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Emilia Pérez (2024)
A showstopper, but...
Cinematically impressive, hugely imaginative and ambitious, with an intricate screenplay full of shifting loyalties and waves of suspense, Emilia Pérez captivated me for two hours. Unfortunately, it goes on for more than two hours.
The musical numbers serve to minimize the brutal content without diminishing the emotional impact, even though the songs aren't particularly memorable. An exception is "El Mal," the song and dance sequence at the banquet, with an extraordinary performance by Zoe Saldana, enhanced by superb choreography, filming, and editing. It seems almost unfair to single Saldana out above Selena Gomez and Karla Sofía Gascón, all three deliver, but "El Mal" is almost a showstopper.
I won't spoil the ending. Let's just say that it all wraps up entirely too quickly, leaving me thinking that writer/director Jacques Audiard and his team couldn't think of a more resonant and fulfilling ending.
Escape at Dannemora (2018)
Freedom treasured, freedom wasted
I don't think I've ever seen more persuasively gritty cinema about prison life. There is no sentiment here, no clichéd brutality, nor any propagandizing about reform (much as reform is needed), or anyway none beyond a supervisor complaining about the "policy to take good jobs from honest people and give them to rapists and murderers for 37 cents an hour." Strong as the writing is, the visuals do the heavy lifting, with scene after scene of grown men bent over sewing machines.
Nor have I ever watched a series where fornicating meant so much. Without it, there would be no plot. The prison employee Tilly (Patricia Arquette) is driven by it, and her complicity becomes the motivating factor for the two prisoners who are her consecutive lovers, David Sweat (Paul Dano) and Richard Matt (Benicio Del Toro). With a little help from her, they get the tools to tunnel out, and the seven-episode series doesn't rush us through what for them was a punishing, nerve-wracking, and time-consuming plan. We wallow with them in that prison, and under it.
Meanwhile, Tilly has the freedoms that they risk everything for, but she is so miserably self-pitying that even a full-time job overseeing lifers doesn't register. Arquette garnered the most praise for her role, but I didn't think the screenplay did her any favors, giving her one dimension: an utterly insufferable shrew and chronic liar who even victimizes her son. I applauded when Richard played her like a fiddle, luring her to help them with promises of a threesome in Mexico where they "worship blondes."
It was even plausible that David, living in enforced celibacy, stopped wanting Tilly anywhere near his zipper. Superb though Del Toro always is, it was Dano who impressed me most. Cast against type as a thug, with his soulful eyes and thoughtful mien, he brought David to life, the most fully realized character in the series, and the solid center of an unstinting and resonant look at America's underbelly.
Persuasion (2022)
Jane Austen meets Bo Derek
I decided to like this adaptation of Jane Austen's posthumous novel. It wasn't easy. The movie has a split personality: half then, half now. But that, it turned out, was its strength. I shouldn't have been at all surprised: screenwriter Ron Bass won an Oscar for "Rain Man."
While most of the dialog maintains the formality of Austen's language, there are jarring moments of modernity. "Daddy's broke, Princess, playtime's over," says a man in a frock coat. "Now we're worse than exes, we're friends," says a woman in an empire-waist dress. Most jarring is an exchange that starts out Austen then veers Bo Derek: "It is often said that if you're a 5 in London, you're a 10 in Bath," followed by "You'd be at least a 6, Anne."
Anne Elliot (Dakota Johnson) was Austen's most modern (and mature at age 27) heroine, and the filmmakers chose to exaggerate that sensibility by using modern jargon, as well as a truly multi-ethnic cast, yet keeping the narrative firmly grounded in 1818 England: all the formal conventions of titled families are in place. There is nothing remotely risqué here. No ripped bodices. Anne even goes swimming in an ankle-length frock.
The photography by Joe Anderson doesn't do justice to Bath's Royal Crescent, but the country scenes are lovely, as are the interiors, and the production certainly satisfied my incurable craving for costume dramas. Anne's wardrobe sets her apart from other women with bold solid colors and lack of frills. It's a lively film, and a comedy (which doesn't always work, e.g., Anne's jam mustache), though much of the humor is at the expense of characters made even more insufferable than Austen wrote them, especially Mary Cosgrove: the cherubic Mia McKenna-Bruce, cast against type, pulls it off nicely.
But this is Dakota Johnson's movie. She's in every scene, her accent is flawless to my Anglophilic ears, and-- praise doesn't get higher than this-- her performance can stand alongside those of two previous Annes, Sally Hawkins and Amanda Root, superb actresses who had the physical advantage of actually being 6's. Johnson is at least a 9.
Legends of the Fall (1994)
Rising sap
I fell for it all, not just Brad Pitt. "Legends of the Fall" is an epic melodrama, which should be oxymoronic, but the quality of the performances raises it up. Sappy lines like "I followed all of the rules, man's and God's. And you, you followed none of them. And they all loved you more. Samuel, Father, and my... even my own wife," would sink lesser actors. Not Aidan Quinn, assigned the movie's most challenging role as the eldest brother who must make his own luck.
