Nosferatu ( Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens)1922 **

Suave, sophisticated, and outright sexy is what you think of Max Schreck's Nosferatu, right? Don't be ashamed to admit it... What? You don't like pasty skin, pointed ears, sickening-long and pointed nails, and the gait of a floating corpse? Aren't you a fan of German Expressionism?

This 1922 silent by F.W. Murnau is a classic retelling of the Dracula myth that has often been imitated, but never surpassed. For those not in the know, Murnau had some problems with Bram Stoker's people, so he changed the setting and the names of the characters from the original novel. Instead of Count Dracula wreaking havoc in London we have Count Orlock, played by Shreck, decimating Bremen, Germany. However, the core plot is the same as the book. I'm sure you know the crux of the story, so I'll move on to what is great about this picture.


The interplay between shadow and light in some scenes is just fantastic. Photographers Gunther Krampf and Fritz Wagner do an amazing job of capturing just the right amount of light to capture the creepiness that is Orlock's shadow.

Max Schreck is unforgettable as Count Orlock. To allow yourself to become so embedded in the skin of your character takes talent. Hand movements, facial expressions, the tautness of his frame--all of these were perfectly orchestrated in such a way as to make Count Orlock a timeless movie monster. Those of you who have seen Willem Dafoe's portrayal of Schreck in Shadow of the Vampire might have a deeper appreciation of Schreck's work.

My favorite scene is when Count Orlock arrives by boat in Bremen and eerily glides off the boat and through the darkened and deserted streets. This scene gave me nightmares when I first saw it as a child. Do you have a favorite scene?

This film is a classic and should be watched--even if you don't think Max Schreck is the Sexiest Man Alive

 

 

 

A Question of Silence (De Stilte Rond Christine M) 1982 **

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) **

A Man Escaped (Un Condamne A Mort S’Est Echappe Ou Le Vent Souffle Ou Il Veut) 1956 **

A Hard Day’s Night (1964) **

A City of Sadness (Beiqing Chengshi) 1989 **

The Naked Spur (1953) **

The Naked Spur (1953) is the third of the eight film collaborations between director Anthony Mann and James Stewart.  I have noticed that each proceeding movie seems to get darker than the last. Perhaps this was intentional, as Stewart wanted to play edgier characters and Mann wanted to push the limits of the western genre. Still, I’ve started to notice something fascinating about the Mann/Stewart oeuvre: the “villains” are almost always more interesting than whatever character Stewart is playing.  This is not to say that his characters are one-dimensional—because they’re not—but somehow I find myself more entertained by the bad guys. 

Sam Rolfe and Harold Jack Bloom’s Oscar-nominated screenplay takes place in late 1860s Southwest Colorado.  A newly-minted bounty hunter from Abilene, Kansas, Howie Kemp (Stewart), is in hot pursuit of murderer Ben Vandergroat (Robert Ryan). Howie needs the $5,000 reward to buy back his ranch, which was sold by his two-timing girlfriend while he was fighting in the Civil War. Unfortunately for Howie, he takes on two untrustworthy partners, Jesse (Millard Mitchell) and Roy (Ralph Meeker), who each want a third of the reward. Ben, for his part, is obviously not just a killer but also a good judge of character, because he soon realizes he can easily turn his captors against one another.  It also helps that his sidekick is a pretty young blonde named Lina (Janet Leigh), who catches both Howie and Roy’s eye.  Almost all of the film focuses on how Ben manipulates the men on the long trail back to Abilene. 

One of the best things about a Mann/Stewart western is that they are shot on location.  The San Juan Mountains in Durango, Colorado, were usually the rough terrain of Mann’s choice, and The Naked Spur was filmed there (along with a few scenes in Lone Pine, California).  Four of the five westerns Mann made with Stewart were shot in Technicolor (the only one that was not was their first effort, Winchester '73, but its success probably enabled the others to be photographed in color), and all were shot in wide-screen format. For me, classic western films lensed on location have an extra degree of authenticity to their studio lot western counterparts. As such, this is one of the main strengths of The Naked Spur. William C. Mellor’s cinematography does a good job of capturing the vastness of the rugged mountainside that must be crossed before Ben can be returned to Abilene.

As noted in previous reviews, the Mann/Stewart western redefined the western by making the protagonist of the film an ambiguous anti-hero.  Gone was the traditional white-hatted cowboy whose intentions were pure and straightforward. The new western “hero” was often a violent, bitter, and vengeful man who was either seeking redemption or revenge—or maybe both. Stewart’s Howie had definitely been turned bitter by the betrayal of his girlfriend, and his motivations for capturing Ben had more to do with money than bringing him to justice for killing someone.  As Howie said himself about Ben: “He's not a man; he's a sack of money!”  I must admit that Stewart does a tremendous job of playing a morally conflicted man in this, and that this role is more compelling than the one he played in Winchester ‘73. 

