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Reviews
Rocky (1976)
Stallone's Rocky revisited
I first saw Rocky in the theater when I was a little kid back in the 1976 and remember liking it, though being a bit bored during the whole Adrian romantic subplot. If it inspired me to want to be a boxer, which it no doubt did for many young boys of that era, it soon got swamped in my imagination by more kid-friendly fodder like Star Wars, War Games, and Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Like all classic movies it's easy to take Rocky for granted. But watching it again this weekend I was reminded that it is an extraordinary film. Never mind that Stallone has not come close to repeating its success (artistically) since then and his name has long ago become a punch line. His screenplay for Rocky is exquisite, and his performance unforgettable. It's no wonder that critics compared him to a young Marlon Brando. And in fact, Rocky has much in common with Brando's similarly iconic Terry Malloy in On The Waterfront. A couple of boxing bums wrestling with redemption.
It's funny how unreliable memory can be. For the last, oh, 30 years or so, I've been operating on the assumption that, of course, Rocky won his first epic fight with Apollo Creed by knocking him out in the last round. So I was shocked to discover that it actually ends in a split decision. I was also amazed that Rocky is in reality a gritty, soulful, kitchen-sink drama bookended by two boxing bouts which has more in common with Paddy Chayevsky's Marty, for instance, than other underdog sports films such as director John Avildsen's later The Karate Kid.
There are so many smart, pitch-perfect, gutsy little choices in Stallone's screenplay where he pours honest emotion and breathes real life into scenes instead of following some stale formula. The long take of him staring slack-jawed at the picture in the mirror of himself as a boy. No words, just the soul-searching look on his face and the silent eloquence of his sorry apartment all around him. Another long take of him dragging himself out of bed before dawn, cracking precisely six raw eggs into a glass and gulping it down. (Is that really healthy? Doesn't matter. You buy it because it's sold so well.) Then willing his tired bones out the door and lumbering around Philadelphia in what passes for a morning jog. The pet-shop scenes where he babbles like a lovestruck schoolboy at the virtually unresponsive Adrian. Huffing after ice-skating Adrian in the otherwise empty rink in his loafers, the ill-tempered owner counting down the lousy 10 minutes he grants them off-screen as Rocky desperately attempts to make a connection with her. (It would have been so easy to have Rocky lusting after some beautiful blonde, or perhaps trying to reform a sexy stripper or hooker, but, no, he chooses mousy, introverted Adrian. I didn't get it when I was a kid, but I get it now. They match. They "fill each other's gaps.") Another long, quiet take of Rocky alone in the giant empty arena the night before the fight. (Note to screenwriters everywhere: don't be afraid of strategically placed long takes, even wordless ones – they can accomplish just as much as dialogue, often more).
But the most extraordinary scene is between Rocky and grizzled, miserable old trainer Mick in Rocky's apartment. Mick finds out Rocky is getting the chance to fight Apollo, knows he's been a bastard to Rocky all these years, but pathetically tries to make nice so he can share a bit of the limelight as Rocky's trainer. Rocky resents the hell out of the two-faced little front runner for it, but grudgingly hears the old man out. He bites his tongue, tries to hold his emotions in check, until Mick gets the message that he's not wanted and exits. And then Rocky erupts in an electrifying tirade, unleashing all the hurt feelings and blows to his pride he's kept inside for years in the now empty apartment while Mick listens meekly at the bottom of the stairs. But it doesn't end there, lamely and predictably, with the underdog more determined than ever to go it alone. If Rocky is going to have a shot, any shot at all, with Creed, he knows he NEEDS Mick. Pride be damned. He races after Mick and catches up to him at the end of the street in a beautiful, silent, unbroken long shot. An arm around the shoulder. A handshake. I've done my venting. All is forgiven. Let's roll.
Rocky also boasts perhaps the second most memorable film theme music by Bill Conti, right behind John Williams' score for Jaws, and fine supporting performances from Talia Shire, Burgess Meredith, Burt Young, Carl Weathers, and Joe Spinnell, not to mention inspired direction from Avildsen. So Stallone didn't quite become the next Brando. How's the old saying go? Better to have been compared to Brando once than to have never been compared to Brando at all. Rocky remains Stallone's shining hour.
Real Life (1979)
Real misfire
This film has one funny sight gag - the camera men with their high-tech (for its time) helmet cams prowling the Yeager and Brooks households like voyeuristic aliens. And that's it. Otherwise, it is a static, flat satire that goes nowhere. I'm amazed to read some other comments describing Brooks' first film as "complex." It's consistently dumb and obvious and desperate - the "perfect" family is actually dysfunctional, the black academic is a prig who resents being racially stereotyped, the Hollywood producer only cares about making money not art, a gynecologist is actually a baby trader who was ambushed by "60 Minutes" (sounds funnier than it plays) -- and so on. Ha ha. At nearly every turn, Brooks sucks the humor out of every potentially humorous situation. He doesn't know how to pace in the longer format and the film feels horribly padded, as well. I sat there stone-faced for a little over an hour and a half waiting for the humor to kick in, charitably chuckling here or there.
Of course with the explosion of reality programming over the last decade, one would think that this film was ahead of its time. But Brooks botches it by focusing more on himself and the totally unfunny scientific institute. We don't even meet the Yeagers until about a half hour into the picture. There is absolutely no need for the scientific institute in the film, and Brooks should have remained OFF camera, goading and cajoling the Yeagers into being more "real" from behind the scenes. That might have been funny. But what we get is Brooks moving into the house next door (not funny) and expecting what? This is where the movie makes no sense. Does he want conflict or the "perfect family" being perfect? Because when he gets conflict, he seems dissatisfied, and the institute reacts with grave concern that jeopardizes the entire project. But isn't that the whole point? Why would the institute even become involved unless they wanted to study the ups and downs and everyday struggles of a typical American family? The whole concept is half-baked and hopelessly confused.
This film makes so many poor choices. Why would the studio send the Yeagers on a two-week trip to Hawaii? It's not funny and serves no purpose. The film within the film is supposed to be about the film-makers' callous intrusion into the Yeagers' life, not their generosity. Generosity isn't funny. When the Yeagers return, Brooks opts to give them an hour to themselves. Again, how is this funny? He should be right on top of them from the first moment and never let up. He shouldn't live in the house across the street, he should live IN the Yeagers' house. Time after time, Brooks shys away from where the laugh is. When the documentary finally starts filming, the wife complains of menstrual cramps at the dinner table (not funny) which triggers an unfunny argument with husband Charles Grodin, and we see that reality is messy, unpleasant. Might have been funny or interesting if the film had built to that moment, showing the Yeagers gradually breaking down under the constant scrutiny of their lives. But it happens with no build-up, no tension, no funny.
