the film again as part of a double feature with the original. While it’s fun to watch a musketeer film that pays attention to the often-neglected second half of the novel, I probably would have had more fun in watching the introduction first. Still, I did like to see that cast with that story, and in this regard The Four Musketeers does achieve its goal of being one more entry in a century-old conversation between Hollywood and Dumas’ novel.

  • Two Rode Together (1961)

    Two Rode Together (1961)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) Considering my lack of affection for westerns and my Canadian citizenship, it’s probably no accident if I don’t have much fascination for director John Ford, nor his seemingly endless list of westerns. But I do like James Stewart, and his starring role in Two Rode Together was worth a look. The story is immediately reminiscent of the much superior The Searchers, as the protagonist goes looking for settlers “kidnapped” by Native Americans. Of course, there’s little heroism here, as the revisionist westerns take hold over a new decade (after Hollywood’s severe overdose of westerns in the 1950s) and Stewart seems only too happy to keep going in the same misanthropic streak he enjoyed in the films he shot with Anthony Mann. His mercenary lawman isn’t admirable, although he does get the girl (against all odds) and the happy-ish ending. I didn’t like much of Two Rode Together: the script is an ambitious mess going in far too many directions than strictly necessary, and the film (despite being shot in colour) is a somewhat downbeat carnival of dashed expectations and overturned presumptions. Whatever humour remains seems curiously glum or immediately dashed by far more sombre material. Even the relatively complex treatment of its Native American character seems hampered by the director’s old-fashioned shooting techniques. While Two Rode Together is worth a look if you’re interested in Stewart’s western oeuvre, or Ford’s touch on material he didn’t believe in (he famously directed the film for money and a personal favour, believing that the material strayed too close to The Searchers). The best scene, amazingly enough, is just Stewart and Richard Widmark chatting away about various things while the camera remains locked on them — it does suggest a far more avant-garde western made entirely of casual conversations and static camera shots à la early Kevin Smith. But not really. Two Rode Together ends up being an unwieldy collection of elements that don’t necessarily fit together, indifferently directed albeit with capable actors and the saving grace of a half-optimistic ending. That’s not much, though… even for Stewart fans.

  • Mouchette (1967)

    Mouchette (1967)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) As much as there are directors out there with whom I seem to share a considerable amount of affection even for their most ordinary movies, the converse is true and I suspect that Robert Bresson is one of those. With Mouchette, I’m one-for-three for his movies, except that the lone film I like from him (Un Condamné à mort s’est échappé) I liked despite Bresson’s usual minimalist style and because it wasn’t as intensely depressing as his other two. Mouchette combines my profound opposition to Bresson’s style with a just as exceptional distaste for stories of continuous suffering. Here, Nadine Nortier plays the title role, a young girl whose entire lot in life seems to be suffering at the hands of others: overworked and underappreciated at home, bullied at school, dismissed by fellow villagers, raped by an alcoholic and orphaned, her life just keeps getting worse and worse every single minute of the film, and the ending is no exception. Bresson being Bresson, this horrid tale takes place in minimalist black-and-white cinematography, with emotionally muted performances by non-actors and low-end production values. Mouchette isn’t any fun to watch by any stretch of the imagination, and quickly grows exasperating if you care too much about it. Alas, it looks as if Bresson is well regarded and directed a number of titles on the various must-see lists I’m using as a guide to cinema I don’t like. I’m not looking forward to his next films.

  • My Reputation (1946)

    My Reputation (1946)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) Barbara Stanwyck’s chameleonic persona as an actress meant that she could play in anything from drama to comedy and elevate the level of the production almost singlehandedly. In My Reputation, she leans almost exclusively on the dramatic side, as she plays a WW2 widow who comes to love another man, much to everyone’s dismay and disapproval. This being a wartime picture, the second man is a soldier, and the ending stops short of providing immediate gratification to anyone. The film itself is rather ordinary — not bad in its depiction of a long-married woman trying to find a life for herself, and not bad either at tackling the complications of a widow getting back in a relationship relatively soon after the death of her husband. There’s some diffuse criticism of the way she gets treated (married men make passes at her; married women don’t know what to do with her while disapproving anyway) but it’s Stanwyck who proves to be the film’s single best asset, anchoring the heavy-handed drama with her skills as a versatile actress. There isn’t much to be said about My Reputation’s utilitarian approach to sets, cinematography or direction — it keeps the romantic potboiler warm enough to make audiences satisfied and nothing more. As I said: forgettable without Stanwyck.