Still, as conflicted as Howie is, Ben is far more interesting.  Perhaps Robert Ryan just knew how to play cynical meanies, but he seems to upstage Stewart in The Naked Spur. His character’s conniving ways combined with the devilish glint in Ryan’s eyes, compounded by the overall humor and callousness of Ben, is probably the best thing about the movie.

Now, the absolute worst thing about The Naked Spur is the character of Lina. I’m not certain, but I have to believe that Mann directed Leigh to speak in a shrill tone in 90% of her scenes. Seriously, I lost count of how many times she screamed“Ben” or sounded totally unpleasant when having conversations with the other men.  And, in what world would a beautiful girl like Lina be hanging out with the likes of Ben, a friend of her father’s, and old enough to be hers? The same goes for the perceived romance between Lina and Howie. Surely after her father died someone would have wanted to marry her or give her a job in a whorehouse.  Perhaps I just don’t like Leigh for some reason, but, for me, she seems miscast in the role.  Yet, fortunately for her, she was, and she finally found an escape route from ingénue hell at MGM.

Overall, The Naked Spur benefits from being shot on location and from both Ryan and Stewart’s performances.  However, the character of Lina is insipidly annoying. 

Pickup on South Street (1953) **

Writer/director Samuel Fuller started working as a crime reporter for the New York Evening Graph when he was just seventeen. This early profession, as well as his time in the U.S. Army during WWII, greatly shaped the films that he made in his fifty year movie career. One of these films, Pickup on South Street (1953), was a crime/spy drama that could have been ripped from the headlines of the early 1950s, during the McCarthy Era, when it was believed that insidious “commies” would stop at nothing to smuggle secrets out of the U.S.  What is unusual about this movie, as compared to others of its ilk, is that the “hero” of the story isn’t exactly patriotic (in fact, if he’d had his way, he would have sold the secrets to the “enemy” for $25,000).  J. Edgar Hoover found the whole thing reprehensible and tried to get Fuller to stop using the phrase “flag-waving”, which somehow made it through the censors.  What didn’t make it through, though, were some extremely violent scenes, as well as some touchy-feely stuff between the male and female leads.  That’s not to say that Pickup on South Street isn’t still violent and risqué—because it is--but what eventually made it to the screen was Fuller’s toned down vision. 

Skip McCoy (Richard Widmark) is a three-strike pickpocket who chooses the worst mark on a New York subway car: Candy (Jean Peters).  Unbeknownst to Skip (and Candy, too), he pinches a delivery to a communist agent from Candy’s ex-boyfriend that contains a chemical formula on microfilm.  Furthermore, the FBI (most notably, Willis Bouchey) are on the train when it happens and knows that Skip has the microfilm—although they don’t know who he is or where he lives.  For that information they contact Skip’s archenemy, Captain Dan Tiger (Murvyn Vye), who reaches out to well-known and connected stool-pigeon Moe (Thelma Ritter, in yet another Oscar-nominated performance).  But the police aren’t the only people who contact Moe, as Candy finds her and pays $50 to learn that Skip lives in a fishing shack.  To say their first meeting doesn’t go well would be an understatement: she gets cold-cocked and then felt up when she comes to.  You’d think this would be enough to turn any woman away, but not Candy, who it is hinted at is a former prostitute. After two very unpleasant encounters with Skip, and the realization that he’d sell state secrets to the commies for $25,000, Candy decides she’s in love with him and is willing to risk her life to save him.  What?

Yes, my main complaint with Pickup on South Street is that I cannot accept the premise that Candy would fall in love (in a matter of minutes) with a man who roughs her up and is a would-be traitor. The idea that she would take a beating, not to mention a bullet, from her ex-boyfriend (Richard Kiley) instead of revealing where Skip lives is beyond disbelief.  I don’t know if in the 1950s male writers like Fuller thought it was okay to use violence against loose women and then reward them with the love of their abusers or what, but as a modern woman I have an extreme problem with this.

The one sacrifice for Skip in the movie that I can stomach is that of Moe.  Thelma Ritter very rarely got to play dramatic film roles, but she surely showed she could handle them in Pickup on South Street. Her character, obviously in poor health, is trying to earn enough money for a fancy Long Island funeral and to avoid Potter’s Field.  Her matter-of-fact way of selling information is refreshingly callous, but like anyone else she has a limit.  Her limit is aiding and abetting commies and selling out her friends (in this case Skip) to almost certain death.  Her scene with Richard Kiley about just how tired she is is both heartbreaking and brutal—but not in the way you might think.