Strangely, Brooks seems bored with the Yeager family. They never come into focus, particularly the children. The young son is given nothing to do and barely registers. The daughter gets one junior-high-school-drama queen scene, then is forgotten. The wife flirts with Brooks early on (not funny) but that's quickly dropped. Why would the wife possibly invite Brooks to film her visit to a gynecologist? Not funny. Might have been funny if she had let it slip she had an appointment with the gynecologist and Brooks had tailed her there and surprised her at the office. And Grodin, a very funny actor, is completely wasted in the bland role of the bland father trying to maintain his bland image.
Brooks ill-advisedly makes himself the star, and he just isn't at the top of his game here. His neurotic ramblings don't have much bite, his character isn't sharply enough written, and his goals never become clear. I should have been tipped off in the first scene. Brooks is schmaltzily introducing himself and the institute representatives to the town. The black academic is uncomfortable in this setting and doesn't stand up when introduced. Brooks jokes that if the audience is wondering why he didn't stand it's because he "doesn't eat much." Huh? Oh, I guess I just don't get that complex Brooks humor.
Last Hour (2008)
The kind of movie Quentin Tarantino would make...
...if aliens abducted his talent. Perhaps not the worst movie ever made - for me, nothing can surpass the god-awfulness of Air Bud 2: Golden Receiver - but certainly in the discussion. There are, however, a world-record-shattering number of dramatic pauses in Last Hour - most of them from a very bored and embarrassed-looking Michael Madsen - and yet ironically it doesn't add up to a second of actual drama. Go figure.
Boasts one of the most hilariously incomprehensible plots in the history of cinema. (Keep your eye on Paul Sorvino) Director and "star" Pascal Caubet has mastered the art of having actors stand around and shout for no apparent reason. He just may be the next Coleman Francis. Except shorter. And slimmer. And French. God help us all.
In Good Company (2004)
Limp Sitcom Pilot Masquerading as Feature
What has happened to critical thinking if an alarmingly slight, paper-thin, numbingly predictable, cliché-ridden movie like "In Good Company" gets glowing reviews and a collective rating of 7.1? Before I go any further, yes, I realize this comment will be spitefully rated as not "useful" because I don't agree with the majority, but I think I'll go ahead and contribute my two cents just the same.
It's mystifying what went wrong because it seems to have a lot going for it: it was made by the folks behind the excellent "About a Boy," it boasts what would seem to be a very topical, timely premise of a 26-year-old hot shot not only replacing the 50-something old pro as boss, but also secretly dating his daughter, and it stars fine young actors Scarlet Johannson and Topher Grace, and rugged, reliable Dennis Quaid.
But where "About a Boy" explored its subject matter, "In Good Company" skates over it, where "AAB" spurned clichés, "IGC" clings to them, and where "AAB" developed its characters, "IGC" stunts their growth.
You want clichés? Where do I start? Let's see how about Selma Blair as Grace's bored, bitchy wife who wants out of the marriage less than 20 minutes into the film even though her golden boy husband has just gotten a major promotion and is "being groomed"? If you're going to make the wife that two-dimensionally detestable a shamefully transparent script-writing device to make the lead more sympathetic at least make her early exit funny or interesting or memorable. But Blair isn't even granted that she just acts like a zombie in her first scene, then packs her suitcases in the second, perfunctorily delivers the news that she doesn't love him anymore in a dismally unimaginative scene, and walks out the door. A smart film would have given the wife some humanity, some hint of a reason why these two people were attracted to each other in the first place, but this isn't a smart film, and so she's unceremoniously dumped from the story, having served her ignominious purpose, never to be heard from again. (And you get the feeling that Blair the actress couldn't be more thankful)
You've got the two-dimensional, soulless corporate sleaze bag who fires people with glee, insults Quaid to his face, kisses up to the head honcho, and even recruits a ringer for the company basketball game. Gee, do you think he represents what Grace is on the road to becoming if he doesn't wise up?
There's another throwaway scene early on where Quaid's youngest daughter gets a phone call from a boy, Quaid picks up the extension and tells the boy that if he ever offers alcohol or weed to his daughter, he'll hunt him down and have him neutered.
Are there people out there who actually find this funny? That's like a bad line from some third-rate sitcom.
Later, Quaid takes it upon himself to tell two longtime coworkers that they've been fired, though it's actually Grace's responsibility. Here, I'm expecting the movie to perhaps redeem itself, to think of some inventive way or angle to approach this pivotal moment and break out of its narrative straitjacket. But no, more clichés. A grave Quaid tells them they're being let go, says he's really sorry, gets chewed out by the angry coworker who storms out, and is made to feel guilty by the other. Can you say "boring"?
And yet, the reviewer for the San Fran Chronicle gushes that the movie boasts an unusually literate script for a Hollywood film! Oh, yeah, Grace repeatedly telling Johannson how beautiful she is and her replying "thank you" is literate dialog? Or the two of them meeting for dinner and Johannson dully informing him that she has a class at 3:00? Or the obligatory restaurant confrontation scene where Quaid finds out they've been seeing each other and slugs Grace? But not before we get that golden, quotable line from Grace that has so seldom been uttered in the history of the cinema, "It's not what it looks like. Let me explain."
Earlier, the morning after being seduced by Quaid's daughter, Grace runs into Quaid and acts nervous and jumpy around him. Could have and should have been a funny moment but it isn't because it seems like Grace is winging the lines and the lines aren't funny. There are quite a few moments like this throughout the film where the tone is flip and lighthearted, and you keep waiting for a funny punch line that never comes. It's almost as if director and writer Weitz thinks that by stripping all of the best jokes out of the film, he'll be more likely to be considered a serious film maker.
