The second block of films to burn through are of one genre: comedy. It is the hardest form of entertainment to pull off well, since it all relies on the reactions of its audience. Thankfully, all of them were above par in laughs and content.
The Great Dictator certainly is one of Charlie Chaplin's many masterpieces, an often hilarious political satire where Chaplin plays both a dumb-founded Jewish WWI vet turned barber and a Hilter caricature dubbed "Adenoid Hynkel". There are many great set-pieces, including the famous dance with the globe, but my highlight was the day in the life trip of Hynkel, as he moves from room to room with jokes ranging from speed action to black humor. Yet, despite some well-made zingers at the travesties of human conflict and discrimination, the film is also a bit too disturbing to say the least. From the casual look of the "concentration camps", to the scene where Chaplin is to be hung, to the image of a Jew being shot and killed on his doorstep, the film gets disquieting quick. Then, there's the issue with the constant soapboxing, where the characters deliver long soliloquies literally to the audience about global brotherhood, particularly the strange ending speech that apparently took forever for Chaplin to write up. A great and historic effort but too creepy and preachy.
I didn't love "Crocodile" Dundee but I don't really have any problems with it. The film is just too clean and warmhearted to be offended at, even when the titled character hands out a unique handshake. A legendary Australian outdoorsman/charming titled hero takes a rich New York reporter around the Outback before heading to the Big City with her. A major showcase for writer and actor Paul Hogan, he certainly steals the show with his politeness, chivalrousness, and for both being a good ole boy and a socially-cultured Aussie. Even when the script resorts to featuring the overstuffed and ignorant boyfriend stereotype, the other characters actually act smart, all the way to the celebratory ending in a NY subway. The film deservedly earned being one of audience favorites of 1986 and a popular standout from the decade. Also, it was nice to see Carl Winslow himself as the personal chauffeur.
Risky Business wasn't very funny. It was more of a very moody, exotic take of the b-movie teen films that plagued the 1980's. Tom Cruise deservedly makes his star-making turn as a preppy who learns the zen of "What the Fuck?" and embarks on a soul-changing experience involving prostitution, college interviews, and Guido the Killer Pimp, all the while his parents are away. Though fun, I never really laughed at all, especially during the overblown and overwatched "Old Time Rock and Roll" dance scene or the weird mugging when Cruise says "Looks like University of Illnois!". Another factor is the often unfair meanness of the picture, such as the zero tolerance nurse and Cruise's mother at the very end. The film wasn't a total bummer; I was more entranced by Paul Brickman's direction, Bruce Surtees' cinematography, Rebecca De Mornay's innocent yet mischievous character, and the great soundtrack led by the Tangerine Dream score. However, I would probably spin the CD any day than watching this film again.
I spent many a day at the races but still haven't spent a night at the opera. Likewise, I finally got to watch A Night at the Opera after multiple screenings of the other notable films of the Marx Brothers. The movie is both splendid, comedic anarchy and the softening of the trope's image. Though the famous trio (Groucho, Chico, and Harpo) are given the most attention, they constantly plagued by the B-story involving two beautiful white singers willing to achieve opera stardom. I have nothing against Allan Jones and Kitty Carlisle but the script appointed to them. The famous stateroom scene is of course the shining piece, next to the tumultuous and visually well-made finale on opening night. However, the moment that just sucks the energy straight from the film is the lengthly MGM number for "Cosi-Cosa", which just continues to falter despite the musical accomplishments of Harpo towards its end.
The Girl Can't Help It is considered to be the ultimate rock n' roll movie. It has a nice balance of comedic plot and musical fluff, such as the long sequence where star Jayne Mansfield rumps and booms her way through clubs while a collection of singers and bands play their hits. Of course, the film does have the sting of deliberately being way too similar to Billy Wilder's famous The Seven Year Itch (Tom Ewell in the lead male role, Mansfield as the unfairly considered back-up Monroe, coming only one year later), yet I far more enjoy the wonderment and humor by writer-director Frank Tashlin here. The subway grate scene may be iconic but I rather see Mansfield shake away down a city street while Looney Tune antics abound (quickly melting ice, bubbling milk bottles, glasses that crack upon her sight).
Ewell plays a bum talent scout who is getting paid by a former mob big-shot (Edmond O'Brien) to make Mansfield a music star. She's has everything genetically made to be the perfect dream woman yet can't sing beyond a siren that obliterates glass. Risque sex jokes and satiric elements follow. Though Mansfield is a delight, the acting show is really all about O'Brien. He gets the best zingers and moments, particularly his destructive takeover of America's jukeboxes and continuing declaration of "Oh, YEAH?!!" at anyone who says otherwise. The only thing able to top O'Brien is the magnificent soundtrack, led by the unbelievably catchy titled tune and two more ("Ready Teddy", "She's Got It") by Little Richard. Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps' "Be-Bop-A-Lula", Julie London's haunting "Cry Me a River", the jokey "Cinnamon Sinner" by Teddy Randazzo and the Three Chuckles, Eddie Cochran's abrasive "Twenty Flight Rock", Fats Domino's "Blue Monday", The Platters' slow jam "You'll Never, Never Know", and the destructive dance of "Rockin' Is Our Business" by The Treniers back him up.