While I take issue with the fact that most of the violence that takes place in the film is inflicted upon women, I still must commend the way that its framed and shot.  Fuller, along with cinematographer Joseph McDonald, creates a gritty, dark underworld through the use of shadows and noir lighting techniques.  In particular, almost every scene in the fishing shack is not only darkly lit and shadowy (to mimic the dealings that are taking place), but through the use of extreme close-ups, a claustrophobic feel is created. And, even I have to admit, that by using such techniques in some of the more violent scenes that there is an added effect. 

Overall, Pickup on South Street is a tightly-knit crime drama.  While I can’t get behind certain premises of the story (most notably the “relationship” between Skip and Candy), it moves at a brisk pace.  Additionally, as noirs go, it is filmed in such a way to emphasize the dark underbelly of not only the criminal world but the possibility (albeit ridiculous) that communists are lurking in the shadows.

The Lavender Hill Mob (1951) **

The Book refers to director Charles Crichton’s The Lavender Hill Mob (1951) as the funniest offering that London-based Ealing Studios ever produced.  While there are sincere moments of hilarity in it, I must say that I much prefer both Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) and The Ladykillers (1955) to this film.  That’s not to say that it is subpar or unentertaining—there are a few laugh-out-loud moments and a rather dizzying scene at the Eiffel Tower that warrant notice, but there are still some shortcomings—most notably the inane car chase scene.

T.E.B. Clarke’s Oscar-winning screenplay is about a gold bullion heist carried out by an unlikely “mob” of “criminals” with an ingenious plan.  Henry Holland (Alex Guinness in an Oscar-nominated performance) is a fastidious bank clerk who is in charge of escorting gold bullion from foundries to the London bank where he works.  For nearly twenty years the seemingly unambitious clerk has been laying the groundwork for his grand heist of bullion.  Why so long, you ask?  Try as he might, Holland could never figure out how to get the bullion out of England without it (and he) being discovered by the authorities. However, fate literally walks through his Lavender Hill boarding house door when Mr. Pendlebury (Stanley Holloway) arrives. When Holland learns that  Pendlebury owns a foundry that exports gold-painted Eiffel Tower paperweights a plan is hatched to switch out the cheap souvenirs with solid gold ones.  They enlist two career criminals (Sidney James and Alfie Bass) to pull off the caper. Surprisingly, the robbery, for the most part, goes off rather smoothly and the “mob” sends their £1 million’s worth of paperweights to Paris.  Unfortunately, a mix up occurs and six British schoolgirls are sold solid gold paperweights while visiting the real Eiffel Tower.  What ensues immediately following this is complete anarchy.

Some people don’t like British humor—I myself am not a fan of the likes of Benny Hill or Dr. Who, but for the most part I have a dry sense of humor.  As such, the very British witticisms and quips that come out of Guinness’ and Holloway’s mouths in The Lavender Hill Mob are amusing.  However, some of the best lines actually come from two ancillary characters: Miss Evesham (Edie Martin) and Mrs. Chalk (Marjorie Fielding). 

Mrs. Chalk: But surely you must have some suspicion. Who work the heist rackets in this territory?

Policeman: Beg your pardon, lady?

Mrs. Chalk: Oh really! I can't make myself much plainer. Which hoodlums around here specialize in toby jobs?

And, there’s no denying that the plot is quite clever, too. The actual heist itself comprises only a small portion of the 81-minute movie. The rest of the action takes place once Holland and Pendlebury realize that the schoolgirls have the solid gold paperweights.  In fact, the most memorable thing about The Lavender Hill Mob directly happens following this realization: the dizzying descent down the Eiffel Tower spiral staircase.  The camerawork is ingenious, and oh, so nauseating. Obviously Alfred Hitchcock was inspired by this scene, as he used many of the same camera techniques in Vertigo (1958).  However, once the spinning stops for Holland and Pendlebury, The Lavender Hill Mob veers into what I can only describe as the bastard child of the Keystone Cops and Benny Hill (although, of course, the film predated the show).  In particular, I am not a fan of the car chase scene at the end of the film.  Surely, the British police and Scotland Yard are not complete imbeciles that two middle-aged men could elude them. Plus, it seems cheap compared to the rest of the otherwise smart plot developments.

Overall, The Lavender Hill Mob is brimming with British wit.  The overall storyline is quite clever, but the ending leaves me irritated. Still, we do get to see a 22-year old unknown Audrey Hepburn in a walk-on appearances at the beginning of the movie.

 

 

 

 

Rio Grande (1950) **

For me, the best thing about director John Ford’s Rio Grande (1950) is that its small budget and huge success ensured that Republic Pictures gave Ford the money he needed to make The Quiet Man (1952). This is not to say that Rio Grande is a bad film, but it certainly isn’t a favorite of mine, either.  This, no doubt, stems from the fact that I’m not a big western fan, and that is definitely what Rio Grande is, albeit a rather soap opera-ish one. 