But it's Brad Pitt's movie. As favorite son Tristan, a James Dean-ilk rebel with leonine locks and boy-toy beauty, he steals every scene (and plenty of audience hearts, given the sudden burst of boys named Tristan after 1994). That said, his costars-- Quinn, Gordon Tootoosis, Karina Lombard, Julia Ormond, and especially Anthony Hopkins-- support him so well that it seems like an ensemble picture, an impression deepened by the serious themes which are given due respect, starting with the treatment of Native Americans. The abhorrence toward the U. S. government by former army Colonel Ludlow (Hopkins) challenges the very idea of patriotism. Not many Hollywood movies risk dialog like this: "Indians!... There is nothing quite so grotesque as the meeting of a child with a bullet; or an entire village slaughtered while sleeping. That was the Government's resolution of that particular issue and I have seen nothing in its behavior since then that would persuade me that it has gained either in wisdom, common sense, or humanity."
Hugely ambitious, covering half a century, it is ultimately less interesting on the central matter of love than it is everything else, from the WWI trenches and shell shock that follows to Prohibition and the gangsters it created (including Tristan). It is also famously beautiful, filmed near Banff by Oscar-winner John Toll. Disappointments include James Horner's engulfing music; the implausible decrepitude of the aging Colonel's ranch while his caretakers are still there; and a final scene with voice-over narration that manages to fail twice, being both sentimental and abrupt. But as I said, I fell for it, flaws and all.
Fight Club (1999)
All they need is a leader or two
It's the late 90s. Gen Xers are dissatisfied. The Narrator (Edward Norton) and Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) release their pent-up rage in bare-knuckle fighting, then create 'fight clubs' for their peers. "We've all been raised to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't," Tyler incites the recruits. "We're a generation of men raised by women."
Well, yes, that is what mothers do... but Tyler isn't recruiting geniuses. Feckless young white men respond in numbers, eager to prove their potency with bare knuckles and a safe word (a phrase coined in 1979, so this is Gen X to the core). The clubs grow, satisfying Tyler's true ambition: Project Mayhem, turning the mindless fight club members into domestic terrorists.
It's a dark satire, highlighted by crisp and amusing arguments between the disheartened Narrator and despotic Tyler. Early on, support groups are lampooned, including one for testicular cancer attended by a female imposter ('imposter syndrome' dates to 1978), who becomes the movie's obligatory hot girl (Helena Bonham Carter). Black humor peaks with Tyler's bungled burglary at a liposuction clinic, stealing bags of human fat to be used to make soap and explosives (his chemistry lesson is a treat, if you overlook The Narrator's ignorance). And there is a grimly derisive Orwellian scene following the death of a Project Mayhem terrorist (Meat Loaf).
Bottom line, though: I'll never watch "Fight Club" again. The violence is just one element of a visually unpleasant movie, and an overly long one thanks to Bonham Carter: her scenes add nothing but more confusion to a plot that manages to be puzzling without being suspenseful. I was bored long before the big reveal at the end, and after it I was disappointed.
The Zone of Interest (2023)
The banality of banality
In her 1963 book "Eichmann in Jerusalem," Hannah Arendt introduced the now-famous phrase "the banality of evil," which stripped any lingering herculean qualities from the perpetrators of the Holocaust. "Zone of Interest," suggested by Martin Amis's 2014 novel set at Auschwitz, is Jonathan Glazer's cinematic attempt to repeat her accomplishment sixty years later.
A lot of talent went into the movie, starting with the actors playing Hedwig (a solid Sandra Hüller) and Rudolph (Christian Friedel) Höss, who was commandant of Auschwitz from 1940-1943. The gifted Polish cinematographer Lukasz Zal ("Ida," "Loving Vincent") uses his stealthy camera like a spy, shooting from behind doorways or down hallways rather than confront the Höss family.
The problem is Glazer. As writer and director, he buries us in that banality. The Höss family home is a small estate in Oswiecim, Poland, at the gates of Auschwitz. Barbed wire and a guard tower are seen beyond their fence. We hear gunshots and barking dogs from the camp, and screams and shouts, and we see a sky darkened by smoke, and curtains glowing red from the fires next door. However well-shot and well-lit, though, every scene drags on and on with the same message: a family of six carries on their mostly familiar, quite ordinary lives while their industrious father says things like, "I wasn't really paying attention. I was too busy thinking how I would gas everyone in the room."
Domestic details are finely chosen-- Hulda tries on a confiscated fur coat, Rudolph sorts European currency into piles, the younger son arranges his armed toy soldiers. But it doesn't build to something powerful. I never felt much for any single character, not even the (presumably) Jewish servants they (presumably) enslaved. The juxtaposition of such extraordinary evil against and such an ordinary family is established in the first 15 minutes, but "Zone of Interest" goes on for another ninety, and includes scenes that really required some explanation (e.g., the girl at the piano, the women cleaning the museum), but none was provided. Cinema is a visual more than verbal medium, so I admire movies that don't rely on speech the way theater must. But Glazer took it too far, and ultimately his repetitious movie said too little.
Collateral (2004)
Assassin as philosopher
This may be Michael Mann's best movie, with stiff competition from "The Insider," which he also wrote. The mobile camera, the neo-noir lighting (it all takes place overnight), the clipped editing (the nightclub scene is a stunner), the music (both score and soundtrack)-- all of it works.
And the performances could hardly be better. Tom Cruise's superbly pared-down work as the philosophically robotic assassin Vincent is more than equalled by Jamie Foxx as Max the taxi driver, if only because Foxx has to play two characters. As one critic pointed out, Foxx slowly wrenches the movie from Cruise's box-office fingers as he evolves from an aspiring businessman to a carbon copy of Vincent, trapped in situations where the business is thuggery. Mark Ruffalo, Jada Pinkett Smith, Barry Shabaka Henley, and Javier Bardem deepen the complexity as a cop, an attorney, a witness, and the chief thug.
