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The Tomb (2007)
Terrible... just terrible
Gosh darn.
This is one of the worst things my eyes have ever been subjected to.
Now, I've watched a lot of terrible movies in my time but this has to take the cake. I mean, it was so bad I wouldn't even inflict it on my friends as a joke (a favourite activity of mine). This movie is so bad that I think I might be literally dead after watching it.
Everything is terrible about it: script ("eight nails who fails" - for the love of god, stop), cinematography, sound, lighting, acting, everything. The only good thing about this film are the sets - and that's just because I really like Halloween decorations. Probably should go with something a bit more convincing for a your movie than a plastic skull and a decapitated Baby Born doll though.
All That Jazz (1979)
Drama On A Grand Scale
Bob Fosse's semi-autobiographical surreal musical comedy might be one of the most artistically intelligent musical movies I've seen in a while. Its meta-tale of the slow deconstruction of a man and his ego takes the quick cut aesthetic of Fosse's earlier expressionist masterpiece Cabaret (1972), but adds to the mix the almost terrifying reality that this is not a dream, this is Fosse's real life.
The plot revolves around Fosse's fictional surrogate Joe Gideon's (deftly portrayed by Roy Scheider) efforts to balance his excessive lifestyle with the demands of simultaneously making a motion picture and directing a Broadway production. The real story, however, revolves around the masterful editing and surreal song-and-dance routines which build layer upon layer into the tragic melting pot.
An ongoing interview with an angel of death, a repetition of the Gideon's daily routine of booze, pills, sex, and "showtime", and a multitude of stories, plays, and films within the film make it a real delight to watch. Perhaps it's not the simplest thing to get your head around when you're just looking for a feel-good musical, but that is not why All That Jazz is here: this is art.
It must be said, however, that, for the final effort from one of the most accomplished musical directors and choreographers to ever grace the screen, the dance routines and musical numbers don't hold much water compared to a lot of other films. Yes, the ending Bye-Bye Life is a truly remarkable piece of cinema, but on the whole most of the actual 'musical' elements of this film don't really stick in your mind. Every dancer is more than competent and the whole thing is shot and edited with a touch of genius, but the routines themselves are just a little bit lackluster.
The real accomplishment of this film, however, is not in its ability to be as good a musical as, say, Grease (1978), but rather it is to be found in the way Fosse expertly weaves the art-house cinema techniques of Fellini with the high camp of a Busby Berkeley number. It is a visual and intellectual feast that holds the audience from start to finish and does not leave them dissatisfied.
It just plays out its almost Wagnerian opera sensibilities on such a grand scale that it hard not to be impressed by this film. The masks keep falling, the intrigue keeps on deepening, but it is all treated with a profound sense of subtlety that is rarely captured by films so lavish as this one. It is, in my opinion, one of those rare movies that you simply must see, even if you don't actually like musicals. Find yourself a copy, dim the lights, pour yourself a nice glass of champagne, and brace yourself for a long and winding ride through the heart, soul, and mind of one of the most interesting showbiz personalities of our time.
Videodrome (1983)
Yes, It's Shocking, But What's The Point?
David Cronenber's high-camp rumination on sex, violence, politics, and media-culture is a strange journey through the realms of low-sci-fi, high-horror, gross-out, and a myriad of other sensational modes of film making. James Woods somewhat woodenly plays Max Renn, a sleazy cable television station manager who unwittingly becomes embroiled in one of the most ludicrous plots to ever be brought to the screen.
It is, apparently, the near future and a certain section of society has become hopelessly addicted to the omnipresent television cathode rays, but one company has taken things a step further and is using video cassettes of torture footage to cause hallucinations and control the minds of the world. Yes, this film makes about as much sense as that sentence.
The ostensible plot, however, is not what you're really meant to focus on with Videodrome. The politics and doom and gloom prophecies are the real impetus for the film, but they too come across as about a ridiculous as the story that they fit within. I mean, desensitisation and dehumanisation are both good topics and they have been explored very well by some of the great directors (notably Kubrick with Full Metal Jacket (1987)), but Cronenberg handles these themes with about as much subtlety and tact as he handles his body-horror. The film is rife with proselytising, strange plot leaps, and unjustifiable character reactions not made any better the pathos-drenched acting by the main cast.