The first of three films that John Ford, John Wayne, and Maureen O’Hara would make together (the others being The Quiet Man and The Wings of Eagles), Rio Grande is considered the final installment in Ford’s “cavalry trilogy” (with Fort Apache and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, all starring Wayne). Based on James Warner Bellah’s 1947 short story, “Mission with No Record”, Rio Grande tells a strange family reunion tale along the Rio Grande River.  Colonel Kirby Yorke (Wayne) is a Cavalry commander along the Mexico border who is besieged by raiding Apaches who use Mexico as a safe haven in between attacks.  Colonel Yorke’s troubles mount when his son, Trooper Jeff Yorke (Claude Jarman, Jr.), is posted under his command. Having recently flunked out of West Point, Jeff enlisted in the Army as a matter of pride and to emulate a father who he hasn’t seen in over 15 years.  Not long after Jeff’s arrival, Colonel Yorke’s very southern wife, Kathleen (Maureen O’Hara), arrives at the post to pay $100 to have Jeff released from the Army.  While it’s clear that Colonel Yorke and Kathleen still love one another they have two problems to overcome: her insistence that Jeff be released from his enlistment and her anger over Colonel Yorke’s having burnt down her family’s plantation during the siege of Shenandoah during the Civil War.  Complicating this domestic drama are pesky Indians who kidnap a wagon filled with children and a Trooper (Ben Johnson) who is wanted for manslaughter for killing a Yankee who made unwanted advances toward his sister.

While I can’t fault Bert Glennon’s cinematography, which impressively captures Monument Valley, there is no doubt that Rio Grande would have looked a lot better in color.  However, Ford was forced to shoot in black and white to save money that would be later used to capture the emerald green of Ireland in The Quiet Man. Still, the desert always looks better in color, and this film, for me, suffers from a mundane feel. The Wayne and O’Hara spark wasn’t yet on full display yet (although they definitely have their moments), as this was their very first film together, which somewhat lessens the overall effectiveness of the movie.  Of course, it doesn’t help that their son is so freaking boring, either.  Perhaps if Ben Johnson had played Jeff Yorke instead of Jarman things may have turned out differently—Johnson is a standout here.

Thankfully, Rio Grande is aided by a rather impressive supporting cast: Victor McLaglen, J. Carrol Naish, Chill Willis, and Harry Carey, Jr. While McLaglen and Carey are pigeonholed into playing clownish figures, Naish shines in his brief appearances as General Sheridan.  He looks and acts like someone with the toughest regional command in the military.  Still, the fact that he, and the audience, has to seem entertained by the fort’s serenading squad (the Sons of the Pioneers) is an unwanted nuisance which happens several times throughout the film. I will harken back to their unnecessary presence here the next time I watch The Quiet Man to see if there is anything that could have been improved by the money that was spent on them here.

Overall, Rio Grande is a moderately entertaining movie.  I expect its importance stems from it being the first collaboration between Wayne and O’Hara, as well as Wayne, O’Hara and Ford.  Yet, for me, there is nothing exceptional about it.

 

To Have and Have Not (1944) **

Very, very loosely based on Ernest Hemmingway’s novel of the same name, To Have and Have Not (1944) was the first of four films that Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall made together.  Bacall had been “discovered” by director Howard Hawks after his wife, Nancy “Slim” Keith, showed him Bacall’s cover photo on Harper’s Bazaar and was cast in the film at the age of nineteen, having had no previous movie experience. I expect the reason To Have and Have Not has endured over the years is due to Bogart and Bacall’s sexual chemistry and a few famous lines. I say this because anyone who’s ever seen Casablanca (1942) will tell you that To Have and Have Not is a poor, although somewhat altered, imitation of the classic film starring Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.  Not to be disrespectful, seeing as Bacall just recently passed away, but Bacall was no Bergman when it came to acting ability.  You combine this unfortunate fact with a lackluster script (penned at one time or another by Hawks, Hemmingway, William Faulkner, and Jules Furthman) and you have a motion picture that stands on nothing more than sexual tension.

Set in Martinique (not Casablanca’s Morocco, or Hemmingway’s Cuba) following the Fall of France in 1940, the plot revolves around fishing boat captain Steve Morgan’s (Bogart) reluctant assistance to the French Resistance.  A tough-talking American who just wants to make money and hang out with his friend and co-worker, Eddie (Walter Brennan, in one of the few roles I can’t stand him in), Steve finds himself pulled into two unexpected relationships.  The first finds him aiding a French freedom fighter (Walter Surovy) and his wife (Dolores Moran, who saw her role dramatically shrink after Hawks realized he’d struck gold when sparks started flying between Bogart and Bacall) against the Vichy authorities (most notably Dan Seymour, who also appeared in Casablanca).  The second is a romantic relationship with a fast-talking, loose woman named Marie (Bacall) who is nicknamed “Slim” by Steve.  How will Steve save the day? Who knows—the ending is completely ambiguous.

