drqshadow-reviews

Probably the first horror film, this ancient, influential murder mystery thrives on its eerie, off-putting atmosphere and strange, distinct aesthetic. The story introduces us to a creepy carnival barker, peddling the services of an allegedly psychic sleepwalker in a village fair. Though he's been asleep for two-plus decades, proto-goth kid Cesare can be compelled to crack an eyelid from time to time if bold theatergoers show an interest in learning their destiny. And, as we'll learn, that's not his only act.

Dramatic storytelling was usually pretty limited in the silent picture days, and even mildly complex plots like this one prove the reason why: it's disruptive to interrupt the action with so many text cards. Particularly the highly-stylized, borderline illegible type used by _Caligari_. A little economy and/or ingenuity would've gone a long way in this respect, as I suspect most of the narrative work could've been more simply written, if not completely conveyed through visual cues within the picture.

_Caligari_'s largest significance lies in its visual language, anyway. Surrounded by jagged architecture and nightmarish landscapes, the cast nonchalantly navigates impossible staircases and warped city streets while going about their daily business. Doors open at 45-degree angles. Claustrophobic room proportions seem to inch closer when we aren't looking. Windows, alleys and mountaintops connect in nonsensical, irrational ways. Merely observing from the couch, watching the nonplussed reaction of the world's denizens, is like plowing through a surreal, murky dream of one's own. Which, I imagine, is the point. Many elements of the production, and its performances, would be mimicked and replicated by similar genre films in the years to come. I see a whole lot of Max Schreck's Nosferatu, for example, in Conrad Veidt's lanky, unnatural performance as Cesare, this film's nearly-mindless maladroit monster.

Even as stylish early horror goes, this isn't great. The wild artwork and ghoulish makeup effects are masterful touches, but the story is plodding, the mystery is obvious and the acting is often ridiculously melodramatic. Plus, even at a mere seventy-odd minutes, the film is heavily padded by a load of pointless go-nowhere, do-nothing shots. Horror had to start somewhere, I guess, and _Caligari_ leaves plenty of room for improvement.

It's tough to fairly critique a movie so widely lauded as one of the greats. How does one watch The Godfather with an open mind after fifty years of critical pressure? That goes double for Citizen Kane, given its additional age and notoriety. Older movies can be hard to contextualize, even for those already well-versed in the era's cinematic language. In 1941, Hollywood had only been making talkies for a few years. For Kane, though, I actually see this elder status as a benefit: it does more than just hold up, it holds its own. Eight decades later, Orson Welles's ambitious debut remains engaging and easy to watch, even by modern standards. There's just something about a well-crafted story, told with care and conviction, that never goes out of style. Its plot is colorful and alluring, stuffed with dynamic, rounded characters. Its artistry is sharp and daring, richly designed and strikingly photographed. Each frame is deeply considered and imbued with meaning. There's similar fire and passion in nearly every element. The big cast of stage veterans, eager to prove their worth on the screen. The iconography, expertly crafted and larger than life. The lingering mystery of "Rosebud," befuddling and powerful as a story mover and rewarding as a final revelation. Welles has lined everything up just-so, an intricate web of large acts and small tells that come together to weave an irresistible saga.

Citizen Kane's framing device works extraordinarily well, dispensing a street-smart journalist to puzzle over a magnate's last words while sifting through the spoken record to paint an outline of his life. He segues from one interview to another, capturing snippets of the man's character from all angles, before finally arriving at the conclusion that no single word, no matter how enigmatic, could possibly explain a life so thoroughly lived. He's completely wrong on that count. "Rosebud" speaks volumes about this man: his desperation to be admired and loved; his refusal to really open himself up in pursuit of those goals; his tireless efforts to meet an impossible expectation; his sharp dismissal of anyone who dares challenge his ideals. Unfortunately for our weary newsman, no living soul remains to express these nuances, nor to connect them to the word in question. Without that context, its origins mean nothing. Charles Foster Kane left plenty of observers in his wake - spurned comrades, embittered lovers, jaded employees, jealous observers - but the man they describe is only a projection. The image he wished the world to see, not the one which dwelt beneath the steely shell.

That's a relatively simple story, really. The man who seemingly has everything, overcompensating to satisfy an urge that most of us would take for granted. Welles adds cinematic flourishes, draws magnificent performances from his cast (including himself) and spices it with a tantalizing secret, but this wouldn't be recognized as such a landmark achievement if that main arc weren't so well-realized, recognizable and effective. Put it all together? Yeah, that's deserving of all-timer status. A masterpiece of film.

Top Gun gets a belated parody treatment, five years after the fact, from the writer of Airplane!, Top Secret! And The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad!, Jim Abrahams. Later, he'd also direct Mafia! What can I say, the man likes a good exclamation point. With Charlie Sheen and Cary Elwes in the primary roles of not-Maverick and not-Iceman, plus colorful supporting parts for Lloyd Bridges and Jon Cryer, the cast is pretty well funded. These guys happily lean into the film's status as a shameless joke farm, one with zero sense of tact or humility, but it sure feels like they all know they're slumming. Not that Airplane! Was highbrow entertainment, but it does seem Abrahams and company's standards have lowered in the ensuing decade. Truly, no stone is left unturned in this quest to take the fullest possible amount of piss.

Those throw-everything-at-the-wall comic stylings aren't without merit. The Hot Shots! Brand of humor may be forced and primitive, but I still found plenty to laugh at. Primarily Sheen's fierce determination to deliver line after line of insanely crude dialogue with a stone cold bad boy scowl. Bridges is great, too, working a further-inflated variation of the frazzled, brain-dead commander role he embodied in Airplane!, this time in military colors. Beyond that, expect plenty of basic sight gags, dollar store puns and forced plot beats. While most simple comedies consider the story to be a secondary concern, in this case it might be fifth or sixth in the pecking order; it merely exists to carry us on to the next cheap set of props and punchlines. And even then, only after both barrels have been well and truly emptied.

Having said all that, it does hold up better than I remembered. I winced when the family asked me to put this on for movie night, then surprised myself by snorting on a pretty regular basis. The good bits are still funny, but its enthusiasm for laying crosshairs on the easiest possible target is excessive at best.