The horror aspects of the movie, however, are spot on when one wants a piece of schlock cinema to really have some fun with. Beta-max tapes inserted into abdominal wounds, S&M brutality, hands turning into living guns: Cronenberg delivers all of the body-horror that one could want and the special effects a stunning in their grotesque realism. There is no defining moment of absolutely delicious brutality like the head explosion of Scanners (1981), but Videodrome manages to deliver a steady stream of cover-your-eyes moments.
I think, this is where the real charm of a film like this lies. It is objectively a bad film in terms of plot and narrative structure, but one doesn't watch it for great art; one watches it precisely because it is bad. A great film to load up on popcorn and friends and kick back on the couch one midnight and watch in the darkness and good-humour that only awful horror can allow. It's funny in how serious it takes itself and it delivers a constant stream of gut-churning gore which somehow also become hilarious in their cartoonish caricature of real violence.
This, dear readers, is one of the great video nasties of our time, and it is one which continues to hold onto its reputation as a pretentious piece of schlock long after the bar for violence was set much higher by the ensuing wave of horror films, and that, to my mind, makes it well worth watching. It is for this reason that I've decided to go ahead and rate this film twice: one rating for the criteria of what goes into making an actually good film, and another for the enjoyability of complete ludicrousness. On the first it must be said that Videodrome is complete tripe, but on the second
well, you'll just have to watch it for yourself and make up your own mind.
Good Morning, Vietnam (1987)
Robin Williams as The Perpetual Pierrot
A fast-talking, wise-cracking, unorthodox radio DJ (Robin Williams) is sent to Vietnam in the days leading up to war. Here he learns life lessons, shares witticisms, mingles with the locals, and experiences the horrors that war in all its forms wreaks upon the world. An engaging premise for a film, and one which in the case is handled with great skill and care.
I think, however, the thing that sets this aside from the multitude of other Vietnam war films or any other films that use humour to throw brutality into sharp relief is that this really is not a story about war. No, it is a film about a comedian's place in the world.
Williams plays the perpetual Pierrot: laughed at and joking so that he feels like a real life human being. When our protagonist steps off the plane into the sweltering powder-keg of sixties Vietnam he is closed to the viewer. His japes and jokes are merely a way to justify his own useless existence. He breaks the rules of military radio not to prove a point, but to win the acceptance of his irritated comrades at arms.
But, the death of friends and the turmoil of terrorism open him up to us for the frail and hollow man that he is, but this hollowness is what makes him such a complex and rich character. His stillness and sadness pierces to the very core of what is is to be a joker in the face of world of trouble, and it is not a pretty sight. He is now justified by a sense of purpose and the sense that others might rely on him rather than the shallow acknowledgment of one's own existence given by others, and this is where the real tensions take place.
This deconstruction of the comedian and this insight into the defences we put up to ward of a savage reality is, in my opinion, what makes this one of the finest Robin Williams films to have been made. We, the audience, laugh not merely because Williams' patter amuses us, but because like him we would rather not subject ourselves to the ugly truth.
Aside from soul-searching, however, this film has the added bonus of being beautifully constructed. The sixties soundtrack is woven expertly in through brilliantly shot panoramas and vistas, the editing is seamless and engaging, and no actor leaves room for doubt in the story. Forest Whitaker in particular is notable for his subtle performance of the nervous boy who grows into a confidant man, and Noble Willingham's gentle General is a nice touch in smoothing over the rough bumps of military complexity that might have otherwise arisen from this story.
Really, my only issue with this film is, try as I might, I can't ever seem to find as much humour as is intended in William's quick-fire rambles. I mean, there is the occasional gem of shining wit ("women in comfortable shoes" gave me a good chuckle), but mostly his quirky voices and manic ranting slide right past my funny-bone without giving it the slightest twinge. This gripe, however, pales in comparison to the purpose that his comedy serves. As I said before, he doesn't need to be funny he just needs to make the jokes so we don't pay attention to what's happening all around us.