So, I don’t dislike To Have and Have Not, but I don’t think it’s anything special, either.  Of Bogart and Bacall’s four films together, this one probably had the weakest script.  Trying to cash in on Bogart’s success in Casablanca by having so many similarities between the two stories was probably a bad idea—shortcomings are so much more glaring when compared to a superior product.  It doesn’t help that the most memorable things about the film are two questions: “You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow” and “Have you ever been stung by a dead bee?”  While one of those questions is amusing, the other, after being asked countless times, becomes excruciatingly annoying. 

There’s no denying that Bogart and Bacall sizzle when they are on-screen together.  From the moment she asks, “Anyone got a match?”, you know that Slim is going to be trouble for Steve.  Their relationship works because she’s just as tough as he is and she isn’t afraid to show it. I think a lot of people who watch this can see why the couple fell in love off-screen, and this is probably the main reason that To Have and Have Not is considered a classic by many film fans.  I don’t know if I would go so far as to label it as such, but even I have a soft spot for the movie that launched one of Hollywood’s legendary love affairs.

Overall, To Have and Have Not is all about the sexual chemistry between Bogart and Bacall. Once you get past that, the story is lackluster and makes you long to watch a much better film about aiding the French Resistance—Casablanca.

Cat People (1942) **

 

Avid fans of famed horror movie producer Val Lewton will tell you that Cat People (1942) was where it all began for Lewton. Yes, he’d worked as a novelist and “journalist” in the early 1930s, but after achieving success with an early novel, No Bed of Her Own (which was later turned into No Man of Her Own, starring Clark Gable and Carole Lombard), his next three novels flopped and Lewton found himself writing screen treatments for David O. Selznick at MGM.  In 1942 RKO hired Lewton to run its horror division, where he had to make films for under $150,000 and which had to run under 75 minutes. RKO was on the brink of financial ruin when Lewton delivered Cat People in less than one month and under budget by nearly $8,500.  Over the course of a two-year period Cat People raked in almost $4 million for the struggling studio. 

Lewton, for his part, would go on to produce 11 horror films for RKO between 1942-1946, many of which would earn cult status. Some of these films, The Seventh Victim (1943) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943), also appear on the 1001 list.  What all three films that appear on the list have in common is that they are heavy on style and light on substance.  There’s no doubt that the stories are wacky—voodoo and zombies and an ancient Serbian satanic cult of cat women, just to name two plot devices—but what they all did best was to create an atmosphere of dread of the unknown.  Modern horror film audiences would be shocked to know that Lewton’s films rarely exhibited violence or showed blood but that they still elicited tension.

I suppose you could refer to Cat People (1942) as a psychological horror movie since obviously Irena (Simone Simon) has intimacy issues and has to engage in Freudian psycho-babble with Dr. Judd (Tom Conway).  Still, it’s hard to get past the absurdity of Oliver (Kent Smith) marrying a woman who he obviously lusts after but is never permitted to kiss for fear that she might morph into a cat woman and kill him. You’d think after living in close proximity to his sultry wife that Olivier would be the one you’d have to worry about committing crimes but instead it’s Irena who is, quite literally, on the prowl.  As usual with Lewton’s films, I am not certain whether the ridiculousness of the story contributed to the less than stellar acting. 

The best thing about Cat People is Nicholas Musuraca’s cinematography. Working under the direction of Jacques Tourneur, Musuraca’s shadow-infused images are what most people remember about the movie.  Two scenes in particular are standouts: the extended stalking sequence down a deserted and dark alleyway and the frightening swimming pool showdown between Irena and Alice (Jane Randolph). 

Overall, Cat People is a mildly entertaining horror film.  The story is crazy and the acting is bad, but at least it is visually intriguing. 

 

Voyage to Italy (Viaggio in Italia) 1953 **

Ingrid Bergman’s “shocking” affair with Italian director Roberto Rossellini was very unfortunate. It wasn’t harmful because they were both married to other people, or that he ran off with another woman seven years after they were married.  No, what was unequivocally catastrophic about their affair was that it caused Bergman’s banishment from the American film industry because by playing a nun in The Bells of St. Mary’s (1945) and Joan of Arc (1948) it was believed that she should have behaved differently than every other actress in Hollywood. No one was calling Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, or Joan Crawford out on the floor of the U.S. Senate for immorality. And, so at the ripe old age of 34, and at the height of her acting career, she was banished to Italy to make five forgettable films with Rossellini (Stromboli, Europa ‘51, Voyage to Italy, Fear, and Joan of Arc).  Thankfully, French director Jean Renoir saved her from obscurity by giving her the lead in his fun-loving Elena and Her Men (1956) and 20th Century Fox and director Anatole Litvak brought her back to the States to star in Anastasia (1956), in a role that would win her her second Best Actress Oscar. Oh, but the films she made with Rossellini between 1950-1954… One being today’s entry, Voyage to Italy (Viaggio in Italia).

