Only now does it occur to me... FEDORA (1978)

Only now does it occur to me... that Billy Wilder, in his 1978 film FEDORA, simultaneously peels back the veneer on the more ghoulish aspects Old Hollywood and sends a nostalgic love letter to the studio system. Suffice it to say, there's a lot going on in this film, but I'll make it quick.

In a story told largely in flashback, William Holden plays a washed-up, elderly Hollywood producer named "Detweiler" (which sounds a lot like "Wilder" in passing conversation)

who travels to Greece in hopes of turning up "Fedora" (Marthe Keller), a reclusive Garbo-esque screen icon who resides on an island villa, along with her sleazy plastic surgeon (José Ferrer), a macabre Polish Countess (Hildegard Knef), and her bizarre housekeeper (Frances Sternhagen). Fedora has been in a state of seclusion since a nervous breakdown on her last film shoot (after a short-lived love affair with Michael York––played with good humor by Michael York).

There is more to "Fedora" herself than meets the eye, and it soon becomes apparent that she is probably being held prisoner by this menagerie of knockoff CLUE characters.

Aha! It was... the Housekeeper in the Bedroom with the Hidden Wall of Michael York Photos!

Without revealing the main payoff (which comes about an hour earlier than it should), I'll say that FEDORA often feels like a watered-down, latter-day Hitchcock/early De Palma flick, and its primary motivation seems to be a postmodern critique of Hollywood through a postmodern distortion of Billy Wilder's own SUNSET BOULEVARD. All of this is relatively interesting.

I wouldn't call it a failure by any means, but I also wouldn't say that it's particularly enjoyable. Perhaps it's only overdue for a campier remake by John Waters.

With Kathleen Turner as the Countess?

Anyway, the entire basis of this post is a hilarious moment where William Holden's character is lamenting the end of the studio system, by (playfully?) attacking the rising generation of young American filmmakers, the so-called '70s "movie brats," as the reason why he can't make movies anymore. He says,
 
"It's a whole different business now––the kids with beards have taken over! They don't need scripts! Just give 'em a handheld camera with a zoom lens!"

By "the kids with beards," he is surely referring to Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, Brian De Palma, George Lucas, et al., and while it's not a particularly vicious critique, it's interesting to see a contemporary (and possibly facetious) reaction from Wilder to a Hollywood he barely recognizes.

Only now does it occur to me... 12 ANGRY MEN!

Only now does it occur to me... exactly how goddamned unsanitary nondisposable bathroom towels used to be! Seriously, though. I love 12 ANGRY MEN, but only upon the latest viewing did I comprehend the full ramifications of the following:

Jack Warden combs his greasy head, then proceeds to wipe the comb on the communal towel:



Henry Fonda dives in right after him like Pete Rose, smothering his face in the exact greasy spot,


then nonchalantly drying his hands as if it's the most natural thing in the world.


And maybe it is. Maybe the mollycoddlin' 21st Century has made a pantywaist germaphobe out of me, and for that I am truly ashamed.

But really, though. Communal bathroom towel? Communal sweat, grease, fluid, urine, excrement, what-have-you? I tell you, those men had reason to be angry.

All joking aside– if you haven't already, see this movie, go do it now. It may very well possess some of the finest blocking ever arranged in a constricted space and some of the more volatile (and sweaty) performances in filmdom. Pass the paper towels!

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #95-#91

95. ONLY ANGELS HAVE WINGS (1938, Howard Hawks)

I'm not sure anyone has ever matched the skill with which Hawks integrated exposition, character development, and sheer entertainment. He makes it look so damned easy, too. He often sets up a situation where men are doing a serious job, a dangerous job, and then events simply unfold. As they unfold, we learn everything we need to know about the characters because we've been there with them, in the trenches, seeing how far they can be pushed, and how hard they can push back. You don't feel as if you're watching something contrived by sheltered Hollywood-types, because it's not– he's incorporating details, the way his men act under pressure, the way he directs a picture, even, from his real-life experiences as an aviator, a race-car driver, an army man, and a factory worker. This is the sort of film to which I give my highest recommendation; I don't even think I have to tell you about the plot. Just another one of his immaculately constructed tales of men's men and ladies who pull no punches. Did I mention that Hawks' middle name was WINCHESTER?

94. MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW (1937, Leo McCarey)

"It would make a stone cry."

–Orson Welles.

Sweet God in heaven, I'm not sure that any movie has ever jerked as many tears from its audiences, per capita, as MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW. Leo McCarey, who won a Best Director Oscar the same year for the well-made, but far lesser film THE AWFUL TRUTH, said in his acceptance speech: "Thanks, but you gave it to me for the wrong picture." It'd be a difficult movie for audiences to 'enjoy' in any time or place because it asks difficult questions about the relationship between parents and their children; how we care for them, how they cared for us, and what fate is to be earned for all "as the long day wanes." Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi play the elderly couple at hand, delivering a couple of the most purely, emotionally reactive performances in the history of the medium. The clock ticks, the children wait, and the old couple relive youthful memories, a moment of respite before moving on. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it better than I ever could: "We never do anything consciously for the last time without sadness of heart..." And so I join the ranks of viewers who find themselves grasping for the telephone as the final reel ends, calling up loved ones, contemplating these fleeting moments, and hoping for the chance to have more of them.