So, in conclusion I've got to say that Good Morning Vietnam is a very good film indeed. It lets the viewer float through without much demand, but on a slightly closer inspection it reveals a wealth of intentionally glossed over depth.
Bran Nue Dae (2009)
Bran Nue "Okay"
It's Australia in the late sixties and Willie (Rocky McKenzie), a young Aboriginal boy, runs away from Catholic boarding school to embark upon a musical adventure back to his hometown, Broome. Along the way he sings songs, makes new friends (including a wily hobo, a German backpacker attempting to latch onto the free spirit of the Woodstock-generation, and a tragically horny shopkeeper), and has a series of episodic (mis)adventures. The plot doesn't really get much deeper than that. There is a love story thrown in there somewhere and it verges on social commentary at times, but this feel-good musical romp doesn't even try to get close to well thought out narrative structure.
That, however, is not its mission. It doesn't want to be just another in the long catalogue of dark and difficult aboriginal dramas. It just wants to be an hour and a half of Australian reminiscence for the good old technicolour days, and this it does very well. The aesthetics throughout the film are wonderful, saturated as they are with the gaudy colours of an un-hip 1969 rural Western Australia, and all of the actors (notable Ernie Dingo's 'Uncle Tadpole') perform their roles with such a well-meaning sense of fun and good-nature that it's hard to give this film too bad a rap.
Judging this film solely on its elements of fun, however, also has its problems. There aren't enough songs and when they do appear they aren't particularly catchy and their accompanying dance routines lack energy and verve. Unfortunately the star-studded cast, full of well-known Australian singing talents (Dan Sultan, Missy Higgins, Jessica Mauboy) don't lift the scant numbers of this one out of their bland doldrums. For a musical, I've got to say that it doesn't impress very much musically.
It's moments of comedy, however, do really get the belly-laughs out. Geoffrey Rush's maniacal German priest, Higgins' spaced-out hippie, and Dingo's walking stereotype are all hilarious in their ineptitude and occasional pearls of homespun wisdom, and guest appearances by Madga Szubanski and Deborah Mailman are more than enough to cement Bran Nue Dae into the cannon of great comedies that won't translate outside of Australia.
This being said, these moments spectacular hilarity sadly still aren't enough to drown out all the of the gaping flaws in this film. The love story sub-plot makes no sense, the character development is minimal if it's there at all, and motivation for any of the action is sorely lacking, and it for these reasons that I can't really recommend it as any kind of triumph of Australian musical cinema. It has its moments of fun and the kids will love it, but I can't see it being put up there with the likes of Muriel's Wedding (1994) or The Castle (1997) any time soon.
Psycho (1960)
When is too much Hitchcock too much Hitchcock?
As always, Hitchcock has to be regarded as the consummate film-maker. Psycho builds upon his lavish traditions of suspense building, sly camera work, and jarring shocks delivering everything one wants from the great Auteur dabbling his toes in the waters of horror.
The plot revolves around The Bates Motel in which the Freudian wet-dream of a proprietor, Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) murders unsuspecting women out of some hazy, deep-seated love-hate relationship with his mother. Little more is really needed to form the set-up for an early example of what has come to be known as 'slasher flick'. Also, one doesn't want to give too much of the plot away while writing here as some (such as me until a few nights ago) have managed to avoid seeing this film so far.
What I will talk about, however, is the fantastic camera-work that has gone into this film. Hitchcock makes expert use of his decision to produce this film in black and white (some claim he did it to reduce to the gore, others that he did it as a cost cutting measure) casting his demented antagonist in half shadows, highlighting his ambiguity of self and drawing the viewer into his dark, half-formed world of shadows and madness. The conversation scene between Bates and the beautiful Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), for example, is one of the most wonderfully awkward and subtly terrifying dialogue driven moments in the history of cinema, and, of course, no-one can forget the deftly handled and instantly recognisable shower scene.
