After all of the groundwork, research, and hubbub last month, I have only so far watched five features. A nice start, 1/8th of the way towards my minimum viewing goal, but still a bit low for my standards. I'm a film lover, a man who would sweat out for new releases and trek for a few rare gems, a man who believes in the religion of the Criterion, and yet unable to push my daily schedule of rampant internet videos for a blooming 1978 martial arts flick?
To wet my appetite, I thought of starting off with something light, a delicate feather touch to my senses. It was going to be Death Wish, the rugged 70's vigilante bloodbath, both to get the ball rolling and a tribute to its recently departed director. However, Oscar season was fully in the air and, as usual, Turner Classic Movies was showing the contenders and winners of the majestic Hollywood award. So, instead of greasy genre fare, I started my prolonged dessert course with a rich Princess Cake, with extra marzipan and a side of whipped cream straight from London.
1946's Notorious has been one of the most acclaimed works of Alfred Hitchcock, and it greatly shows. The harsh violence comes more from internal attacks of the human body and the only gore is a ruptured wine bottle. Starring the dreamy duo of Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, this spy thriller was a bonafide masterpiece.
Bergman is recruited by Grant to work for the U.S. government in a Nazi sting operation in Brazil. Due to her father being a convicted American traitor and her infamous party-going behavior, she blends in easy as she swindles a former lover played by Claude Rains. A sordid and tumultuous love triangle of course springs out, all the while investigating what is hidden behind closed doors, including the wine cellar.
The cinematography is just stunning to look at, always inventive and unique, from the backside introduction of Cary Grant's Devlin to the celebrated and astonishing crane shot at the house party, starting from the second floor set to a closeup of Bergman's closed hand. With Hitchcock at the helm, you know that the suspense will be palpable, as keys are flung about behind people's backs, silent observations are noted by Bergman and the audience, and stairways progress to a possible deadly shootout. Then, there's the controversial and steamy kissing scene that had censors fuming that the filmmakers worked around their "laws". A great way to start.
Next up would be one of the most requested films among my family members and friends, not to mention one of the most acclaimed Oscar films in terms of acting. Sophie's Choice ended up simply being good, certainly not grand as it wishes to be. Though Meryl Streep's performance is heartily justified, the film is a slogging chore of nearly three hours.
The opening reeks of book adaptation and asinine wackiness, as a young aspiring white writer, a Southern boy looking to craft the next great American novel, heads to 1947 New York. Horribly named Stingo, he stays at a boarding house covered in pink paint. That's not a conservative color, that's just silly! There, he befriends his upstairs neighbors, a couple whose generosity is matched by their manic dysfunction. Nathan, played by a film debuting Kevin Kline, is the source of all the troubles, a man who adores joie de vivre and Stingo until his drug addiction causes him to provoke and threaten the boy. Sophie, on the other hand, somehow can deal with Nathan's bipolar mood swings, dooming her chances of a better life. Of course, once her past is explored by Stingo, her hope has already died long ago.
Let's get the easy part out first: "the scene" is the absolute best moment. It may have been spoiled and referenced consistently since its release but it still easily stirs an emotional response from the viewer. Also, Streep is non-existent; I only see Sophie on the screen. However, when it wasn't dragging its feet to the obvious finish, the story was often flat, excluding Sophie's monologues and her past life in Poland. The turmoil between Sophie and Nathan is introduced so clumsily, as they fight on the stairway, blocked into stereotypical melodramatic poses, as Nathan yells how Sophie is "suffocating" him. I thought it was all a joke at first until I realized this would be the major moving force of the plot, repeating endlessly with make-up gifts, celebrations, and then more in-fighting. The other glaring error is that there is no romantic vibes between Stingo and Sophie at all, yet the narration says there is. It is not Peter MacNicol's fault, as the preppy Stingo, but the faults of Alan Pakula's writing and directing skills.