But it's Stuart Beattie's screenplay that sets "Collateral" apart. The superb dialog between Vincent and Max, which meaningfully develops their characters while never giving too much away, is why I chose to ignore plot problems (the conveniently empty streets, walking away from a car wreck, etc.), including the absurd coincidence of Max's only two passengers that night, who are strangers to each other, having a crucial connection. By the end, we have come to care as much about the assassin as about any character we've met, and that is no mean feat.
The Fan (1981)
Parasocial horror
Someday, somebody will make a good movie examining the grim nature of parasocial relationships. Movies about stalking and obsession usually involve people who know each other, but it's even creepier when a fan will do anything to establish contact with a celebrity they become obsessed with. Such is 'The Fan," which isn't a serious examination of anything, nor is it as violent as some reviewers contend. I suspect, however, that it would have been if it hadn't undergone multiple rewrites and had a more generous budget.
One scene in particular-- shot underwater when the stalker slashes a man in a swimming pool-- was a terrific idea for a horror image, but it was minimally executed. In contrast, another brief scene, really a single shot-- aerial, of parallel rows of park benches in the snow, with some benches askew and the stalker sitting alone on one-- showed creative care that strongly suggests how much better the movie might have been with more time and money.
Ed Bianchi rose from directing TV commercials to shows including "Deadwood" and "Boardwalk Empire," so he's a pro and he keeps the action clipping along here, with plenty of creative help from British cinematographer Dick Bush, frequent collaborator with Ken Russell and Blake Edwards, and a really fine cast. Lauren Bacall does some of her best work as the celebrity, supported by James Garner as her loyal ex, Maureen Stapleton as her feisty secretary, Hector Elizondo as a no-nonsense detective, Dwight Schultz as a theater director (a minor role but Schultz's gifts are usually squandered), and young Michael Biehn, very effective as the handsome young psychopath.
What doesn't help at all is the tediously generic music, a disappointment from seasoned horror-film composer Pino Donaggio, who scored "Don't Look Now" and half a dozen films for Brian De Palma, including "Blow Out" the same year, during which he also scored "The Howling" for Joe Dante, and "The Black Cat," an Italian horror film. Maybe he ran dry.
Little Miss Marker (1934)
"Daddy says there's nobody named God."
Shirley Temple carries the movie as "Little Miss Marker," managing to semi-plausibly, semi-comically, and single-handedly reform a gang of Broadway gamblers and crooked bookies in 1930s New York. The movie has strong points and weak points, but, with all due respect to the Library of Congress, the weak points win by a nose.
The movie takes huge liberties with Damon Runyon's original story. The key incident remains a widower offering his daughter as temporary collateral to a bookie, Sorrowful Jones (Adolph Menjou), while he dashes off to get his stake to place a $20 bet. But in the original, Daddy returns a few days later after a bout of amnesia, saying "Where is my darling child?" In the film, to my dismay, Daddy is killed off-- get this-- by committing suicide when his horse loses (in race fixed by the Broadway gang). We learn of his death only after Marky has said, "Daddy says there's nobody named God." So the audience is supposed to think, good riddance to Daddy? WTF.
You have to roll with the 1930s punches, including assigning insulting stereotypes to the Black actors (Willie Best as a shuffling janitor, uncredited Mildred Gover as a maid). The Asian (Wong Chung) doesn't fare much better, serving chop suey. But that probably would have been fine with Runyon, who gave his gamblers names like Wop Joey, Guinea Mike, and Big Nig.
But I doubt he would have approved of orphaning his little heroine to crowbar in some romance with two new characters: Bangles Carson (Dorothy Dell), a club singer and moll attached to Big Steve Halloway (Charles Bickford), a mobster who drugs horses. They stoke hope in the audience that little Marky will melt and meld the hearts of Bangles and Sorrowful and they become a family. Never mind that Bangles is only 19 and already regrets her criminal connections, while Sorrowful is 44 with a speedball for a horse in his pocket. Better to have two crooks as parents than an atheist.
Weakest of all is, though, is Alexander Hall's direction. He's from the point-shoot-cut school of cinema, and the editing put me in mind of my sixth-grade nephew's earlier works. I'm not inclined to blame the D. P., veteran Alfred Gilks, because the lighting is often praiseworthy, especially in the best scene, when Bangles sings Marky, Sorrowful, and herself to sleep. Like much of the dialog in the film, which is loaded with Runyonesque quips even if they're not by Runion, she sings a song worth excerpting, "Go to sleep you gorgeous little rascal/ Thank your stars you got a bed/ You better get your shut-eye while the gettin' is good/ You've got some rough nights ahead..."
Any Number Can Play (1949)
Gambling, with dignity
"Never more rugged... more romantic..." The trailer was a hard sell on Clark Gable, with clips from his heyday before showing him, now aged 48, in "Any Number Can Play." He does justice to the fine Richard Brooks screenplay about Charley Kyng, who is neither rugged nor particularly romantic. He's a husband, father, and businessman with a heart condition, and he succeeded in what would seem to be the wrong line of work for a family man: a casino.
This isn't Vegas; it's an archetypal American town, and Kyng is like a seasoned ringmaster in the three-ring circus of home, employees, and gamblers. His staff (Barry Sullivan, Edgar Buchanan, Mickey Knox) unabashedly adores him, which is a bit overboard, but reality kicks in with his steady customers. Some genuinely admire him, including a dowager with a grip on her gambling (Dorothy Comingore), but most of them feign friendliness while quite obviously regarding Kyng as they would a thief. He treats them all honestly and well, not simply to retain their loyalty but because that is his character. We see them at their various addictions-- poker, craps, slots-- and also in their encounters with him, which vary from dignified begging (Lewis Stone) to unrequited flirtation (Mary Astor) to ill-contained revenge (Frank Morgan). It's a full and sensitive picture of gamblers, minus any neon or Wayne Newtons.