My issues with this film lie precisely and paradoxically in the things that make it so wonderful, however. I mean, Hitchcock's self-conscious and self-aware self-referentiality and toying with Truffaut's Auteur theories are wonderful as an exercise in film theory, but Psycho, at times, runs the risk of piling signature atop signature until it becomes somewhat a pastiche of Hitchcock's own style. The death of Marion so early in the piece, the bird motif, and the unbelieving policeman are all nice flourishes from a film-school perspective, but at the same time they come across as snide and self-important.
Now, I won't criticise the man and his style too much, but I will say that Psycho is perhaps not the best example of Hitchcock's ability to weave high-art film-theory in with his genre fiction fantasies of murder and mayhem.
Still though, Psycho is up there as one of the finest and earliest in the grand tradition of slasher horror, and as a genre film it really can't get enough kudos. Sharply directed, shot, and edited it keeps viewers on the edge of their seats thrilled to the max even a full fifty years after its initial release, and I imagine it will continue to be a favourite of many switched on film buffs for many, many years to come. An undeniable masterpiece of horror cinema, and a film that must be watched to truly become a part of cinema culture.
The Phantom of the Opera (1925)
The Most Intelligent Nonese and The Stupidest Of Artistic Visions: A Place For Camp in Art Cinema
The Phantom Of The Opera has long been a staple in the classic horror movie circles, and for good reason. The film is not short on any spectacle, the plot and pacing keep the viewer riveted to the screen for the entire duration, and as always Lon Chaney is on top form in his horrific role as The titular Phantom. The real interest to be derived from this film in the modern day and age where spectacle is certainly not lacking, however, comes from the many conundrums that it produces within the savvy film-goer.
The film is by no means a masterpiece of art; it fits very squarely in the Hollywood tradition of narrative structure and shooting style built around the desire for easily digestible entertainment and profit. A ghostly phantom haunts the forgotten passages and torture chambers beneath the Paris opera house and abducts a beautiful young singer (Mary Philbin) to force his love upon her, leaving her to be saved by her one true love (Norman Kerry). You would be hard pressed to find a story which asks less mental activity from the viewer.
But, while this holds true, the direction of the piece contains a mode of art which is not readily apparent with a surface viewing. Yes, Chaney's camp flailing adorned, as he is in mask and cape, is thrilling and more than a little humorous, but his eerily understated presence in the colour tinted masked-ball scene shows a much deeper understanding of the form. Likewise do the unexplained plot leaps and shocking make-up close-ups point to a schlock sensibility while at the same time the expressionist shadows creeping along the claustrophobic corridors of the Phantom's lair make a viewer think of the works of Murnau or Lang.
The Phantom Of the Opera presents itself as the most intelligent of nonsense films or, contrariwise, as the stupidest of artistic visions simultaneously, and this, I believe, is one of the reasons that this movie remains so interesting today. I mean, plenty of silent horror films were made during this period (many of them, like Phantom, made by Universal Studios), but for some reason this is the one that has gone down through history and ingrained itself into the popular consciousness. The question mus be asked, "why is this? Why do I know this movie so well instead of others?" and it is the artistic flair mixed in with the highest camp of the horror genre that provides the answer.
One instinctively rolls their metaphorical eyes at the ludicrousness of the japes and capers taking place before them, but their eyes cannot help but be drawn into the immense beauty and skill that has gone into each and every shot. It is aesthetically thrilling and intriguing as it is daft and hammy, and this is what makes the films as a whole so incredibly interesting.
I suppose this may be a mere symptom of becoming too deeply entrenched in film studies and that my mind is just being drawn towards unnecessary dissection, but I would argue against this. Either way I would highly recommend seeing The Phantom Of The Opera in order to make up your own mind about its value artistic or otherwise.
Dumbo (1941)
Is Racism Rife In This Beloved Children's Classic?
As a Disney classic made on the cheap to recoup the losses after Fantasia (1940) you can't fault this film for its charm. It tells the story of the mute baby elephant Dumbo as he goes through a series of trials and humiliations before learning to fly and having his ears insured for a million dollars. Quaint. Charming and quaint to be sure.