For years the Italian-language version of Rossellini’s Voyage to Italy was nowhere to be seen (or heard) in the U.S., and  it was originally shown in English. However, quite recently Turner Classic Movies aired the film in its original form (in Italian). Loosely based on Colette’s novel, Duo, the story follows an English couple on their trip to Naples to sell an estate that they’ve recently inherited.  Married for more than eight years, Alex (George Sanders) and Katharine Joyce (Bergman) quickly realize on their Italian voyage that they don’t really know anything about one another, and what they do know they don’t seem to like.  He’s a workaholic and she’s an artistic type.  While she’s off visiting museums, the Acropolis, and the catacombs, he’s off licking his wounds and looking for a conquest because she happened to mention an old admirer of hers.  I can see why he might be jealous, as Katharine is years younger than him and much more attractive as well, but to get irked because his wife mentions an old admirer who happens to be dead is a bit of a stretch. Anyway, the couple seem to be on the verge of divorce when divine intervention steps in to save the day.

Did I like Voyage to Italy?  Not particularly, but I didn’t dislike it, either. A movie starring Ingrid Bergman would have to be God-awful for me to truly hate it because she’s such a good actress.  Still, she doesn’t get to do a lot of acting in this—she spends most of her time combing the cultural sites and either looking horrified or mesmerized by what she sees.  However, the few caustic, but semi-polite, exchanges she has with her worthless husband are entertaining to watch.  Sanders, for his part, looks particularly bored throughout the picture. I’m not sure if this was intentional, as Alex was bored by Italy and probably Joyce as well, but Sanders didn’t seem particularly happy at any point in the movie—he despised the way Rossellini “directed” it. 

I’m pretty sure that most of the production was shot on location, and in that sense, at least, it has at least one element of Italian neorealism (however, that particular film period ended in 1952). As such, there is an authentic feel to Voyage to Italy—even if its ending is far from realistic. The fact that Rossellini features the Naples’ National Museum of Archaeology, Duomo Cathedral, hypogea (underground tombs) and, of course, Vesuvius and the ruins of Pompeii makes the film much more enjoyable for me.  You see, I don’t necessarily agree with Francois Truffaut’s assessment that it’s a masterpiece or that it should be labeled as the first modern film—if you are unfamiliar with the French New Wave, here’s a quick history lesson: Truffaut, Godard, and the rest of the Cashiers du Cinema worshiped Voyage to Italy and, as The Guardian has pointed out, saw the film as “the moment when poetic cinema grew up and became indisputably modern”. 

Other than the sights explored by Katharine, the most interesting thing about Voyage to Italy is the climatic staging of the would-be destruction of the Joyce’s marriage.  The couple, rather Alex, matter-of-factly comes to the conclusion that they should get a divorce as they are exploring the ruins of Pompeii.  Perhaps the symbolic correlations between the ruins of a civilization and a marriage is a tad heavy-handed, but nonetheless it was cleverly done.  Still, I’m not exactly sure if this was planned, as most of the movie was shot without a script and Rossellini created most of his “brilliance” haphazardly. 

The absolute worst thing about Voyage to Italy is the ending.  I won’t spoil it for those who haven’t seen it, but I can tell you that it has a symbolic staging as well.  Trite is the word that best describes what I think of the ending.  Which, of course, lessens the overall appeal of the movie for me.

An American in Paris (1951) **

Artistically director Vincent Minnelli’s An American in Paris (1951) is a triumph.  It rightfully earned Oscars for its art direction (Cedric Gibbons, Preston Ames, Edwin B. Willis, and Keogh Gleason) and costume design (Orry-Kelly, Walter Plunkett, and Irene Sharaff), and I suppose one could make the case that its win for Best Music (Johnny Green and Saul Chaplin) wasn’t too far of a stretch—but one could definitely make a valid argument for Adolph Deutsch and Conrad Salinger’s work for Show Boat (1951), too. However, under no circumstance should An American in Paris have won Best Picture over the likes of A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), A Place in the Sun (1951) or even Quo Vadis (1951); and, while the field for Best Screenplay was weak, there is no question that Billy Wilder, Lesser Samuels, and Walter Newman’s script for The Big Carnival (a.k.a. Ace in the Hole, 1951) was far superior to what Alan Jay Lerner produced for An American in Paris. Its win for Best Color Cinematography (Alfred Gilks and John Alton) is a mild irritant since, again, there weren’t any true standouts in the field.  Unlike many of my fellow classic movie fans I don’t like An American in Paris very much.  I hate the story and find the musical numbers less than thrilling.  However, if you are a regular reader of this blog, then you know that my main complaint with An American in Paris is Gene Kelly’s beautifully staged vanity project: a 17-minute ballet performed at the end of the movie. 