And that brings me to the problem at the root of the film. Grace and Johannson. They never connect as a couple, primarily because Johannson's character is embarrassingly underwritten. There's almost less to her than there is to the movie. She's growing into her beauty, attends NYU, loves her dad but cherishes her newfound independence and is studying creative writing and that's ALL we ever get to know about her. She has no quirks, no edges, and when she breaks up with Grace, we wonder why, because there seems to be absolutely nothing else going on in her life. She seems to only exist to have Grace fall in love with her. Couldn't she do her creative writing while Grace is admiring and commenting on her great beauty and just look up every so often and say thanks?
I won't even go into the hopelessly anticlimactic ending which unfolds with all the drama of a shrug. If you're interested in seeing a good movie about the workplace, try "Patterns" or "Clockwatchers." "In Good Company" is a limp sitcom pilot masquerading as a feature film.
Married Before Breakfast (1937)
A B-movie that gets an "A" in my book
When old-timers say that the B-movies of their day were oftentimes superior to the so-called A-movies of today, "Married Before Breakfast" would make a good Exhibit A. This brisk, gloriously loopy, screwball comedy has more laughs than all three "Austin Powers" combined. It's sort of a "Bringing Up Baby"/"After Hours" hybrid with the male in this case (an infectiously optimistic Robert Young) the lovable screwball who turns the world into his own personal circus and everyone he meets into a clown - including gangsters, bus drivers, and of course, police desk sergeants.
He plays a fast-talking inventor whose ship finally comes in to the tune of $250,000 who is as generous with his fortune as many of us dream we would be were we in his shoes. His biggest challenge is a pretty travel agent he's just met (pretty Florence Rice, who has a Ginger Rogers quality about her) who admits that what she really wants to is to be married - presumably to her longtime fiancé (a very young Hugh Marlowe) a bit of a stuffed shirt who has been told by his company that he'll only receive a big promotion - and thus become marriageable - if he can sell an insurance policy to an intractable local milkman. But Young is scheduled to set sail with and marry his snobbish longtime fiancée (June Clayworth) first thing next morning, so he dedicates his last night as a bachelor to convincing the milkman to sign the insurance policy, enabling Marlowe and Rice to marry. But when Rice insists that she tag along to lend a hand, Marlowe's and Clayworth's nights become a living hell, and the movie ascends into screwball comedy heaven on the wings of kindred spirits Young and Rice.
Director Edwin Marin handles the material masterfully, and the two leads have marvelous chemistry, particularly in a brilliantly written scene where they are forced to hide from the cops in a cramped janitor's closet ("Are your eyes really green or is that just the light?" Young asks her) that crackles with sexual tension and reminds one of Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed sharing the phone in "It's a Wonderful Life." "Married Before Breakfast" is a smart, very funny little gem that holds up extremely well 68 years after the fact.
Gigli (2003)
Defending Gigli (Really)
I've postponed seeing this film for quite a while for obvious reasons: it's arguably the most hated film ever made, perhaps even more than "Battlefield Earth." But last night morbid curiosity finally got the best of me and I caught it on Encore.
And amazingly, astonishingly, against all odds, it's not that bad. It isn't great, it isn't even quite good, but on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a 6. It's okay. It held my interest from start to finish and even had some intriguing elements that far less notorious failures have lacked.
What surprised me most was how heartfelt and engaging it was, thanks mainly to one of Ben Affleck's best performances. Turns out he's got a real flair for comedy; his half-baked Robert DeNiro impersonation is a hoot, and I have no doubt is quite intentional. The movie is built around his baffled/flummoxed/bemused/exasperated reactions to his ill-tempered boss, gorgeous lesbian watchdog, and handicapped hostage, and they're all quite believable and funny. Naturally, given the amount of vitriol that was directed at the film, I assumed that Affleck just phoned in his performance (as he's been known to do) but that's far, far from the case. He carries this film the way Tom Cruise carried "Rain Man." Of course, "Gigli" is not "Rain Man," but it's not Affleck's fault.
"Gigli" is, remarkably, a genuinely and quite intentionally funny film at times, more so than the obvious and desperate "Bringing Down the House," for instance. Affleck half-heartedly reading the toilet paper packaging in lieu of a bedtime story to pacify his child-like hostage is hysterical. So is the latter's "Baywatch" obsession and his antics with Affleck's cell phone and his "who's on first?" routine with Affleck's boiling crime boss.
Justin Bartha, as the mentally handicapped hostage, is no Dustin Hoffman, to be sure, and at times his performance makes you cringe because his level of retardation seems to fluctuate depending on the scene -- but he gets laughs. Jennifer Lopez really struggles with some of her line readings (particularly in her scene with Al Pacino; how is this the same actress who was so impressive playing a similar character in "Out of Sight"?) but she looks amazing and she gives off the necessary sexual spark to make the romantic comedy elements work.
But if only director Martin Brest had revised his script before shooting, to iron out the film's three principle flaws. One, it's so weak the way Lopez' character is introduced; I guess that's something many viewers just couldn't get past. She's clearly no tougher than Affleck is, so why is she there again? It might have been interesting if Affleck's boss had had a secret soft side, recognized his underling's loneliness and sent Lopez to try to kill two birds with one stone: "cure" Lopez of her homosexuality and play cupid. But he has no soft side; he's a two-dimensional monster, and it never makes a great deal of sense.
Second, the plot is much too thin. Christopher Walken shows up for one scene and then vanishes, never to be heard from again! This film obviously NEEDS him to stick around and keep the heat on our heroes, in addition to Affleck's boss. How a filmmaker as experienced as Martin Brest could have failed to recognize that is beyond me. I can only speculate that the studio wanted to max out the Bennifer angle and stuff in as many scenes featuring the two of them as possible, even at the expense of our greatest living character actor, not to mention the demands of the story.
Third, the film is 30 minutes too long and badly edited. There are a number of scenes that just stretch on two, three or four beats longer than they should, particularly that scene where Lopez scares off those punks with her interminable eye-gouging monologue. I'd heard that the dialogue in "Gigli" was just atrocious, but I didn't really think it was that bad, just long-winded. Had the film been edited down to a compact 90 minutes, I have little doubt that it would have received a more favorable response. There's just enough material here for a good movie, but Brest spreads it too thin.
The most interesting thing about "Gigli" is that it's kind of a tender-hearted crime flick. It's more interested in the feelings and the emotions of its characters than the violence they engage in, or refuse to engage in. The sudden killing towards the end of the film is as jarring as anything I've seen because it comes out of nowhere, and Affleck and Lopez seem authentically horrified at what they've witnessed; in most crime films, the leads would feign disinterest and play it cool - not here.