What you can fault this film for, however, is its racism. Musical number 'Song Of The Roustabouts' which depicts a gang of African-American work- hands is awful by today's standards and was pretty horrendous even for the time ("We work all day/ We work all night/ We never learned to read or write"), I mean do you really want to be showing your kids this stuff? Not to mention the gang of shady stereotypes who croon out the regrettably catchy When I See An Elephant Fly (sung by Cliff Edwards and The Hall Johnson Choir as "when I see a elephant fly").
It just strikes me as rather odd that in this day and age we still throw this stuff in front of our most impressionable minds and don't have the forethought to think about what's actually on screen. A group of faceless black men who's only purpose appears to be working for the man is really not the sort of thing that I want my kids to be told is normal. Yes, some might explain it away as a product of the times, or simply ignore it under some half-formed 'the magic of Disney' excuse, but the fact still remains that at least two of the major sequences in this film are prime examples of insidious racism.
Still though, as an adult this film does have its merits. I mean, the Pink Elephants On Parade sequence is certainly inspired if a little terrifying, and the animation, while generally basically constructed, has its moments of stylistic grandeur. When Timothy Mouse's shadow throws out its Nosferatu shadow a la F.W Murnau, for instance, was a real delight to see. It also has the interesting historical distinction of being the second of only two classic Disney films to have had their backgrounds done solely in watercolours (the other being Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs (1937)).
But, overall I've got to say that Dumbo really isn't one of the finest achievements to ever come out of the Disney studious. The storyline is, to be frank, utter nonsense and is poorly executed with the thing jumping from sequence to sequence with no real rhyme or reason. Nevertheless, there'll always be a small fondness for the floppy eared pachyderm in my heart (and I'm willing to bet the hearts of others), and for early animated cinema it is a considerable landmark. All I'm saying is that you should probably have a good, hard think before you sit your children down in front of it and consider it wholly innocent.
Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler (1922)
A Grand Spectacle From One Of The Greatest Film Makers Of All Time
Lang is indisputably one of the greatest of the German Expressionist directors and with films like Dr. Mabuse and Metropolis (1927) under his belt I think it is fair to say that he was one of the greatest directors to have ever worked. This, his grand tale of gangsters, mind control, deceit, and deception, is one piece in the long list of proof for this claim.
Dr. Mabuse tells the strange tale of the titular crime-lord (Rudolph Klein-Rogge) as he swindles the rich through the use of mysterious powers of mind control, manipulates the stock market, and ruthlessly murders all those who stand in his way, all the while being relentlessly hounded by the virtuous State Prosecutor Von Wenk (Bernhard Goetzke). The intrigue runs deep, the mysteries run deeper, and the whole story is riveting from beginning to end.
This short synopsis, however, is one of the shallowest looks at the film that one could imagine. There is so much more to Dr. Mabuse than a simple crime story: it is a masterful critique of the overwhelming decadence of the upper classes of Berlin, it is a biting sneer in the face of ruthless capitalism, it is an interesting look into the power men hold over each other, but most importantly it is a great work of art.
I will not waste too much time talking about Lang's masterful use of lighting and shadows, his grand shot compositions, or his inventive use of cinematic effects as these are all things that are so readily apparent in his Weimar films that it would be needless to rant about them here. What I will talk about, however, is what a sheer delight it is to be able to have access to a film such as this in the modern day. I mean, such a regular turnover of films through the cinema and DVD markets with such huge leaps and bounds being made how film is presented and what one can do with visual effects might lead some to lose sight of the rich history of narrative cinema, but with groups like the F.W Murnau Stiftung painstakingly tracking down prints of the classics of early cinema, restoring them, and making them readily available to the public one cannot lose too much heart. We, the cinema lovers of the world, have the ability (or the privilege) to experience the films in which so much of the early hard work was done, and that, too me, is one of the finest things that can happen.
So, my suggestion to you all is to track down of copy of Dr. Mabuse and set yourself aside the four to five hours it takes to watch it (different versions of the film run for differing lengths of time) and really immerse yourself in its art. It is well worth the time and the intellectual effort, with the joys that come from viewing a film as well executed as this reminding cine-philes what their love of the craft is all about.