Jerry Mulligan (Kelly) is a struggling American painter who lives in the most pristine section of Montmartre ever depicted on film.  Friends with a middle-aged child prodigy (Oscar Levant) and successful cabaret singer, Henri (Georges Guetary), Jerry is also “sponsored” by American heiress, Milo Roberts (Nina Foch). Obviously Nina has the hots for Jerry, but that doesn’t stop him from hitting on 19-year-old Lise (Leslie Caron, who was really two years older than her character) at a nightclub right in front of Milo and her friends.  At first, Lise has the good sense to give Jerry the brush off, but eventually she caves into his harassment for a date after he stalks her at her job at a perfumery. But don’t feel bad for Lise, because she’s a two-timer, too. Unbeknownst to Jerry, Lise is engaged to Henri, the man who protected her during the Nazi occupation.  And, that’s the story.  There is absolutely nothing whatsoever that is compelling or engaging about it.  It also doesn’t help that Kelly was twice Caron’s age or that Minnelli and the screenwriters attempted to portray Foch’s Milo as what is now known as a “cougar” when she was twelve years younger than Kelly—this is way more than a mild irritant.

An American in Paris was inspired by George Gershwin’s music, most notably his 1928 orchestral composition of the same name. Several of Gershwin’s notable standards are performed: “Embraceable You “(from Girl Crazy, 1930); “Nice Work If You Can Get It” (from A Damsel in Distress, 1937); “Our Love Is Here to Stay” (which was a slightly altered version of his “Love Is Here to Stay” from The Goldwyn Follies, 1938); and, “’S Wonderful” (from Funny Face, 1927).  However, the only Gershwin musical number in the entire film that I like is “I Got Rhythm”, and even it pails in comparison to Judy Garland’s performance of it in the lackluster Girl Crazy (1943).  Additionally, right smack in the middle of the movie there is what amounts to an unnecessary intermission when Oscar Levant’s character dreams that he plays every instrument in “Concerto in F for Piano and Orchestra”. His character, Adam, is completely useless to the plot—why must we watch him in an extended 4+ minute sequence?

Gene Kelly could dance, there’s no doubt about it, but how many of the same tap routines must one watch in the same movie?  And, then there are the ballet sequences. I can get over that Kelly and Minnelli chose to introduce their big discovery, Caron, in a hodgepodge ballet number—at this time, she was a ballerina and not an actress.  Moreover, I can somewhat stomach their interpretive dance along the Seine for “Our Love Is Here to Stay”.  But, that’s where my patience ends.  When Minnelli chooses to do a close-up of Kelly’s Jerry and the film morphs into la-la land (what I assume is Jerry’s subconscious) and for 17 minutes I have to watch a ballet tribute to French art, most notable Toulouse-Lautrec, but the works of Raoul Dufy, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Maurice Utrillo, Henri Rousseau are also paid homage.  Should the art direction,  costumes, and choreography be commended?  Sure, those things make the film palatable.  Yet, they don’t negate the fact that having a 17-minute ballet as the conclusion of your film is ridiculous. Is it pretty to look at? Yes. Does it drag on for what seems like forever? Yes.  Does it make any difference in the overall plot narrative of the film? No.  And, when your story is already suspect and not the least engaging, why would you choose to end it with a ballet sequence that people can’t wait to be over?  Vanity—particularly, Gene Kelly’s. 

So, I know I’m probably in the minority regarding my distaste for An American in Paris.  Frankly, I don’t care.  The story is lackluster. The acting is passable but by no means stellar.  The most memorable musical number is a ballet sequence that has no connection to the plot narrative. Seventeen minutes of spectacular art direction and costume design, and beautiful choreography does not make a film great—especially when the other 96 minutes are only mildly entertaining. 

Guys and Dolls (1955) **1/2

 

When I think of Gene Kelly or Frank Sinatra I envision them in musicals—they belong in this genre.  But Marlon Brando in a musical?  WTF!  The first time I sat down to watch Brando’s starring turn in director Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Guys and Dolls (1955) I thought to myself: This isn’t going to end well, is it?  But, what a surprise, as the movie is actually rather entertaining and Brando does a relatively good job (thanks to a lot of sound engineering). Still, Brando’s not the best thing about Guys and Dolls. What makes the film really tick are the musical numbers performed by Frank Sinatra and Vivian Blaine. 