One of the goals of the Hit List was to finally experience past trends and popular stars, such as the extremely polarizing Jerry Lewis. I wanted to watch a film featuring the Clown Prince and Messiah of France, something that wasn't a picture with Dean Martin, which eliminates the gateway feature Artists and Models, or the acclaimed The Nutty Professor; Instead, I wanted something a bit off the beaten path. Surprisingly, my choice of The Bellboy nailed it, becoming the perfect vehicle to experience the power of Lewis. The short movie, clocking in at 72 minutes, is nothing more than a series of brief gags and scenes set around a popular Florida hotel and its bumbling bellhop. The film even starts with a fake producer informing the audience to just kick back and forgo any continuity. Lewis is practically wordless as the hop, thus removing the voice he is infamously mocked for and allowing him to utilize great body language. There are many great gags such as him dealing with ringing phones, two instances with an elevator, or, in a triumph of anti-humor, filling a large room with chairs. You can see that this was a work of love, as friends of Lewis pop up in cameos from the good (Milton Berle) to the bad (The Novelites). Also, the film is part of film history, as Lewis created the video assist to help him both direct and act.
This film certainly had the last laugh, as it is one of the screw-ups of my list, being a 1969 film instead of '68. That's the last time I use Netflix as a source of information. Anyway, Disney's The Love Bug was a cute little joy. Dean Jones plays a washed-up racer whose fortunes turn for the better when put behind the wheel of a sentient Volkswagen Bettle dubbed Herbie. The movie moves along at a nice pace and features some impressive car stunts and a hilarious hammy turn by the villain played by David Tomlinson. Surprisingly, the film is pretty adult at times, such as an entire sequence revolving around Irish coffee and two characters getting heavily drunk. Also, the makers clearly inputted sexual themes and messages; Jones would rather drive a long shafted yellow car instead of his chubby one and even tells his love interest, "Without a real car, I'm only half a man." A worthwhile time.
Both seriously and ironically, I actually enjoyed Showgirls. It's a giant misfire with some of the most laughable scenes and acting ever devised and yet is still a strong satiric look at show business and the sin city of America. I believer the latter has to do more with director Paul Verhoeven, one of my favorites, than with the joke of a script from Joe Eszterhas. The film prankster Verhoeven wanted to bring you on a dizzying tour around Las Vegas, where its inhabitants chow through fast food everyday, everything needs to be showy and erotic for the fleeting and wandering eyes, and the backstages of entertainment are a tumultuous cesspool of bitchery and egotism. Sure enough, everything pined to the infamous character of Nomi Malone (get it?) lives up to the hype: Elizabeth Berkeley is stilted and awful, the character is too scatterbrained to figure out if she's supposed to be a woman seeking redemption or a conniving backstabber, and the heavily remembered pool sex scene is amazing to take in. I do feel bad that Berkeley is still remembered just for this, despite doing better with smaller indie films (Roger Dodger) and on Broadway later. Beyond the main character, the script is pitiful: it rips off All About Eve and presents itself way too seriously, the dialogue is far beyond pulpy, the mystery of Nomi's real name is laughable and not as important as it thinks it is, and the film just ends abruptly after one comeuppance and some sequel bait. That's why I think Verhoeven and the other actors (Gina Gershon, Kyle MacLachlan, Alan Rachins) deliberately wanted to amp up the sleaziness, the institutionalized depravity, and the alien world that is Las Vegas. Worst movie ever or of the 1990's? Certainly not in the slightest.
Like many 90's kids, I heard of Rushmore more from the airwaves of MTV, hyping the film and their use of its cast for MTV Movie Awards television spots. Finally seeing it, I can now put it behind The Royal Tenebaums as my second favorite feature from modern auteur Wes Anderson. Jason Schwartzman made his debut as Max Fischer, a scholarship-funded outcast who spends his time at the Rushmore Academy more on extracurricular activities than his failing grades. Judging by the school environment and the intelligence of his fellow classmates, the dilemma lies more with his lack of funds and social upbringing than it does with his drive to make a theatrical adaption of Serpico. However, his emotionally destructive inner being begins to show once he falls for a first-grade teacher (Olivia Williams) and his rich mentor/friend (Bill Murray) schemes to come between them. Once again, I behold an Anderson script that hits the same beats (chaotic main, social annihilation in the middle, redemptive ending arc) and once again, Anderson makes it work with his words and world. Scenes are striking realized through camerawork and the plentiful cuts of its soundtrack, culminating with the big cast finale that nicely ties the story together. Despite a small presence, Murray has the strongest showing in terms of acting, allowing the viewer to understand what is going through his mind and life without saying a word. Also, the word "handjob" has never been more funny and meaningful.
No comments:
Post a Comment