At home, he's cherished by his wife Lon (Alexis Smith, miscast but competent) and her sister Alice (Audrey Totter with her usual attributes, cigarette and cocktail). But his teenage son (Darryl Hickman) is openly ashamed of him and the casino, and his brother-in-law, Alice's weaselly husband (Wendell Corey), who also a casino employee, runs the craps table with loaded dice to pay back his loan sharks. Kyng takes it all in stride, even his son's disappointment, though he never stops trying to mend that fence.
Ultimately this is a sober look the impact gambling has on families and their community, and economy. There are 152 titles on this site's "Best Gambling movies," an international list which does not include "Any Number Can Play." Personally, I'd put it in the Top 25, certainly of American films.
Madame de... (1953)
A fair comparison and a clear winner
Because they are thematically very similar and also very highly regarded, I watched two movies back-to-back: Chantal Akerman's "Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxelles" was named the greatest film of all time by the British Film Institute in 2022, while Max Ophüls' "The Earrings of Madame de..." has been called a masterpiece, "one of the most beautiful things ever created by human hands."
Each film is about a woman who lives according to her circumstances and her status. In Brussels in 1974, Jeanne (Delphine Seyrig) is a middle-aged, lower-middle class widow whose domestic work includes prostitution. In fin de siècle Paris, aristocratic Louise (Danielle Darrieux) has such extravagant tastes that she sells jewels and furs to hide debt from her husband (Charles Boyer). Both Jeanne and Louise seem to be superficial creatures, but strong undercurrents of emotion lead, for each of them at one point, to the violent death of a man.
All similarities end, however, when it comes to the final product. The films are almost opposites, most stunningly in length: at 3.5 hours(!), "Jeanne" is more than twice the length of "Earrings." Other differences: "Jeanne" was directed by a woman, in color, with no music, and little dialog (both French-language films are subtitled). "Earrings" was directed by a man, shot in black-and-white, with an orchestral score, and the dialog is crisp and revelatory of character.
But the real difference is more fundamental because it reveals the irrefutable superiority of Max Ophüls. Renowned for keeping his camera in motion, with long tracking shots through elaborate sets with reflective mirrors and windows, "Earrings" is a stunning example of his technique, and beautifully filmed by Christian Matras, who also worked with Cocteau, Buñuel, and Renoir. Every frame begs to be paused, there is so much in it.
Akerman, on the other hand, kept her camera stationary for minutes at a time while Jeanne performs in front of it: cooking, doing dishes, bathing, shopping, etc. I timed the scene of her opening a package: 3 minutes, 40 seconds, the cinematic equivalent of watching an egg boil. So the run time of 3.5 hours is no mystery. The mystery is *why" Akerman thinks her audience needs to wallow in boredom to show that Jeanne's life is a tedious routine. Akerman's lack of imagination and discipline is more tragic than her heroine's.
Akerman is known for her slow-paced movies, so if that's your thing, enjoy, and see some Andy Warhols while you're at it. But Max Ophüls is a master. With a very similar theme, he gave us a dynamic film that can be watched twice, and deserves to be for the glorious visuals, in the time it takes to slog through "Jeanne Dielman..." once. Even the title is bloated (and ostentatious).
NB: This review also appears with Akerman's movie.
Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975)
A fair comparison and a clear winner
Because of obvious similarities, I watched two movies back-to-back: Chantal Akerman's "Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxelles" was named the greatest film of all time by the British Film Institute in 2022, while Max Ophüls' "The Earrings of Madame de..." is considered a masterpiece, and has been called "one of the most beautiful things ever created by human hands."
Both films are about women who live according to their circumstances. In Brussels in 1974, Jeanne (Delphine Seyrig, far too beautiful for this role) is a widow whose domestic work includes prostitution. In fin de siècle Paris, Louise (Danielle Darrieux) has such extravagant tastes that she sells jewels and furs to hide debt from her aristocratic husband (Charles Boyer). Both Jeanne and Louise seem to be superficial creatures, but strong undercurrents of emotion lead each one to cause the violent death of a man.
All similarities end, however, when it comes to the final product. The films are almost opposites, most stunningly in length: at 3.5 hours(!), "Jeanne" is more than twice the length of "Earrings." Other differences: "Jeanne" was directed by a woman, in color, with no music, and little dialog (both French-language films are subtitled). "Earrings" was directed by a man, shot in black-and-white, with an orchestral score, and the dialog is crisp and revelatory of character.
But the real difference is more fundamental because it reveals the irrefutable superiority of Max Ophüls. Renowned for keeping his camera in motion, with long tracking shots through elaborate sets with reflective mirrors and windows, "Earrings" is a stunning example of his technique, and beautifully filmed by Christian Matras, who also worked with Cocteau, Buñuel, and Renoir. Every frame begs to be paused, there is so much in it.
Akerman, on the other hand, kept her camera stationary for minutes at a time while Jeanne performs in front of it-- cooking, doing dishes, bathing, fornicating, etc. I timed the scene of her opening a package: 3 minutes, 40 seconds, which makes it the cinematic equivalent of watching an egg boil. So the run time of 3.5 hours is no mystery. The mystery is *why* Akerman thinks the audience needs to wallow in boredom to show that Jeanne's life has ground to a miserable halt-- which, by the way, does not describe every middle-class widow, so if this is feminist, it's feminist agitprop and it's insulting.