I really bought that Bartha brought out the big brother, father figure in Affleck and Lopez his sensitive, caring, feminine side. Clearly he's not cut out for his line of work, and that's what his two companions help him to realize. That is not an insignificant thing. Would that less reviled films boasted such a satisfying character arc.
So why does this film have a microscopic 2.2 rating at IMDb? Perhaps people are reviewing Affleck's and Lopez' over-publicized, failed romance instead of the film - beats the heck out of me.
The Black Cat (1934)
You've Got to be Kidding
I am absolutely astonished that this film is considered a horror classic when it is every bit as bad - from a story standpoint - as the worst of Coleman Francis or Ed Wood! It makes no sense whatsoever, isn't the least bit scary and moves at a snail's pace, making its 65 or so minutes feel like twice that. Bela Lugosi's performance is jaw-droppingly awful (though, as with an Ed Wood film, often makes you laugh at loud) and Boris Karloff is wasted, spending virtually the entire film shuffling about looking like he has a splitting migraine. Yes, Edgar Ulmer employs a few nifty directorial tricks, but he fails so utterly as a storyteller (and I know there was a good bit of studio interference from Universal) that they serve no purpose other than to highlight the difference between a cameraman and a filmmaker. Ulmer is no filmmaker at this stage of his career - he's an amateur in WAY over his head and boy, does it show.
Leonard Maltin describes the plot as "bizarre." Yeah, it's "bizarre" the way the plots of hundreds of movies skewered on MST3K were bizarre. It's not bizarre, it's just pitifully, mind-numbingly stupid.
The Village (2004)
"The Village" idiots
Contains spoiler!!! I'm not referring to the makers of the film, but to the army of critics who have made it sound like another Plan 9 From Outer Space.
What is their problem? And what is motivating this inexplicable, over-the-top hostility towards M. Night Shyamalan?
Uh, hello? The dude makes GOOD films.
I went to see The Village this afternoon, despite all the negative buzz, bracing myself for something REALLY bad, like Bats, or The Haunting, or even Battlefield Earth.
But not only is there nothing terribly wrong with the film, it is, in fact, an absorbing, suspenseful, carefully made, expertly directed Mystery/Thriller/Romance - yes, a bit self-consciously arty at times and with Shyamalan's characteristic hiccups of awkward-sounding dialogue - but a more-than-satisfactory movie-going experience and far better than the typical summer flick, with a standout performance from newcomer Bryce Dallas Howard, and able support from veterans William Hurt (who for once brings his "A" game) Sigourney Weaver, and Adrien Brody.
It also delivers the director's trademark twist ending, one that I, for one, did NOT see coming. To all the geniuses who like to boast that they - SPOILERS! - knew all along that the story actually takes place in the present day and not in the late 1800s, I have two words for you: you're lying.
Because Shyamalan presents his films partly as puzzles to be solved, a segment of the audience who fancy themselves great intellects enter the theater not in the typical relaxed movie-going mode of simply wanting to be entertained, but with arms crossed, feeling challenged to "crack" the film, prove they're smarter than it; in essence, wanting desperately to beat Shyamalan as if he were not a filmmaker but an opponent at Chess. Therefore, they're guarded, closed off, emotionally inaccessible and unlikely to enjoy themselves, regardless of how good the movie might be (and in fact is).
The film is only a cheat from the standpoint that Shyamalan is associated with the supernatural, and when the explanation in this case is a rather prosaic one - uncomfortably close to the unmasking of the monster at the end of an episode of Scooby Doo - it is a bit of a letdown. If studies show that over half the population believes in ghosts (or aliens) then I'd estimate that the other half WANTS to believe in them. And that is why The Sixth Sense and Signs were such huge hits - in them, Shyamalan confirms those beliefs, validates them by making the supernatural world seem not ridiculous and far-fetched as most do, but tantalizingly realistic.
It also doesn't help that the marketing of the film is so misleading, priming one to expect a spooky spine-tingler with chills aplenty (something like The Others) which, despite a few well-placed jolts, The Village most certainly is not. It is, of course, primarily a love story, with Shyamalan, I believe, having been inspired by Wuthering Heights. But, while the well-liked Spider-Man 2 is a love story disguised as action-adventure, it's a convincing disguise, the movie suffering from no shortage of action and excitement.
The Village's disguise is not nearly so effective, its marketing the equivalent of slapping a splashy Stephen King dust jacket over a copy of The Age of Innocence.
One can also question the casting of Joaquin Phoenix, a dour, somewhat charmless, far-from-handsome actor in the crucial role of Lucius, the strange, silent, sensitive young man consumed with a secret love for the free-spirited Ivy and a desire to venture into the forbidden woods. I think much of the negative reaction to the film can be explained by a subconscious desire on the part of most men and women for a more accessible, likable, and, well, better-looking actor to play that particular part. Had Orlando Bloom, for instance, been cast, I firmly believe general reaction to the film would have been much more favorable.
Phoenix does finally come alive in that vividly acted porch scene where he suddenly declares his love for Ivy. And that was the scene that got me, the centerpiece of the film, where it "clicks" into place, reveals itself for what it is and makes no apologies for it. Lucius and Ivy belong together. You can see it in their eyes, and it is impossible for me to dislike a film that is able to capture such honesty of emotion. The essence of successful film-making is the ability to create the illusion that two people are in love. It does not happen often.
So how to explain the critics' wildly inaccurate evaluation of the film, as well as their seeming hatred of Shyamalan? I can only guess that it has something to do with Shyamalan's films having a certain overly delicate "goody-goody" quality which makes them easy targets - I really don't know. I do know that, unlike some, I don't go into any movie determined to "crack" them, or even enjoy them, but I always go in determined to give them a chance.
Border Incident (1949)
Horrible Mann
Great subject matter, director, and cast somehow adds up to a truly abysmal film, told in that flat, semi-documentary style that was so popular around the time this film was made. (And hello, this is NOT a film-noir!) The lackluster, overly complicated, over-populated story has no arc, no focus point, little excitement, and staggers from one scene to the next with no discernible purpose, other than as a valentine to the supposed and highly doubtful cooperation between the American and Mexican governments on the issue of illegal immigration.