Stranger Than Paradise (1984)
Stranger Than Paradise is... well it simply 'Is', and therein lies its beauty
Long lingering conversations, shots held for much longer than is necessary, and a plot that really goes nowhere: Stranger Than Paradise has all of the hallmarks to make it an art-house auteur classic, but don't mistake Jarmusch's flair for pretension. In fact the lingering shots and stunted conversations found in this film are anything but pretentious, rather they are the core of realism in cinema.
We film lovers have long been trained in what to expect from a movie: dialogue has a natural sounding progression that moves us from plot point A to plot point B, characters have motivations that make sense, and stories go forward with an easy momentum. Stranger Than Paradise, contrary to these established modes of film making, just lets events, characters, and dialogue unfold in a manner much more similar to the real world than most other films. Conversations are not directed and shots are not carefully constructed and edited, rather the viewer feels like a fly on the wall as this collection of bored characters try to find something (anything) to talk about.
The plot revolves (like many of Jarmusch's movies) around a cast of outsiders drifting aimlessly through life. Willie (John Lurie) is a bored New Yorker with a gambling habit, Eva (Ezter Balint) is his Hungarian immigrant cousin, and Eddie (Richard Edson) is their hopelessly optimistic tag-along friend, and our story follows these three as they travel through their dull lives making an issue out of everything.
The actual plot, however, takes a backseat the real goings on in this film. The boredom and pointlessness is not meant to entertain in any usual way, but rather to force the viewer into a mode of existential thinking. These characters are not searching for entertainment or action (although they think they are), they are simply searching for themselves all over America. "What does it mean to be an American?" Jarmusch is asking of us, and furthermore, "what does it mean to simply 'be'?"
Stranger Than Paradise provides no answers to these questions, but it does give a deep insight into the issues at hand. Like every single shot the characters fade in, exist for a time, and then fade out. Nothing is achieved, nothing is accomplished, thing just are. And that is where the beauty of the movie lies; in its simple act of existing.
I suppose that some might find the whole thing pointless, and I would agree to an extent, but those who dismiss this film for its pointlessness are in for a very heated argument indeed. It's true that this is not the movie you want to throw in the player when you are looking forward to an evening of mindless entertainment with friends, but that doesn't lessen the movie's impact at all. It is a commitment to lock yourself into the film and really work your way through the melange of useless conversation and dead-pan editing, but I would say that it is well worth the effort. There is just so much to be gained from watching this film with an open mind and taking in the sheer beauty of its bared souls.
Song of the South (1946)
Controversy or No, It's Still A Bad Film
The bastard child of the Disney musical cannon Song Of The South has a history so littered with controversy that it is a rather difficult film to talk about. I mean, what is left to be said that hasn't already been said before?
I suppose, however, a good place to start is to talk about why on earth I decided to spend my time watching it in the first place. Well, for starters I have to be honest and come right out with the fact that I threw this film into the player largely because it is so controversial. I mean, a movie that Disney has refused to release of home video within the United States, how could I go past that? Secondly, the movie does have a significant amount of historical value in the way in which it weaves live action footage (shot brilliantly in glorious Technicolor) together with animated sequences, and also in that it provides an interesting look at a particular part of society's revisionist version of the reconstruction period in the South.
The plot itself is rather simple: a young boy (Bobby Driscoll) and his mother (Ruth Warrick) come down to Georgia to stay on a plantation where they meet Uncle Remus (James Baskett). Remus is a former slave and full- time story teller who throughout the film relates the old folk-tales of Bre'er Rabbit and Bre'er Fox to young Johnny in order to help the boy sort out his personal problems. Really, it's not the world's most interesting plot, but it serves well for the purposes of the film with Remus's stories sweeping from live action into animation with easy grace.
The problems with this plot, however, arise quickly with the meeting of old Uncle Remus, who presents as an amalgamation of almost every racial cliché one could imagine. Not a good starting point to be sure. The other African-American characters too are presented in a very poor light, playing off the common prejudices around at the time. Their speech is hokey and sounds almost like it was torn straight from the script of a minstrel show, they sing traditional songs (with the director's showing no sensitivity to the cultural implications of such music) as they go about their work, and they are all costumed in the manner one would have expected from D.W. Griffith's The Birth Of A Nation (1915). The film also gives an incredibly naïve and revisionist view of black-white relations at the time, showing benevolent masters and servants contented with their roles of servitude.