Akerman's famous for her slow-paced movies, so if that's your thing, enjoy, and rent some Andy Warhols while you're at it. But Max Ophüls took a similar theme and gave us a dynamic movie that can be watched twice, and probably should be to see all that's in it, in the time it takes to slog through "Jeanne Dielman" (even the title is ridiculously long-- what's is it with Akerman?).
NB: This same review is posted for Ophüls film.
Too Late for Tears (1949)
The lady IS the tiger
Dan Duryea is so solid in his signature role, self-described as "the meanest s.o.b in the movies," that it always feels like he wrote his own dialogue. But no, he just makes it his own, and he's given some choice quips in "Too Late for Tears," one of the earliest screenplays from Roy Huggins.
"Too Late for Tears" is one of those over-the-top noirs where the woman is the baddest of the bad. Jane (Lizabeth Scott) accuses her mild husband, Alan Palmer (Arthur Kennedy), of giving her "a dozen down payments and installments for the rest of our lives." So when their convertible is mistaken for a getaway car and a satchel with (the 1949 equivalent of) $60K in unmarked bills is thrown into their backseat, she wants to get away with it. Manipulations and murders ensue, and with twists and turns provided by Alan's sister (Kristine Miller) and a mysterious arrival (Don DeFore, of all second bananas), and especially Danny Fuller (Duryea). Fuller tracks his stolen loot to Jane, who is every inch a gangster, and a ruthless one. He calls her Tiger, and their sparring suggests he's attracted to her, but too wary of her to act on it, as when he says, "Don't ever change, Tiger. I don't think I'd like you with a heart."
Veteran director Byron Haskin maintains a quick pace, so boredom is not an option. Unfortunately, Hollywood commands that bad guys get punished, and the punishment here has its disappointments, but also its rewards, like the final image of bloodied money in someone's dead hand.
I Walk Alone (1947)
Epic noir, from bootlegging to bookkeeping
James Agee was right to admire the "sharp scene about an old-fashioned gangster's helplessness against modern business methods"-- but he's dead wrong about that particular gangster remaining helpless.
During the 14 years Frankie Madison (Burt Lancaster) was in prison for bootlegging, mobsters found a kind of legitimacy in the loopholes of corporate bylaws and tax codes. Now an ex-con, he returns to claim his share from the prosperous nightclub business of his ex-partners, venal Noll (Kirk Douglas) and reluctant Dave (Wendell Corey), only to be dumbfounded and swindled with accounting double-talk. Temporarily.
Everyone walks alone in "I Walk Alone," as crooks always have and always will, with every crooked method available, and Frankie has the wits to use those reliable old methods wisely. The final sequence is a superbly structured echo of all that came before. After Noll has Dave murdered (in an exceptionally fine scene of pure silvery noir), he frames Frankie. But Frankie turns the tables, trapping Noll with old gangster tricks as well as memories of their bootlegging days in the form of threatening reminders of homicides they committed, one by fire and one in a freezer (nice contrast). Ultimately, he uses Noll's own bylaws and contracts against him.
That final sequence is also Lancaster's most restrained work in this solidly structured, tightly written movie. Douglas gives a finely controlled performances with wry comic touches, and Wendell Corey is even better, perfectly cast as a decent man trying to go straight-- both do justice to the dialog they're given as opposites on the same side, Douglas almost sociopathic, Corey a tortured pawn. Lizabeth Scott does her sultry bit, Kristine Miller weaves her own evil as Noll's golden goose, and the various thugs bust heads with appropriately businesslike efficiency (thug Mickey Knox almost steals every scene he's in).
A shadowy and slick film noir, it is a high point in the careers of Hollywood stalwarts, director Byron Haskin and his D. P. Leo Tover. Praise, too, to the three writers who gave them a screenplay that, both presciently and ironically, nails the loopholes and tax codes that do indeed facilitate crime-- and are very similar to what is now called 'Hollywood bookkeeping.'
A Man in Full (2024)
Minimizing satire, maximizing shock
With David E. Kelly adapting Tom Wolfe, I anticipated radical streamline satire à la Wolfe with a preposterous "Boston Legal" edge. What we get is watered-down. Still, with Jeff Daniels carrying the water, it almost works. When his character accepts an award, and suddenly the camera reduces the attending audience to one person, his son, which awakens his conscience-- it's a strong moment, but there aren't enough of them to sustain six episodes.
Unfortunately, even apart from the infamous priapic climax, which adulterates the novel, there are problems.
For starters, the parallel plots barely overlap. Most footage is spent on the ruthless white world of Croker (Daniels, leaning too heavily on a Southern drawl), which reduces the Black world to a subplot: his secretary (Chanté Adams) and her husband (Jon Michael Hill), and the friendship between his corporate lawyer Roger White (Aml Ameen) and Atlanta mayor Wes Harper (Wes Jordan, who is absolutely superb as a manipulative politician).
Kelley has a fine ear for dialogue, but there's little bite left in Wolfe's sweeping satire. Instead we get scenes of copulation in the bedrooms of white people, and, for extra shock value, in a stable with horses and a crowd of voyeurs in various stages of shock or awe. And oh, yes, there's the tumid ending. Unfortunately, the organ belongs to Croker's nemesis, Raymond Peepgrass, who needs two blue pills to rise to the occasion, and is forgettably played as a bespectacled beta male by an actor whom I couldn't pull out of a line-up (Tom Pelphrey).