  • Page Miss Glory (1935)

    Page Miss Glory (1935)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) While I like 1930s comedies a lot more than you’d think, an issue I’m noticing from those films is that they are frequently featureless from an audiovisual perspective compared to later movies. This is not a criticism — more an acknowledgement that technical means being limited at that time, 1930s films work within a narrow range of audiovisual constraints, something that can be further throttled by films that have not been (or cannot be) restored. It’s almost all black and while, or rather shades of gray with very little dynamic range. The audio is usually scratchy, with very little range between the highs and the lows. Soundtracks are usually made of classical music pieces with few variations. The result, unfortunately, means that movies of that era will not catch your eyes and ears as well as later films — if you happen to be distracted, the film will not draw you back in through an arresting colour scheme, flashing lights, loud noises, catchy songs or any of the techniques that decades of filmmaking have perfected. I’m bringing this up regarding Page Miss Glory not only as an example of a widespread issue, but also to explain why, despite a promising plot in which a made-up star has to be played by a real person, the film had a really hard time keeping my attention. There’s no real reason, from a script-centric point of view, why it should be so: the story itself still has some originality, the stars are fine (including Marion Davies, Pat O’Brien and Dick Powell), director Mervyn LeRoy’s work is adequate for the time… but the film itself seems to flitter away at the slightest distraction. I could, I suppose, watch Page Miss Glory again under the strictest constraints to give it my full attention. Or I could just complain about its relative flatness.

  • Wasted! The Story of Food Waste (2017)

    Wasted! The Story of Food Waste (2017)

    (On TV, February 2021) It’s difficult not to feel pangs of waste of an entirely unintended sort when watching Wasted! The Story of Food Waste, as the late great Anthony Bourdain (who committed suicide in 2018) begins the film by wondering if we even deserve to live and concludes it on a spectacularly dark comic riff on how a film built to his specifications would have viewers kill themselves. Ouch. Still, there’s a great documentary beyond those unfortunate allusions, as directors Anna Chai and Nari Kye explore the roots and solutions to the problem of food waste. The statistics are horrifying (a full third of all food produced is never eaten), and they’re not solely made of people throwing away what’s rotten in the fridge: Whether we’re talking about farms throwing away most of what they grow, of a production chain discarding useful by-products, of supermarkets overstocking and then throwing away unsold food or, indeed, of household food waste, Wasted! examines the problem at all levels, and also offers a number of solutions, both systemic and personal. Celebrity chefs make up a good chunk of the talking heads featured in the film — as they repeat, chefs are trained to waste as little as possible, and they know what’s delicious to eat and what’s not. As someone who gardens, owns and fills up a full-sized composter, I hardly need to be told about the personal aspect of avoiding food waste. But the film does treat it as a systemic problem first, and the solutions (in order: Feed People; Feed livestock; use as fuel; compost; never to landfill) are used to structure the film itself. Peppered with Bourdain’s typically likable narration, the film takes us around the world in search of solutions and ideas. Wasted! The Story of Food Waste is a good overview to an underreported (but immediately relatable) problem, and it’s frequently an eye-opener. If nothing else, I’ll try to feed my composter less often from my kitchen.

  • A Man Called Adam (1966)

    A Man Called Adam (1966)

    (On Cable TV, February 2021) I started watching A Man Called Adam with the intention of paying tribute to Cicely Tyson—who had died a few days before—but was quickly hooked by Sammy Davis Jr.’s performance as a difficult jazz musician having trouble keeping his life together. Tyson is very good in a role that anticipates a later generation of black actresses, but Davis is incandescent in a dramatic role far removed from his comedic fare. The film obviously aims to portray a realistic slice of life for black jazzmen in the 1960s, and the somewhat disappointing production values (4:3 ratio, fuzzy black-and-white visuals, unpolished direction from Leo Penn) add to the cinema-vérité atmosphere of the result. A Man Called Adam takes on explicitly racial themes (anticipating some of the most celebrated mainstream movies of the next few years) and makes them an integral part of a jazz movie. The musical aspect of the film can’t be sufficiently praised, with performances by a few musical legends (Louis Armstrong, Mel Tormé, Frank Sinatra Jr.) along with seasoned actors such as Ossie Davis and Ja’net DuBois. The film doesn’t shy away from the racism experienced by its protagonists, especially when it comes to policemen and club owners as they tour the south. But the protagonist doesn’t take it lying down, which eventually counts as a fatal flaw leading to an ending that feels inevitable. A Man Called Adam is not always easy to watch — the protagonist is remarkably self-destructive in the “tortured artist” mould (along with a Defining Trauma that seems almost too convenient) and viewers will echo the supporting characters who often just have enough of the protagonist’s nonsense. The film itself is uneven: despite being progressive in the ways it openly discusses racism, the stop-and-start rhythm of the film is not helped along by the pauses required by the (great) musical performances, or the quasi-caricatures often featured. Still, I’m happy to have watched it — A Man Called Adam is more memorable than many other films of its time, and I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for Davis, along with an impressive turn from Tyson.