The scene that made me HATE this film is when Montalban and Mitchell make a daring escape from their captors, race to presumably save Montalban's injured partner from being murdered by a goon with a gun driving a piece of farm machinery, Montalban says something like, "quick - we must try to save him," but instead of doing so they lie on their stomachs and watch in agony for about 5 (!) minutes of screen time as the machine bears down on Murphy and FINALLY runs him over (or so we assume - the machine simply stops, another goon detects the presence of the two "rescuers" and shoots at them as they run off again.) Scene over. The whole thing is so horribly filmed and utterly anticlimatic. There's nothing worse than a protagonist (ostensibly, Montalban, though he's off screen for over half the film) who doesn't even try. Jeez, Ricardo, do SOMETHING!
I know it's Anthony Mann, but hell, not ALL of his films are classics, people. How bad does an old movie have to be around here to get anything lower than a 6 rating?
So Young, So Bad (1950)
Early Exploitation
The director, Bernard Vorhaus, had real talent, as evidenced by the undeniably powerful firehose and suicide scenes, not to mention his handling of a fascinating young cast headed by Anne Francis (who is terrific) Rita Moreno, Anne Jackson and even Mike Kellin, in a bit. Vorhaus knows how to play with light and shadow - he probably would have excelled in Noir films had he not been blacklisted - and has a knack for finding novel settings to either enhance or contrast the mood of a particular scene. (The merry-go-round scene would do Hitchcock proud.) His camera's always on the move and the editing of the film has a rhythm and a pull that keeps you involved and in suspense.
But make no mistake this is a B-film with an erratic script that falters at several critical junctures. Immediately after the sadistic worker turns the hose on the girls for setting fire to the dorm, things come to a head, with Henried and pretty Catherine McLeod angrily confronting the corrupt Head of the institution (Cecil Clovelly) and threatening to file official reports on the abuse at the school unless sweeping changes are made. Clovelly admits that if that happened there would probably be an uproar, an unfavorable investigation and he would more than likely be fired, BUT - and this is what made absolutely no sense - he gets them to back down by suggesting that if he were fired who's to say somebody even worse than him wouldn't take his place? Huh?!!! What are the odds of that? I think I'd take my chances.
Still an effective film that will hold your interest. I should also point out that the other comment about this film is inaccurate on several plot details and seems to have it confused with some other film.
Nocturne (1946)
If Only George Raft Could Act...
This would have been a better film. It opens with that stunning shot of L.A. then slowly zooms in on the composer in his hilltop home for a mesmerizing beginning, but spends the rest of its running time spinning its wheels. Part of the problem is the confused script which lacks urgency and never brings the story into any kind of focus. There's the occasional flash of excitement or an injection of atmosphere, but then it drifts. It's a film with a very short attention span; it doesn't seem to care much about its own story and seems to be in search of anything it can find to distract it.
And then there's Raft. He was adequate in the similarly well-shot 1945 noir Johnny Angel, also directed by Marin, because in that film he's motivated by a thirst for revenge against the man who killed his father, a simple and rather easy emotion to play. But here he's a detective who's supposed to be obsessed with finding the murderer of the playboy composer, who is killed in the middle of writing one of his songs (a nifty little premise) though the police believe it's a suicide. This is a trickier set of emotions to play and Raft can't pull it off. Why does he care so much? Is he a frustrated musician? It's never explained. There are no layers to Raft, no sense of vulnerability, no dimension or mystery - he's about as wooden as they come. He's only effective when he's acting tough - pushing a guy into a pool or taking on some thug twice his size. When he's asked to do more than that he's not so much lost as he is simply unwilling or constitutionally incapable. He just doesn't have it in him.
One of the pleasures of noir is watching a tough guy getting in over his head and discovering to his horror that there are some foes he can't lick, or allowing his commitment and dedication turn into obsession. A Bogart or a Dick Powell or a Ralph Meeker or a John Payne or a Dan Duryea or even a Mark Stevens could've supplied the necessary psychological complexity to make the detective in Nocturne a memorable and tragic figure. Raft, unfortunately, isn't in their league.
One last thing: the most interesting presence in the film is piano player Joseph Pevney, who later went on to become a very busy TV and movie director. He's only in two or three scenes, but he makes the most of them.
The Little Minister (1934)
Unendurable
Which may sound strange coming from someone whose favorite film is Local Hero, but the longer this slight, overly delicate movie ran the more irritated I became with it. I appreciated the care with which it was mounted, but the story is far, far too thin to justify its nearly two hour running time. The final 30 minutes or so reminded me of the similarly unendurable A.I., the way it bludgeons you with its sickening sentimentality and needlessly draws out every scene, DEMANDING that you feel something, ANYTHING, PLEASE! The only thing I felt was nauseous. There isn't enough going on here to sustain interest. The movie might have been a mild success at 70 minutes, at over 100 it wears you down.
The fundamental flaw at the heart of this film is the notion that the entire town would be completely devastated at the knowledge that their new minister would have interest in the opposite sex. It isn't as if he's a Catholic priest, there's no rule forbidding him to get married. Why the town drunk would be practically suicidal at the rumors that the minister is seeing someone (and the fact she's apparently a lowly gypsy is never made much of) is never made at all clear. When his pitiful son tearfully explains that his dad is "over-fond of the minister," I really started to squirm. What exactly is this film suggesting and why are nearly all the other women in this town invisible besides Hepburn's Babbie? In any event, it is impossible to expect modern audiences to relate to a movie with such an alien plot device. It simply doesn't come off, and if the town drunk is so heartbroken over all of this, what exactly occurs in the final act that suddenly makes the minister's relationship with Hepburn okay?
And if you want to see an example of weak writing and storytelling, pay attention to the whole underdeveloped subplot concerning Babbie's aristocratic suitor, the one who plans to marry her "in a fortnight." Babbie airily points out a couple times that he "doesn't really love him," so it would be no big deal if she broke off their engagement. Really? Well, why are we supposed to believe that? Could it be because the man gets virtually no screen time and is stiffly portrayed by a forgettable actor? This is most certainly NOT the stuff of which classics are made. You see, there's never any contest between this man and John Beal's minister. And therefore, no drama. If you want me to believe that Beal and Hepburn are meant for each other then, as a filmmaker, you have to come up with much more compelling reasons why they are being kept apart.