None of this is maliciously intended, I would wager, but nonetheless it is very problematic especially for an ostensible children's film, and I agree wholeheartedly with the NAACP's calls to boycott the movie when it was first released. I think the very fact that it not deliberately and maliciously offensive towards the people it marginalises makes it all ever worse. I mean, a child can easily be taught that hatefulness and overt racism are unacceptable, but to be shown such an insidious example from such a trusted source as Disney can provide a challenge for a parent to explain away. The movie contains no message or moral of equality, just a sly suggestion that 'certain people' should know their 'place'.
I do not, however, agree with any calls to forget this film entirely. It has earned a place in the historical cannon of feature films and as such is deserving of study, analysis, and critical thought regarding its artistic merits. Song Of The South has a definite place in film libraries and the collections of students and historians, and I think that it is a place that needs to be preserved and not glossed over. I would just recommend that it be kept out of the hands of children.
As an aside to this discussion of the film's problematic racial presentations I will also say that I have scored this film rather low for the simple fact that it is boring. It really doesn't quite reach the same heights of grand magic that Disney films often do. The story is fractured and episodic, making it hard to become invested in the plight of the characters, the songs (bar one) are not particularly memorable, and, to be honest, the primary protagonist is unlikeable. It's not poorly executed, in fact some of the location shooting and technical trickery is actually rather inspired, but it is poorly constructed as a film.
So, in conclusion, I'm going to have to express my ambivalence towards this movie. It has some artistic merits, but these are tempered by a series of filmic shortcomings, and it has a definite degree of historical and cultural value, but that comes primarily from the fact that it is really rather racist.
I suppose the only thing you can do is watch it for yourself and make up your own mind about how much value one can ascribe to this outcast from the Disney family.
The Grapes of Wrath (1940)
A Well Deserved Place In The Library Of Congress
Based on the landmark novel by John Steinbeck, John Ford's film adaptation of The Grapes Of Wrath has become almost as large a cultural force as its inspiration. It was selected as one of the first twenty- five films to be archived in the Library Of Congress as a significant cultural artifact and, in my opinion, this was done with very good reasons.
The story of the Joad family making the trek from Oklahoma through to California in search of work during the American depression will be familiar to many people, and as such I will not talk at length about the film's plot. What I will discuss, however, is the deftness with which this material is handled by Ford.
Gritty and realistic the photography and direction of the movie is one of the high points of cinema history. Nothing appears by accident, but nothing is drawn too obviously to the audiences attention. Tom Joad (wonderfully played by Henry Fonda) lighting hand-rolled cigarette in a moment of quiet contemplation, ex-preacher Casy's (John Carradine) nervous twitching as he tries to find his role in the world, and the Joad kids' (Darryl Hickman and Shirley Mills) resigned playing as their stomachs softly growl: all of this is shown with such a lack of overt stylisation that they become some of the most touching and heart- wrenching images to be displayed outside of a documentary.
The attention to detail too is great to witness. The actors wear no make-up as they play their parts in an effort for realism and the car that takes them on their trying journey is the same Hudson "Super Six" Sedan described by Steinbeck. Nothing feels staged or overly Hollywood, but rather it all comes across so naturally that one can almost smell the miasma of dirt and sweat that surrounds this unhappy lot.
I think, however, that some of the biting realism of this film have been lost over the years, or at least relegated to being somewhat of a quaint charm. I mean, Steinbeck's novel is taught in many schools and people have become very familiar with the story over the many years since it was written, and this is be no means a bad thing (in fact it makes me happy to think that Steinbeck is still so well respected and widely read), but it does mean that someone sitting down to watch The Grapes Of Wrath for the first time is unlikely to have anything similar to the reaction that audiences had at the time.
The socialist undertones and dissection of the pain caused by a capitalist system left to its own devices now come as part of the package when one hears the title The Grapes Of Wrath, no longer will one be surprised, shocked, and reduced to tears of righteous indignation when these images are presented to them. The discussion of 'pinks' and 'reds' are not so immediate to a modern audience as to make them bristle with deep-rooted political allegiances, but rather they pass the modern viewer by completely or serve only as some historical curiosity of a bygone time.