After the meh response to Sophie, I then started to embark on another three hour marathon, this time with way better results. Magnolia has always been the weirdest film from auteur Paul Thomas Anderson, a director who I have been having a hard time dealing with. I wanted to check out last year's The Master in theaters but spurned by the confusing critical reception and my own opinion of his last venture, the extremely overrated There Will Be Blood. Of the now six films for him, Magnolia is the one still mocked by the general public, even more so than the Adam Sandler-starring Punch-Drunk Love. For the longest time, beyond Tom Cruise's Oscar nominated performance and presence of raining frogs at some point, I've always linked the film to Kevin Smith's funny at the time Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, where there's a side-plot of the titled duo attacking online fans of the film. While that film has now languished in obscurity, hopefully with the future of Smith's career, Magnolia will continue to stand more out.
Like Sophie, the film is way too long, with a few minutes over three hours. Yet, I never was crushed by the soul-destroying environment of the San Fernando Valley or the slightly interconnected lives of its inhabitants and the film's main cast. Taking place over a long 24 hours, where the major hype of the day is a live broadcast of a long-running quiz show, several men and women from different classes and professionals are all placed in tough circumstances that will bring out the truth of their souls. A cancer-stricken and dying millionaire, his flippant trophy wife, the man's warmhearted male nurse, a decrepit television host, his self-destructive estranged daughter, a ridiculed child prodigy, a former quiz kid turned hapless adult, a goofy but fair beat cop, and a male chauvinist motivational speaker are the ones we see suffer for their past and present problems. Then, the frogs come raining down on them but not before sharing a rendition of an Aimee Mann song. And, the notion set up in the prologue and ending that cruel tricks in the cognitive tissue of life have happened and continue to do so.
Despite its oddities, the film was a visual blast, always moving with its striking cinematography and careful edits to make the internal clock of the human mind to be suspended. It's hard to rate the performances considering the multitude of heavyweights in the cast and the fact that each main and side character have an arc and a signature moment. If I had to, Cruise is certainly the most delightful and quotable, though he faces stiff competition with Julianne Moore with the latter. His character experiences the widest range, going from deliberately flamboyant to absolute mute. However, the best will have to go to John C. Reilly, in what has to be my favorite of his performances. Pretty much the sole morally good character, his cop is always on the straight and narrow and willing to forgive and forget the transgressions of others, unless there is a body in the closet.
As for All the King's Men, there sadly isn't much to say about it. It's good, well done at times to justify its Best Picture win, but it feels too straightforward. Broderick Crawford is stunning as Willie Stark, a hick whose outspoken attitude against the political machine and rampant corruption leads him to be the governor of Louisiana, only to then revel in his own egotism and dictatorship rule over the peons under his office. The rest of the cast is fine, though Joanne Dru's only acting tip is to quickly shake her head side to side. Mercedes McCambridge is entertaining in her award-winning supporting role but she quickly disappears to the sidelines once Willie is governor. The baffling final betrayal is a bit confusing to understand rationally: why does a certain character leak blackmail material to Stark to spite another character, despite having nothing really to gain for it and has no ill will towards someone who is family? Entertaining and certainly far, far better than the 2006 remake.
1945's Best Picture winner The Lost Weekend was noted as the first big win for writer/director Billy Wilder, one of my favorites, and for its then groundbreaking look at alcoholism. It certainly has all of the same great traits of Wilder, especially with running personal gags like Ray Milland's inability to put a cigarette in his mouth the right way. At first, I thought Milland would be too campy, as his eyes come beaming out during his monologues about the joys of liquor, but he eventually settles into a dark and hurtful performance as a struggling writer whose is driven to the bottle by his lack of success and public humiliation. The film buckles on to all of the chaos, scored to a comical theremin, leading to some devastating moments, such as a stint in a alcoholic's ward, complete with a hard-boiled, slang-happy male nurse played by Ernie, the taxi driver in It's a Wonderful Life. The major problem is the ending, where the melodrama grows stale and everything comes off like a fake PSA. All of the suspense, all of the horrors and all of the despair, only to end with an incredibly flat suicide attempt. Apparently, after looking up information, this was tacked on because of the still prevailing Hays Code. Damn you, Hays.
No comments:
Post a Comment