If you're a fan of Hepburn or Barrie or even John Beal, you may be willing to forgive The Little Minister its many flaws, but if you're none of the above, you've been warned. This is the sort of old movie that scares people away from old movies. It wasn't much good then and it's even worse now.
You for Me (1952)
Greer Shines
Glib, engaging romantic comedy with a sitcom-like feel, but a GOOD sitcom, with well-rehearsed actors delivering consistently witty dialogue with impeccable timing and skill. The film has a loose, likeable quality that seems to flow naturally from Jane Greer's down-to-earth, girl-next-door (but not the bland, idealized girl-next door) acting style. Her nurse is nobody's fool but also nobody's girl and therein lies the conflict.
Peter Lawford and Gig Young, typically second leads, are also in good form. Here, the two of them together add up to one more than adequate leading man. It truly is a contest and a mystery which one Greer will choose. They complement each other well; neither is all hero or heel.
What's most remarkable about the picture and most indicative of its quality is how minor characters keep surprising you. Young's Aunt Clara, who in other films would be a daffy but lovable eccentric overflowing with relationship wisdom and sage advice, is here a not completely innocuous free-thinker with radical beliefs. In a scene where Young introduces her to Greer, the two don't bond instantly as one expects; instead Greer squirms at the old woman's peculiar ideas about the medical profession and even challenges them (to little avail). Tommy Farrell's goofy, unthreatening intern, Dr. Rollie Gibb, in what would ordinarily be the thankless THIRD lead, gets kicked in the shin a few times for laughs early on, but emerges by film's end, refreshingly, as not only more of a man than Greer had ever imagined but also a bit of a hero. Scenes like this show that the filmmaker isn't on auto-pilot and is truly interested in fleshing out this fictional world and populating it with people, not types.
I don't do many reviews these days but when I saw how this was being so unjustly maligned I had to mount a defense. You for Me may be a small forgotten film, but most fair-minded viewers who stumble across it will be surprised at how good it really is. 50 years later it holds up remarkably well.
No Looking Back (1998)
A Plotless Monstrosity
A mood and a soundtrack in search of a story. A dull, flat, lifeless exercise so bad that it scares you away from ever seeing anything by Ed Burns again. Gives the words "independent film" a bad name. How did this ever get made? Say what you will about Hollywood's anti-art bottom line mentality but give them credit: they would NEVER ever in a million years greenlight something this slight and inconsequential and God bless them. There's no there there!
A drifter, smugly and unappealingly played by Ed Burns himself, returns to his blue collar coastal town to win back his girlfriend from a working class Average Joe played decently by Jon Bon Jovi. That's it. No insights, no spark, no wit, no originality, no surprises. Burns may think he's somehow honoring the so-called working class by depicting their mundane world and petty concerns with such honesty, but the irony is those very same people wouldn't be caught dead going to see a movie like this in a million years. (And God bless them too)
There's some pretty shots of ocean waves washing against the shore, cloudy skies and one scene with a swirling camera revolving around Lauren Holly and Bon Jovi, but everything in between is just listless actors reciting unimaginably stale dialogue. It's as if Burns were determined to drain what little potential drama the story had (you crave a scene where Bon Jovi loses his cool and decks Burns for going after his girl but in vain) and replace it with stony silence. But silence has to have meaning, here it has none.
Dismal. It IS as bad as everyone says. It sucks the life right out of you.
A Kiss in the Dark (1949)
Strained Whimsy
Comedy is all about timing, of course, and Delmer Daves, the director has horrible timing and no feel for comedy. Scene after scene falls flat, some of which at least had the potential to be funny. He elicits an embarrassing performance from Broderick Crawford as an ill-tempered tenant who sleeps during the day, and yells at everyone with such murderous violence you fear he's going to go on a killing spree, when it's obviously a subplot that's supposed to be played for yuks. Niven, as the pampered pianist, and Wyman, as a down-to-earth print model, are likable as always (and Wyman displays fantastic legs wearing white shorts in one scene where Niven literally can't take his eyes off her) but they can only do so much with the middling material. Victor Moore supplies the film's only laughs as the curious little man who runs the apartment building, Willoughby.
Very familiar "Local Hero" plot line which I'm usually a sucker for but it requires a filmmaker with a much lighter touch.
Johnny Angel (1945)
Hard Core Noir
Put Humphrey Bogart in the title role and this would be remembered along with the likes of "The Maltese Falcon," and "The Big Sleep" as a true classic. With George Raft as the lead it's not quite a classic but still damn close. Frankly I was expecting a B movie and was simply knocked out by how good it was. I'm not going to dump on Raft the way some others have because, while unquestionably a limited actor, he did have a solid presence about him and is undeniably effective at times despite his obvious limitations.
Raft is at his best when he's asked to be tough, relentless and decisive. He gets into trouble during those scenes where he's required to be scheming or thoughtful; saying one thing while thinking another. Let's just say he's not real big on nuance. That hurts the latter half of the film where the audience really needs to FEEL his escalating outrage, impatience and thirst for revenge (such as Dick Powell is able to convey in the classic 1945 film noir "Cornered.") The way Raft plays it, what you see is what you get. Everything is on the surface. You assume he's only romancing Claire Trevor's femme fatale to find out more about his father's murder, but Raft doesn't give you the subtext. It just seems like a lackluster and rather puzzling liaison, considering how angry and anxious he had previously been to uncover the truth.
But Raft is much more inspired throughout the first portion of the film and actually does register true pain and regret over his beloved father's death as he's roaming the - supposedly - deserted ship. (A Nosferatu-like premise that sets a truly eerie, haunting tone which never lets up.) And his no nonsense, take no prisoners search to find the killer showcases Raft at his very best. An early scene with fragile Signe Hasso where he brutally interrogates/romances her absolutely crackles, and culminates with a great film noir line. Just before Raft wipes away a tear from Hasso's face he growls, "Looks like rain."
But the true star of this film is director Edwin Marin. Talk about painting with light - this is one of the most gorgeously photographed, most visually arresting films I've ever seen. It just OOZES mood and atmosphere - not to mention some serious post-war disillusionment. And Marin's camera work is equally stunning as he tracks and pans and zooms and frames each shot in fresh, exciting ways. It's one of those movies where "The Past" is almost an actual character always lurking in the shadows that NO ONE can escape. But what else would you expect from something with a quintessentially cryptic noir title like "Johnny Angel"?