I suppose that it is better that the conditions of Steinbeck's book and Ford's film do not persist to the current day, but it is still somewhat of a shame that these reactions have been lost, and that a full visceral understanding of the film is almost unattainable today. But still the film must be viewed as a triumph and a masterpiece which does and will remain relevant now and for a long time to come.
Naked Lunch (1991)
Cronenberg and Burroughs: Two Great Weirdos Together At Last
Cronenberg's adaptation of William S. Burroughs' seminal work of the beat generation Naked Lunch is as wild, wacky, and outrageous as one might expect it to be. Fuelled by drugs, sex, and grotesque special effects the film is a visual feast of decadence and depravity.
The story revolves around Burroughs' own fictional self named Bill Lee (whose lines are mumbled exceptionally by Peter Weller) who, after accidentally killing his wife (Judy Davis) in a party trick gone wrong (a real event if you feel like reading up on the life of the immensely interesting writer) flees to the strange land of 'Interzone'. Drugs and intrigue abound in this new world as Lee finds himself embroiled in a network of spy agents and international politics, but this narrative is about as irrelevant as it is hard to follow. No, the real story here is the meta-narrative in which Bill Lee uses his weird drug fuelled fantasies of Interzone to write his novel Naked Lunch.
The audience is constantly flipped from the mind of Lee, where everything is exactly the terrifying reality that his drug addled brain has constructed around him, to the more normal worlds of his writer friends, Hank (Nicholas Campbell) and Martin (Michael Zelniker) – renamed inserts of beat writers Alan Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac – who try to keep Lee under control while he writes his novel.
These perspective shifts are handled with great skill as Cronenberg slides in and out of the various worlds with such ease so that it almost becomes difficult for even the viewer to prise them apart. The madness, despair, and isolation depicted in this film is contagious flowing through the screen and into the minds of the audience.
I suppose for some this might be seen as the movie's failing. It is dry, dark, and sparse with little understandable motivation and multiple scenes of abject horror, but for fans of the original novel and the whole idea of the beat generation I think that Naked Lunch will be an instant hit. It is also, in my opinion, one of Cronenberg's least pretentious films and one which actually showcases his skill as a filmmaker rather than simply showing his penchant for showcasing the weird.
The direction (coupled with the wonderfully evocative free-jazz soundtrack) work very hard to capture the unease and loneliness of our tragic protagonist and, I've got to say, that it actually works. Even the obnoxiously overt special effects don't fall to level of mere shock value (as they did in, say, Videodrome (1983)), but rather aid the film in creating a visceral sense of absolute disgust.
Overall I must say that I was incredibly pleased with Naked Lunch, and as a big fan of the book I wasn't disappointed. It is by no means a faithful translation of the text, because that would be impossible, but nevertheless it works as a companion piece and an equal to that wonderful novel. It is a film that I would highly recommend to anyone who thinks that they might have the stomach and the inclination to submit themselves to the weird horrors of both Burroughs and Cronenberg at the same time.
The Wolf Man (1941)
Deeper than it seems: Silly as you'd expect
Before one even sits down to watch 'The Wolf Man' one must ask the same question that must be asked before every viewing of a Universal Horror film: "What am I hoping to get out of this?"
If you're looking for some cheap laughs at barely passable acting (think of Fay Helm screaming 'I'm leaving' with more pathos than one can shake a stick at) or dodgy special effects, then I'm sure you'll have some fun.
If you're looking for a quiver-in-your-boots thriller... well... you'll be sorely disappointed.
These, however, are not the only two options for enjoying this film. Students and lovers of cinema will, I'm sure, have some moments a pure joy when seeing the references to German expressionism and the like that are littered throughout this Hollywood money-making exercise.
All in all, however, I can't recommend it as a 'must see'. Not as a film in its own right, or even as part of the glorious tradition of laughable horror films. You will not regret your decision to watch it if you decide to, but it really doesn't need to be at the top of your list.