The Dig (2021)
A treasure about a treasure
Few recent films have aimed this high-- from archaeology to astronomy, the full sweep of time-- and fewer still have reached the sublime heights that "The Dig" does, and with that perfectly prosaic title, as uninviting as they come.
The Sutton Hoo site dates to the 6th Century, but wasn't discovered until the eve of World War II so the buried ship is unearthed as modern warplanes fly overhead. The significance of the find is given its full historic due in a story with a range of characters from the full spectrum of humanity: the widow with a heart condition who owns the land, Edith Pretty (Carey Mulligan, whose youthful smirk is finally fading), her sensitive young son, their vigilant butler (Danny Webb), and handsome camera-carrying cousin who is about to join the RAF (Johnny Flynn); the dedicated amateur archaeologist, Basil Brown (Ralph Fiennes, also aging into a better actor) and his weary wife, about to be energized(Monica Dolan); a by-the-book professor of archaeology (Ken Stott) and his team, including a thoughtful young woman (Lily James) and her closeted husband (Ben Chaplin). Each person's story unfolds to the background of the Anglo-Saxon ship-- a burial site-- being slowly and respectfully excavated. Loyalties form, and are tested. Passions develop, romantic and professional.
The passage of time is beautifully rendered with scenes filmed both in daytime and at night, flooded with sunshine or literally flooded with rain. The screenplay rises to greatness, as when Edith laments, "We don't live on," and Basil replies, "From the first human handprint on a cave wall, we're part of something continuous."
I will keep an eye out for works by Moira Buffini, the screenwriter, but even more so for the author of the original novel, John Preston. His adaptation of "A Very English Scandal," terrific as it was, didn't prepare me for a work of the depth and reach of "The Dig."
High Crimes (2002)
A cover-up without a crime
This is a big step down for director Carl Franklin (One False Move, Devil in a Blue Dress), not because of him but because of the badly flawed screenplay.
More than 10 years after the murder of eight civilians in a military action in El Salvador, an ex-marine, Tom Kubik alias Ron Chapman (Jim Caviezel) faces court martial, but points the finger at a comrade, Major Hernández (Juan Carlos Hernández). Chapman's lawyers are his wife Claire (Ashley Judd) and two military attorneys, a rookie, Lt. Embry (Adam Scott) and a veteran, Charlie Grimes (Morgan Freeman). During the trial, all three lawyers are terrorized by what appears to be a conspiracy led by Hernández to cover up his crime. Claire and Grimes are beaten up separately, a car accident is staged, a witness (Michael Shannon) is coerced into lying, using prostitutes for the mandatory lurid scenes.
The problem is, Chapman *is guilty.* So why would innocent Hernández want to terrorize Chapman's defense team? He has nothing to do with the crime, except possibly as a witness but he's not used as such.
Genuine talent went into this movie, but the standard formula (the spouse is guilty after all) was ruined by a truly inane ending. The perpetrators would seem to be the knuckleheaded writers, Yuri Zeltser and Grace Cary Bickley, long may they remain obscure.
Spy Game (2001)
Dangerously disarming
This is Robert Redford's movie, and he is at the top of his game. There are dozens and dozens of spy movies, and his portrayal of CIA agent Nathan Muir is among my absolute favorites. He embodies just about every quality you could imagine in a secret agent.
Being disarmingly handsome is always an asset, but Muir is also disarmingly charming. That dissembling exterior conceals a veteran spy who is keenly observant, amazingly quick-witted, discreetly calculating, utterly confident in his judgment, and absolutely ruthless when he has to be. He's inscrutable to people he doesn't trust (colleagues can't even agree on how many wives he has had). On the other hand, his evident sincerity inspires loyalty in those he does trust, especially his assistant Gladys (Marianne Jean-Baptiste).
"Spy Game" also scores with Brad Pitt as his protégé, Tom Bishop, a shrewd and multi-talented young man who proves himself a reliable agent in Berlin and in Beirut, but also a man whose first duty is to his conscience. The movie very effectively switches from action sequences in the field to strategic conferences in headquarters, where Stephen Dillane is terrific as Redford's nemesis, the two of them constantly trying to outsmart each other. Ultimately, it is less about international intrigue (smart though it is on that subject) than about the conflict between duty and honor.
The Equalizer 3 (2023)
A different kind of suspense
People hate spoilers because suspense is critical to plots. But a different kind of suspense is required for franchise characters because, in spite of dangers galore, they have to survive for sequels. Harry Callahan survived five movies. Rocky Balboa, seven. Sherlock Holmes has been played by 75 actors in more than 250 productions (as I write, with more to come). James Bond survived 26 films before "No Time to Die" (and he'll be back). So the suspense isn't about whether he'll die; it's about how he'll survive.
"The Equalizer" is all about that "how." Denzel Washington brings a zen-like implacability to even the most perilous situations. It has a calming effect. I never worry about him; I relish what he's going to do to the villains in his path and how he's going to do it. His vigilante actions are a kind of pure experience, not to be taken seriously, except as the artful entertainment. It's especially fun when it's filmed, as Eq3 was, in a location like Italy's Amalfi Coast and in Naples, both places recognized in full, as beautiful and dangerous.