In fact I wouldn't be surprised if Alan Parker wasn't paying homage to this little gem with his not dissimilar, equally unsettling "Angel Heart", also set in New Orleans. Mickey Rourke's character in that 1987 film was also named, I believe, Johnny Angel.
Early on a floozie throws herself at Raft and he brushes her off. She complains to no one in particular with a shrug - "Looks like Angel is wearing his halo tonight."
You want noir? THAT'S noir.
The Whole Town's Talking (1935)
A Dated Disappointment
As much as I love Edward G. and Jean Arthur the truth is this film is a chore to sit through. I don't doubt that in 1935 audiences were enthralled with the gimmick of the same actor not only playing two different roles but - through the miracle of special effects - acting with himself in the same scene. But viewed today, unfortunately, it's just that: a tired gimmick that's been done so many times (think "Parent Trap") it's virtually impossible to adopt the unjaundiced mind-set of a pre-WWII audience member. The makers of this film seem very satisfied with themselves for being able to pull it off, and perhaps justifiably, but there's precious little else to the film. It suffers from extremely poor pacing, botched editing, a shortage of quality jokes (for long stretches it plays like a drama not a comedy) and "yell at the screen" size plot holes. I have too much respect for John Ford to suggest that he's simply the wrong man to helm such lightweight fare, but at this stage of his career and with Hollywood in general still adapting to the advent of sound, he's clearly not at the top of his game. The film desperately needs more zip and here he's either unable or unwilling to supply it.
Arthur's gangster moll put-on while under police interrogation is a highlight, but personally I felt the film was stolen by two delightful character actors: Etienne Girardot as a diminutive, dutiful office manager obsessed with the "McAntire Account" despite all of the wild events unfolding around him; and Donald Meek as a clueless, high-voiced gentlemen who keeps getting in the way of the police. Hilariously they keep swatting him aside as if he were a pesky fly, but he stubbornly asserts himself time and time again. In one funny scene he timidly doffs his hat when re-introducing himself to the police - though he's talking to them by phone. Amusingly, the detective hangs up on him mid-sentence.
Otherwise the picture has way too many dead spots - most of the comedy is strained. If you want to see Edward G. in top form spoofing his gangster image check out the side splitting "Larceny Inc."
Strange Alibi (1941)
Goofiness Is Seldom Boring
Often ridiculous but breathlessly paced and mostly entertaining. It's got all of the Warner Brothers staples: quick pace, lots of gun play, average looking leading man with above average acting ability (in this case a very young Arthur Kennedy) and a convincing rough and tumble feel. (You sometimes fear for the actors' safety.) It also has the great Howard Da Silva stealing every scene he's in as a sadistic prison guard.
Sacrifices logic for speed. Hey, plausibility slows things down. A standard undercover-cop-stuck-in-prison flick, though a bit more interesting because of its cast.
Pillow to Post (1945)
Cousin of "Christmas"
Basically a limp re-working of "Christmas in Connecticut", with a pampered woman desperately pretending to be something she's not, and in both cases trying to dupe fat, gullible Sydney Greenstreet in the process.
Unfortunately Ida Lupino is no Barbara Stanwyck when it comes to playing comedy. She's brittle and high-strung and doesn't know how to milk the shopworn script for laughs. Her reactions aren't varied enough, she almost always seems to be on the verge of tears and simply doesn't seem to be having much fun. Her romantic interest, William Prince, is pleasant but unremarkable.
Still the film is worth sitting through if only to hear that great blustering character actor Greenstreet thunder out lines like, "That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard!" and, "What the devil is going on here?" in that inimitable voice of his.
Grand Central Murder (1942)
Plot and Posturing
Not bad. Handsomely filmed and directed with some skill and style by S. Sylvan Simon. Still, it's a cold picture. The mystery is fairly intricate but there's probably two or three too many suspects, and all of them are thinly drawn. As the "plot thickens" you find yourself not caring all that much because the movie is so anchorless. The dilemmas aren't sharply enough drawn. It's all plot and posturing, precious little character development.
Acting honors go to Van Heflin, as the wiseacre private detective/suspect who has a hard time keeping his smart mouth shut. Heflin's free, relaxed, supremely confident technique is in stark contrast to the more formal (some might say "stiff") acting of most of his co-stars (specifically expressionless Tom Conway). Dishonors go to Sam Levene as the ill-tempered homicide cop assigned to the case. I believe he was a highly respected actor in his day, though mostly for his stage work, but in practically every screen performance I've seen, he seems uncomfortable. He's "acting" not "being." He appears to be on unfriendly terms with the camera, always aware of it.
Those who enjoy whodunits may find its flaws forgivable.
Stars in My Crown (1950)
Stick With It
Hard to dislike any film with a character named Chloroform. Takes a while to get going and in fact, feels a bit meandering and even pointless for much of its running time, but the viewer needs to have a little patience. It dawdles its way to a surprisingly potent payoff. Jacques Tourneur's strengths as a director were in subtly establishing mood and atmosphere with a clean, crisp visual technique, primarily in spooky thrillers. He employs those skills to good effect here in, of all places, a small town western setting. His America is still in the awkward early stages of forming its cultural and spiritual identity. Lazy days followed by lawless nights. Chapel hymns compete with bar room fights. Tradition and progress keep bumping into each other, trading dirty looks.
If anything, it needs a bit more running time to develop all the relationships. It tends to skimp. And Tourneur was maybe not so gifted working with actors. James Mitchell as the progressive, practical new doctor in town seems somewhat ill-at-ease. Joel McCrea as the take charge parson is understated as always, but never hogs the spotlight and seems to have a great respect for The Story. Acting honors go to the fabulous Juano Hernandez as Uncle Famous, a peaceful black man who refuses to give in to racial intimidation in his own easy-going way.
And that ending packs a wallop. Won't soon forget the truly haunting image of those two blank sheets of paper (thought to be Uncle Famous' Will) being swept along in the wind. It may not be Uncle Famous' after all, but as McCrea states with utter conviction, "It's God's Will."