93. ROSEMARY'S BABY (1968, Roman Polanski)

From producer William Castle– yeah, you heard me right!– comes one of the finest horror films of the 1960's, or of any other era. Castle recognized his dramatic limitations (handing the reins ultimately to master of claustrophobic/metropolitan/conspiracy-horror, Roman Polanski), but he does show up for a brief, wordless, yet somehow amazingly hammy cameo during the phone booth scene. Regardless, this is really Polanski's film, and he spins the tale with paranoid gusto and eye-popping imagery; swirling, hallucinogenic dream sequences and off-kilter quotidian happenings. It's a hotbed of primal fears and existential dread: Polanski has got his finger on just the right nerve, and he plucks and twangs it unceasingly– rape, domestic terrors, body horror, the things we try to hide, the things we don't understand, our fear of doctors and the elderly and babies and enclosed spaces and antiquarian objects and of failure and of seeming crazy and of going crazy; and it all begins to collapse upon you like a black hole and a cry unto the pit– SWEET GOD, WHAT A MOVIE!!!

Also, Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer are just about the most adorably frightening and frighteningly adorable elderly actors I've ever seen (not to be confused with the elderly actors from #94!). And I have to say that John Cassavetes' "I didn't want to miss baby night" has got to rank as the most hilariously inappropriate excuse ever uttered, on or off a camera. (You'll know what I mean if you've seen the film– yikes!)

92. FAIL-SAFE (1964, Sidney Lumet)

It's difficult to incorporate methodical, systematically structured storytelling with genuine emotional stakes, but goddamn, does Lumet pull it together, and with the fate of the human race in the balance, no less! Most prefer DR. STRANGELOVE, which is sort of a loose, parodic retelling, but for my money, FAIL-SAFE's the stronger film. Some have said that STRANGELOVE's satire cuts to the bone, but I say FAIL-SAFE cuts to the bone, then fractures the bone, and then looks down at the bone, somberly, as tears well up in FAIL-SAFE's eyes. FAIL-SAFE then clenches its jaw; anguished, but with an abundance of dignity. As a side note, by and large, though your average fictional president is more appealing than your average actual president, I have to say that Henry Fonda's portrayal in this film goes beyond that– he is so sincere, so thoughtful, so determined, so damned invested, that you wish he really was the president. Also: Dom DeLuise in a serious role– chew on that for a little while.

91. BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA (1986, John Carpenter)

"Have you paid your dues, Jack– yessir, the check is in the mail." I've written a few observations about BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA before, saying "it's about the exhilaration of being ALIVE in a world of unfathomable mystery," and, of Kurt Russell's performance, "he's a runaway train of swagger, guts, and bluster...I never tire of his maniacally youthful cackle, or his proclivity toward moaning 'Awwwwww, CHRIST!'" In short, it's one hell of a time, written, directed, and performed by artists and craftsmen who are having one hell of a time. But it's no mindless shoot-em-up: it's a Hawksian ode to the bonds of friendship, the measure of character, and those ecstatic moments of temerarious action, where, against all better judgment, you feel damn near invulnerable. (Also, you just drank from the six-demon bag.) And, while we're at it, how 'bout that kickin' song over the end credits?


Coming up next...
George Romero's favorite movie, a legendary documentary, and... a movie with a lesser Baldwin!

Film Review: MADIGAN (1968, Don Siegel)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Running Time: 101 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Richard Widmark, Henry Fonda, Harry Guardino, Inger Stevens, James Whitmore.
Tag-lines: "If Detective Madigan kept his eyes on the killer instead of the broad..."
Best one-liner: "MAADIGAN!"

MADIGAN. What a great title. What a great name. What a great word to roar to the heavens in frustration- "MAAADIGAN!!" But on to the film: Don Siegel pulls no punches. He doesn't even know what that means. Probably thinks it means “punch harder.” That being said, MADIGAN is a fairly low-key movie. It's a movie of contrasts- public and private lives; jobs behind desks and on the mean streets; working class joes and upper-crust snobs; roughing a guy up in an alley and attending a gala in a tux.

Richard Widmark (PICKUP ON SOUTH STREET) and Harry Guardino (DIRTY HARRY), two tough cops who tackle moral quandaries with a sort of mean desperation written on their fists, represent the more sordid side of the coin. On the spick-and-span side is commissioner Henry Fonda, who tackles similar quandaries, only with his law books and cerebrum.

But despite all of these juxtapositions, not a moment in the film can be viewed in black-and-white terms. Siegel's not afraid to present our heroes threatening an old lady by nearly crushing her with a desk (see also: THE KILLERS), show a progressively diverse police force, or depict the complexities of infidelity and race relations. And he's not afraid to stage an ending that'll rip the guts out of you. (One can see his uncompromising legacy in the muted Euro-noir of Jean Pierre Melville and the brutally contemplative Yakuza flicks of Takeshi Kitano.) Widmark's up to his slimily endearing old tricks, punching out a guy in a bar and telling him to "sit down and drink your milk," bein' an all-around smooth operator, and doing a bit of the elderly-terrorizing I referred to earlier (perhaps in a nod to his notorious 'wheelchair down the stairs' scene in KISS OF DEATH?).

My only complaint is the nauseatingly cheerful score by Don Costa (who is NO Lalo Schifrin). Overall, MADIGAN's not for everyone: if you want nonstop slam-bang-pop, you came to the wrong place. But for those in need of a thoughtful policier, look no further.

-Sean Gill