Frank Loesser’s hugely successful original 1950 Broadway musical, Guys and Dolls, won five Tony Awards, including Best Musical.  Loesser based his musical on two short stories by Damon Runyon, “The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown” and “Blood Pressure”. While screenwriters Mankiewicz and Ben Hecht made a few changes from Loesser’s musical, the film is essentially about a $1,000 bet between two professional gamblers, Sky Masterson (Brando) and Nathan Detroit (Sinatra), that Sky can’t take repressed Salvation Army Sergeant Sarah Brown (Jean Simmons) on a date.  Nathan desperately needs the money to secure a location for a floating crap game that he runs, and knowing that Sky will bet on just about anything and that Sister Sarah is a no-nonsense woman, especially when it comes to sin, i.e. gambling and drinking, Nathan believes he has a sure bet.  However, Sister Sarah’s mission is failing and General Cartwright (Kathryn Givney) is threatening to shut it down. Seeing an opportunity to win his bet and also take a rather attractive, if not uptight, woman to dinner in Havana, Sky guarantees that he can fill the mission with at least 12 bona fide sinners for the mission’s next meeting if she agrees to go with him.  When Sister Sarah agrees and Nathan loses the bet he must find another place to hold his crap game. Fortunately for him with Sister Sarah away in Havana, the mission is the perfect place to hold the game—Lieutenant Brannigan (Robert Keith) and the cops would never suspect such a venue. 

While Sky and Sister Sarah make an interesting pairing, it is Nathan’s relationship with his nightclub singing fiancee, Adelaide (Vivian Blaine), that makes the film entertaining to watch.  Blaine, one of the four original Broadway cast members, is flawless as a woman with a 14-year old cold to match her 14-year old engagement to Nathan.  Yes, her baby-doll voice is a little annoying at first, but it grows on you as the picture progresses, and eventually you’ll accept it as a necessary character trait (or flaw).  She and her Hot Box chorus girls get to perform two outrageous numbers, “Pet Me Poppa” and “Take Back Your Mink”, that you can’t help but be amused by.  Her one solo number, “Adelaide’s Lament”, is about the psychology behind her cold and delivers the laughs.  Additionally, she sings “Sue Me” with Frank Sinatra near the end of the film, which spotlights that they were by far the two most talented singers in the movie. 

Sinatra, for his part, plays a member of the gambling underworld well—of course, he had the background for this role.  Perhaps he was miffed that Sam Goldwyn and Mankiewicz decided to cast a less than stellar singer who had never been in a musical before as the lead, but Sinatra really amped up his game for Guys and Dolls.  From his rousing rendition of “The Oldest Established (Permanent Floating Crap Game)” to his delivery of the best musical number of the movie, “Adelaide”, Sinatra showcases why people would eventually pay so much to watch his live shows—he has the chutzpah to deliver the goods. 

Surprisingly, the most well-known song from Guys and Dolls, “Luck Be a Lady Tonight”, was not sung by Sinatra but by Brando.  Of course, Sinatra went on to later record his own version and it became one of his signature songs.  Brando may have had an inflated sense of self regarding his abilities as an actor, but he was the first to admit that he had a terrible singing voice.  In an interview ten years after his performance in Guys and Dolls he revealed that all of the songs we hear him sing in the film were the result of countless takes being cut into one version of a song.  This probably explains why Brando never did another musical, even with Guys and Dolls making an estimated $14.5 million profit.  Of course, he had company when it came to less than stellar voices, as Jean Simmons was known for her dramatic abilities and not her singing.  Still, they muddle along well together in the film and do admirable jobs on “I’ll Know” and “A Woman in Love”.  But, truthfully, their best interactions are when they are just acting. 

One musical number that is often overlooked in Guys and Dolls is “Fugue for Tinhorns”, which is sung by Stubby Kaye, Johnny Silver, and Danny Dayton.  This is a shame because it’s probably the most difficult to sing and best arranged song in the entire film.  Stubby Kaye was a fabulous singer, who was relegated to ancillary roles because of his weight, so it’s nice to see him shine in “Fugue for Tinhorns” as well as “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ the Boat”. 

Overall, Guys and Dolls is an entertaining, not-all-together ridiculous 1950s Hollywood musical. It’s light and fun, and filled with catchy, memorable songs.  Most importantly, no one wanders off to dance a 10 to 15 minute ballet solo for the sake of art which makes absolutely no sense to the film’s overall narrative.  On the down side, it is a tad too long and would have benefitted from some editing.