The Miracle of the Bells (1948)
Not Quite A Miracle, But Close
Maltin's "guide", which should be called a "MIS-Guide", oh so generously bestows this film with a whopping star and a half. The truth is this is a fine piece of film-making, a tad unwieldy at times and perhaps 20 minutes overlong, but made with a high level of care and craft. There are many moving, poignant scenes, particularly one set early on at Christmas time. MacMurray and Valli unexpectedly run into each other and proceed to share a relaxed and blissfully unrehearsed Christmas Eve dinner at a Chinese restaurant that they have all to themselves (not unlike in the more recent A Christmas Story). The chemistry between the two and the restaurant's benevolent Asian owner is nearly heavenly.
The film has that irresistible Citizen Kane-ish structure where a character is gradually revealed and only truly understood AFTER their death. It also is refreshing in its positive depiction of religion and the important role it plays in so many people's lives. And it does so without insulting those in the audience who may not happen to be a member of that faith (Catholicism) or suggest that because they are not, that they're going to hell. If only more of today's film-makers had such courage and insight.
Performance-wise I was most impressed with Fred MacMurray who clearly invested a lot emotionally in his character. Valli is fine as the angelic aspiring actress and Lee J. Cobb is commanding as always as a studio mogul with more integrity than one might expect. Frank Sinatra as a devout small town priest? He's not bad but he hadn't yet been influenced by Montgomery Clift's method acting style in From Here To Eternity, and he comes across as a mite green for the part.
Quality work. Maltin's off by a star or two once again.
Violent Saturday (1955)
Sluggish Saturday
The director, Richard Fleischer, is totally out of his element having to film in bloated Cinemascope. It throws him completely out of whack. The film has no tone, no feel, horrible pacing, and painfully labored, hilariously stilted dramatics. Worst of all it has no point. Fleischer is also obviously uncomfortable with having to juggle all the different small town conflicts, the mosaic of personalities. In an effort to give them all equal time and not play favorites, he robs the picture of any thrust, any drive. It just sits there, like drab furniture in someone's home while they're away on vacation. I literally could not believe this was the same guy who helmed the masterfully paced, razor-sharp "The Narrow Margin."
Most of the performances are actually not half bad, with one notable exception: Margaret Hayes as the "trampy" wife (she has mildly titillating conversations with some stud on, heaven forbid, a golf course (!) so naturally yes, she must be wanton). Her attempts to emote are half-hearted and rather pitiful. Richard Egan also comes off as a little too stiff this time, though I do think he could be an effective actor with the right kind of role (as in "Tension At Table Rock").
Victor Mature is the hero and involved in the film's reasonably exciting climax, but overall he's only on screen for about 15 minutes and it's never terribly clear what his big personal struggle is. I don't know what people are talking about when they say it's hard to accept Ernest Borgnine as an Amish farmer. Sure it may be hard to accept today when the image of Borgnine as a sadistic heavy or wise-cracking lug is fixed in people's minds, but I'm sure in 1955 he was perfectly believable in the part. It's actually a fairly moving portrayal. Acting honors go to Sylvia Sidney, however, as a thieving librarian. She shows great fire and movie star panache in a couple confrontations with town Peeping Tom Tommy Noonan (an admittedly odd character for 1955).
The first hour or so of this movie is all excruciating set-up. Nothing happens until about the 55 minute mark which, to me, is definitely a bad thing. I'm betting the novel upon which it was based was probably pretty darn good (and more than likely mighty racy) but this adaptation is a botch with a capital B.
A Slight Case of Larceny (1953)
Rooney Showcase
Slight is right. But somehow it doesn't matter. It's still a rather enjoyable little movie. There just isn't much going on at all here, but it's bright and brisk and agreeable. It offers up some token conflict from time to time, but it's almost as if it's envisioning an audience with heart problems - it doesn't want to do anything that might upset them or cause them undue stress.
The key here is Mickey Rooney. He is just a human dynamo; his immense self-confidence is exhilarating, contagious. He wings through each scene without a trace of doubt or indecision. His timing, his uncanny sense of pacing, his delivery, are impeccable. He is precision incarnate. It's a very, very strong, potent characterization.
Wasn't quite so impressed with Eddie Bracken. You want him to supply some legitimate resistance to Rooney's brazen scheming, some spark. He isn't necessarily a good comic match for him. Bracken is never as lovable as he's supposed to be. He doesn't complement Rooney in an ingenious enough way - the way a good, seasoned straight man really should.
Other assets would have to be the clean, crisp photography and gorgeous Elaine Stewart as Rooney's love interest. More than the curves, he admires the dollar signs in her eyes. Cute film.
Love and a .45 (1994)
Counterfeit Cinema
False. Ugly. Hollow. Cheap. Worshipfully amateurish. A shameless Tarantino rip-off with snickering contempt for the intelligence of its audience (the writer-director, Talkington, does have some visual panache, thus it's a little surprising he's done virtually nothing since.) The sort of thing impressionable, uncritical viewers eat right up. It's all a big dumb joke; if you listen closely you can almost hear its dopey, guffawing laughtrack. The movie has no core, no reason to exist; it's gimmick piled on gimmick piled on gimmick.
Gil Bellows is a personable actor out of his element here. His talents are geared for television, not film. He's unable to project danger or darkness. For this sort of movie to work the outlaw MUST possess those qualities. Zellweger has fun with her splashy, trashy part, but is betrayed by an attention deficit disorder script. One minute she acts as the brake on Bellows' criminal impulses and yearns for domestic tranquility; the next she's a gun-toting hell-raiser delighted with her sudden celebrity. Gee, I wonder where Talkington got those ideas?
Then there's this Rory Cochrane fellow. As Bellows' psycho buddy, he's grotesque and nearly unwatchable. His acting is a desperate, shapeless mess. He doesn't know what he's doing up there, so he empties his whole bag of tricks. A few will mistake this for brilliance. Most will not be fooled.
The soundtrack is, unfortunately, very good (you wish it was attached to a legitimate story) and the convenience store robbery opening with that fine un-actor-ey kid, Wiley Wiggins, from "Dazed and Confused", is wise and understated. It's the only REAL scene in the movie. After that it's just Talkington ripping off or paying homage to, well, let's see - "Raising Arizona", "Reservoir Dogs", "Bonnie and Clyde", "Badlands", "True Romance", "Wild At Heart", "Natural Born Killers" and on and on and on.
Okay, Talkington, you're a movie fan. We got it. Now try making a good one.