And Antoine Fuqua makes the most of this formula with his signature style: vigorous violence, full of over-the-top surprises. I wonder if Fuqua thinks himself to sleep at night imagining new ways to kill people, quick ways, slow ways, weapons at hand, vulnerable body parts. He likes to aim for the eyes. Given the variety in "Equalizer 3," I don't think he'll ever run out of ways for McCall, with all but supernatural powers, to butcher bad guys. I look forward to laughing my way through the next installment.
Hit Man (2023)
A groundbreaking, and maybe lawbreaking, romcom
Director Richard Linklater and his partner in crime, writer/actor Glen Powell, took damnable liberties with the life of their hero, as if he wasn't interesting enough: an investigator for the Houston district attorney, Gary Johnson also worked undercover for the police as a phony gun-for-hire to prevent murders by getting evidence on would-be perpetrators. But a movie about preventing murders? Clearly that's not big box office for these Hollywood crawlers, so they turn his life into a romcom such as I have never seen before because they also turn Johnson into a killer-- and not just a killer but a cop-killer, and a depraved one: he puts a plastic bag over the head of an unconscious cop and lets him suffocate while he and his girlfriend flirt.
The real Johnson never murdered anyone, nor was he a philosophy professor, as he is here, which makes the plot preposterous as well as odious.
In the best sequence, he wears a series of costumes and wigs to get evidence on various citizens who want someone killed, each scene ending with a quick cut to each citizen's mugshot. That's it for comedy. What follows, inevitably and unfortunately, is the romance: Johnson meets Madison (Adria Arjona), who claims to be an abused wife, but turns out to be a liar and a killer, so probably a sociopath. The plot twists and turns briefly, but lingers on soft-core sex scenes after the partners agree not to complicate their affair with anything like genuine emotion.
Which, of course, isn't what happens: "As love can do, somewhere along the way it changed me," he says at one point. Yes, it did. For the worse. The Texas Civil Practice and Remedies Code 73.001 defines libel as defamation that injures a dead or living person's reputation. Maybe somebody with standing should serve Linklater and Powell with a lawsuit on behalf of Gary Johnson (1947-2022), whose legacy they exploited and criminally trashed in this detestable film.
Layer Cake (2004)
Gangsters galore, but not really a gangster flick
"Layer Cake" is a black comedy about capitalism set in the world of drug trafficking, and never for a moment does it stop being boldly cynical. It's all told lickety-split, with solid acting, editing, an absolutely great soundtrack, and a terrifically terse screenplay.
At its center is Daniel Craig in a brilliant performance as a young entrepreneur, Xxxx, who plans to cash in while drugs are still illegal, then get out. "I'm not a gangster," he says in early narration, "I'm a businessman whose commodity happens to be cocaine."
Unfortunately, his associates *are* gangsters and his simple cash-in/get-out plan hits the skids in a sea of stereotypically ruthless bosses, dealers, thugs, junkies (including a strung-out Sally Hawkins), and a chemist (Tom Hardy, who oozes scorn)-- people he cautiously uses. What Xxxx does not use is the drugs he traffics. At most, he has the occasional beer-- at first. But as the story unfolds and he gets trapped in a violent and dangerous plan, everything starts to change. He starts knocking back whiskies to deal with the situation, and the gangsters start to become individuals, all maneuvering in their separate ways to survive the racket.
Xxxx reminded me of Voltaire's Candide, a young man of "the most unaffected simplicity." Xxxx's simple plan is doomed because, far from being in "the best of all possible worlds," he has chosen one of the worst: the hellish world smuggling contraband. As solid and smart as Matthew Vaughan's movie is, it would have been even better if, like Candide, he had survived his perilous adventures and found peace "cultivating his own garden." But movies tend to punish criminals in the end (propaganda on behalf of righteousness), and, to my great surprise and greater disappointment, "Layer Cake" fell victim to industrial dishonesty.
Judy (2019)
Fiercely Judy
This will be an unpopular opinion, but I admired Judy Garland as a singer and actress, and "Judy" did not do her justice: Renee Zellweger's Oscar was a triumph of fierce impersonation, mask-level make-up, and mimetic costuming over depth and sensitivity. Instead of the film being a realistic or sympathetic look at Garland's final year, she's presented pathetic and needy, given wisecracks meant to hide crippling self-pity.
Zellweger is a capable actress with considerable range. Not here. At no point was I in danger of thinking I was looking at anybody but Zellweger in drag as Judy. I'm really only reviewing it as a way to remind people of, and recommend, a far better film biography starring Judy Davis: "Life with Judy Garland: Me and My Shadows," a two-part series on ABC in 2001. Based on Lorna Luft's memoir about her family, it won five of the 13 Emmy awards it was nominated for, including one for Davis as Outstanding Lead Actress. Unfortunately, as I write, it's only on DVD or :)VHS.
The Notebook (2004)
McAdams in a dual role
I can't imagine that "The Notebook" would be half as popular without Rachel McAdams in the exceedingly difficult role of Allison Hamilton. The setting is Charleston in the early 1940s, and Allie is a self-confident young woman (McAdams was about 24) on summer vacation on Seabrook Island with her wealthy parents. She decisively rebuffs the bold advances of 20ish Noah Calhoun (Ryan Gosling), but he is charming, relentless, and more than a little reckless-- and then, abruptly, so is she. In one nighttime scene, they lie down in an intersection, talking, until headlights approach and they scramble in a mad dash to the sidewalk. Noah has a normal "whew!" reaction, but Allie responds with excited, uncontrollable laughter. We soon learn that Allie is only 17, so McAdams is now playing a different role-- a headstrong teenager. Giddy and excitable now, she joins Noah in his slightly risky antics and they become inseparable, until her parents discover that he's a mill worker, and therefore not good enough for her. So Noah is nixed. McAdams then has two hysterical scenes that would reduce lesser actresses to chewing scenery.