  • Lover Come Back (1961)

    Lover Come Back (1961)

    (On Cable TV, January 2021) For such an iconic screen couple, it’s interesting to realize that Doris Day and Rock Hudson only played in three movies together. As luck and DVR scheduling would have it, I ended up seeing all three in a matter of months, with Lover Come Back being the middle instalment sandwiched between Pillow Talk (1959) and Send Me No Flower (1964). All three films feature Tony Randall in a supporting role, mismatched personalities and plenty of lies, deceptions and dirty tricks to keep things interesting until the big romantic finale. In Lover Come Back, we see both of them as competing advertising executives—she’s a workhorse, whereas he’s a showman with dodgy morals. When the conflict between them escalates, he dons a beard and glasses and (of course!) passes himself as someone else, a member of an illustrious family whose achievements grow ever more numerous and outlandish the longer he talks. It’s really not meant to be serious at all—it’s absurd, funny and naughty in the way the most progressive comedies of the early 1960s could be (which is to say rather charmingly coy by today’s standards). There are plenty of good jokes and funny moments, most notably in seeing Hudson and Randall go to Canada to face off with a moose and grow big beards. You can have objections to how Hudson deceives his way into a romantic relationship but (deep breath) those were the things that were funny at the time—but don’t spend too much time on the rather offensive ending, which should have been rewritten on the spot. Despite this noticeable problem offered as part of a conclusion, Lover Come Back is still fun, especially when it goes on a satirical riff about the advertising industry or goes through the execution of its carefully crafted comic set pieces. I still prefer Pillow Talk, but Lover Come Back has its moments—as long as you don’t think too much about its other moments.

  • When a Stranger Calls (1979)

    When a Stranger Calls (1979)

    (On Cable TV, January 2021) I couldn’t help myself from pointing at the screen with a grin and going yeaaah as When a Stranger Calls, twenty minutes in, drops its iconic line: “We’ve traced the call… it’s coming from inside the house.”  That’s pretty much everything anyone remembers about the film, and yet there’s still more than an hour to go. Unsurprisingly, the rest of it doesn’t match the merciless terror of those first twenty minutes, as a gratuitously psychotic murderer kills kids and terrorizes their babysitter. What happens after the iconic line isn’t as well remembered: even the 2006 remake dispensed with it, choosing instead to expand the initial 20 minutes to feature length. But as the story picks up seven years later, our escaped psycho is at it again, going back to terrorize the same babysitter… after some more mayhem along the way. But no one would blame you for stopping watching after the classic opening segment—the rest of When a Stranger Calls is far more routine, although Carol Kane does well as a terrorized grown-up, and Charles Durning is intense as a former policeman who has sworn to stop the psychopath. Otherwise, the film is very much in tone with other late-1970s horror films living in the shadow of New Hollywood—it’s dark, grimy and ugly, filled with period fashion and perhaps a bit more respectable for assuming its nature rather than trying to be an overly glossy take on the material. Perhaps the best thing about When a Stranger Calls for modern audiences is how, after the famous line is uttered and the opening act tumbles to a violent climax, we’re completely in the dark as to what will happen next.

  • Small Town Girl (1953)

    Small Town Girl (1953)

    (On Cable TV, January 2021) The best movie musicals of the 1950s manage to combine an interesting premise with great individual set-pieces, and while Small Town Girl isn’t much more than a second-tier MGM musical, you can clearly see how one feeds into the other to create something remarkably entertaining. Of course, I’m twice-biased in saying so: Ann Miller is one of my favourite stars of that period, and the film provides her with both a meaty role as a romantic antagonist and a pair of good dance numbers. Furthermore, I’ve been curious about the “Take Me to Broadway” hopping dance that opens That’s Entertainment II for a while, and this is the film it comes from. The premise is not that bad, especially when measured against so many of the Broadway musicals of the time: Here, a rich young man eloping with his fiancée (Miller) is caught speeding through a small town, and the local judge orders him to remain detained in the town jail for thirty days. Attempts to lighten the sentence are (relatively) successful, and so from his vantage point on the main square, he becomes part of the town’s day-to-day life to the point of falling for the judge’s daughter and having serious second thoughts about his fiancée. (Which is just as well, since she’s a shallow fortune chaser who starts making plans with another man while he’s inside. Just so there’s not discomfort with the plot.)  There are other attractions as well — Bobby Van is magnificent in the exhausting “Street Dance” in which he hops around town, S. Z. Sakall turns in a great supporting role, and an uncredited Busby Berkeley provides choreography. Small Town Girl is not meant to be particularly deep or spectacular—this was clearly a B-grade effort for MGM—but it works more often than not, and offers further proof that in its heyday, the movie musical could be perfectly entertaining even when it wasn’t at its best.