The heavy-handed story doesn't help. Once separated, Noah writes to Allie every single day for a year, precisely 365 letters, which is meant to be ultra-romantic, but it seems like a red flag to me, adding justification to her mother's disapproval (Joan Allen, who also handles inconsistent roles very well). By the way, does lovesick Allie ever write to Noah? No.
Because writer's cramp doesn't disqualify young men from the armed services, Noah enlists and is off to fight WWII. Back home, Allie goes to college in New York and, working as a volunteer nurse, falls in love with a wounded soldier, Lon Hammond (James Marsden). Lon conveniently happens to be from Charleston, too, and from old money, so her parents approve. But as a character, he is a Noah all over again, charming and relentless, but better looking and rich. Lon proposes and she accepts but, once back in South Carolina, resumes her affair with Noah, amid rain and swans. Ultimately, she has to decide between her equally smitten suitors, Lon and Noah, each man more compassionately noble (and implausible) than the other.
There is a gimmicky mystery involved: "The Notebook" of the title refers to a chronicle about their courtship. Sixty years later, in a nursing home, a man (James Garner) reads the story aloud to a woman played by Gena Rowlands, whose divine performance is like a crown to McAdams' work, and who turns out to be Allie, now suffering dementia. Garner turns out to be one of her lovers. Which one? It's not too hard to figure out, even confused Allie manages to, but here's a hint: it's not the actor who looks more like James Garner (and is his fellow Oklahoman).
Jagged Edge (1985)
Glenn Close, with and without a spine
My weakness for courtroom dramas led me to "Jagged Edge," which is more romance than mystery, and disappointing for other reasons as well. It's all too familiar: a wealthy woman is murdered so we get plenty of eye candy in the form of posh houses, plush offices, and Jeff Bridges.
Bridges is fine as Jack, who is arrested as the prime suspect in his wife's murder. He has a solid motive (greed). Unfortunately, he has an equally good motive to seduce his female lawyer: securing complete loyalty. That, plus the fact that there are no other credible suspects, led me to assume he was guilty from the start. So, not a whodunit.
Close, on the other hand, is double-whammied: another schizo role, but miscast this time. Her apparent strabismus was perfect for "Fatal Attraction," making her look a little crazy. Here, director Richard Marquand compensates for the imperfection, especially in close-ups, by filming her out of focus or with diffusion filters, an Impressionistic trick to make her look prettier and younger. She's also given a cutesy name, Teddy, and an ex-husband and two kids, for no reason important to the plot. As for her career, it's formulaic Hollywood frosting: she never lost a criminal case. But most contrived of all is Teddy's character: a strong attorney but a spineless woman who hops into bed with her client in spite of a host of ethical and rational reasons not to.
There's also a heavy-handed backstory: four years ago, D. A. Krasny (Peter Coyote) withheld evidence that led to a wrongful conviction of a Black man, who killed himself in prison. Teddy was his co-counsel, which is supposed to explain her lily-livered refusal to continue working as as a defense attorney. It also leads to scenes of her and the Black widow (Phyllis Applegate) meant to tug at heartstrings which are too blatant to bring a tear to these eyes.
Kudos, though, for the ending, which is as crisp as Indiana Jones shooting the berobed swordsman. So refreshing compared to most Hollywood thrillers, where the bad guys have more lives than Rasputin.
Finally, for the record, because Robert Loggia got an Oscar nomination for playing the tough private detective, has Loggia ever played anything but a tough guy?
Anna Karenina (1948)
In the name of love, people think they can do anything
It is impossible to do justice to a multi-faceted masterpiece like Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina," but this adaptation is the best so far. The terse yet sensitive screenplay by French playwright Jean Anouilh, Welsh writer Guy Morgan, and director Julien Duvivier is well served by Henri Alekan behind the camera (he filmed Cocteau's luminous "La Belle et la Bête" two years earlier).
It is also among Vivien Leigh's finest performances. Consider just one scene: When Anna confesses her 'affaire de coeur' to her husband Karenin (Ralph Richardson), she admits that she is helpless to her love for a cavalry officer, Count Vronsky (Kieron Moore): "Some things are stronger than we are. I cannot help myself." Within seconds the helpless wife becomes the helpless mother, victimized yet again by love-- this time her love for their son, whom Karenin intends to gain custody of. Even in close-ups, Leigh captures the essence of a woman who can neither control her passions nor reconcile them.
It may be said that Anna must choose between her son and her lover, but because she "cannot help myself," it is not a choice: her passion for Vronsky proves to be the overpowering love. Still, we must be held responsible for our actions, and she is, by her husband.
"A deceived husband is a bad part, difficult to act with dignity." The dignity with which Ralph Richardson delivers that line as Karenin is what sets this adaptation apart. His Karenin is not a villain. He is rigidly upright, placing responsibility for the dissolution of their family where it belongs, on helpless Anna. When Anna almost dies giving birth to an illegitimate daughter, he even forgives Vronsky. Richardson brings a fullness to the portrait of Karenin that I believe Tolstoy would have applauded. When Anna demands, "How dare you tell that child his mother was dead?", his resonant reply silences her, "What should I have told him? That she had run away with her lover?"