And So We Came to the End…

Once upon a time, 1995 to be precise, Pixar studios burst onto the scene with the surprising Toy Story. In the 17 years that followed, the studio created some of the most incredible animated films ever made. I will take this a step farther–Pixar’s Incredibles, Ratatouille and Up are three of the greatest expressions of animation in world history, and Brad Bird’s Ratatouille, I’m convinced, will be regarded as a comedy in the ranks of His Girl Friday, Bringing Up Baby, and other classics.

Pixar films were out of their time, tremendously entertaining and thought provoking. The studio seemed intent on not only making their movies technologically brilliant, but character-based stories that were subtle and without the usual Disney tropes. Gone were the treacly songs, gone were the ham-handed lessons, gone were the annoying celebrity voice work. Instead, they created a rich tapestry of sometimes odd stories, hilarious, adventurous in the purest sense of the word, peopled with rats, old men, angst-ridden superheroes, characters that will endure for generations.

Nothing lasts, however. Ever since Up, the studio, in my mind, has been faltering. I’m not going to try and analyze other critics, except to say that I remain baffled by the praise heaped on Toy Story 3, a mediocre and maudlin picture so busy it seemed like it was done by a hyperactive teen. I avoided  Cars 2–the Cars duo are the only Pixar films I’ve missed, in part because I made a solemn vow that I would cut my own tongue out if I ever partook in anything with Larry the Cable Guy.

And now comes Brave, and I have to say that this seems to me to be the one that rings so hollow, seems so unlike their other efforts, that it signals an ultimate end in something. Pixar, once the greatest animation studio perhaps in history, has now fallen prey to the Dreamworks curse of awful music, annoying pop culture references, and caters to the worst of its audience. To put it simply: Brave is a wreck.

The plot: Merida (Kelly Macdonald, the whining wife in No Country for Old Men) is a young woman living with her royal family in a castle in rural Scotland. Her father is the king of the clans, Fergus (Billy Connelly, who else?); her mother, the uptight but loving queen Elinor (Emma Thompson); and the three red-headed triplets who wreak havoc like a trio of Tasmanian Devils.

Merida is a master at archery and wants, well, we don’t know really what she wants, but we do know that she doesn’t want to get married. And yet, that is what must happen–three clans are bringing their firstborns to claim her hand. That this seemingly important event is an utter surprise to Merida is the first sign of trouble–why did they wait to tell her until it was right on top of her? “This is what you’ve been working for your whole life,” Elinor says at one point, but of course nobody thought to tell the girl that all her life. Really?

Merida is infuriated at this, naturally, and so when they settle on an archery contest to determine the groom-to-be, she’s thrilled. Our red head is the best archer in the land and proceeds to win her own hand–not a surprise, since it’s the heart of every trailer promoting this picture. The scene has hardly been developed and has little impact–there’s nothing threatening out little world, her marriage seems to have no bearing on, well, anything, and she doesn’t want to get married, and we all know that she won’t. There’s so little gravas to this conceit it barely moves the plot along.

This is because, despite Pixar’s usual attempt at incredible verisimilitude (the castle and the outfits of the men are striking as usual), the conversations and action of Brave are strangely domestic. It’s one thing to show superheroes in the present stumbling through the tedium of a 9 to 5 job, and bickering amongst themselves like families do–that was the point of the Incredibles, that these superheroes are surprisingly like you and I even when they’re not. But the family in Brave is pure tedium and hardly original–Merida whines and complains like a spoiled teen, forever rolling her eyes and groaning “Mo-oom!” or falling backwards on her bed and sighing like a brat. It seems totally incongruous to the time, which is fine in cheap Dreamworks fare, but for Pixar we’ve come to expect them to be true to the story (consider the attention to even the smallest kitchen detail in Ratatouille.)

Determined not to get married to one of the three bumbling teens, Merida rides into the deep forest and stumbles on a witch who will grant her a wish. The witch and her workshop are visually striking, but the character is a dud, a fast-talking jokester along the lines of Robin Williams’ genii in Aladdin. Merida is given a little cake that she’ll feed to her mother, who will “change”, so that Merida can determine her own fate. We know this won’t go as planned, in part because it seems like the girl doesn’t even know what she wants.

For whatever reason, most reviewers have left out the key element of the plot, which I guess is supposed to be a surprise, but I’m going to reveal it here: Elinor eats the cake, and she turns into a bear. I’ve neglected to mention that Fergus, like Ahab, lost his leg to a giant bear years ago, and basically kills every bear he sees.

Elinor’s turning into a bear is one of the strangest moments I’ve had as a moviegoer. For starters, Pixar totally scores here: the bear is rendered perfectly, totally real, and it’s a moment in which I was awestruck. The animators captured what I imagine it would really be like if a human being became a bear. The look, the actions, everything–it is a startling moment, and I commend them.

But it destroys the plot. In fairy tales, typically when someone is turned into an animal, it is by their own hand, or due to their own cruelty. Elinor has been neither–she’s simply had a disagreement with Merida. And here the tenor of the film totally sours. Instantly I found myself loathing the girl, who can’t stop saying “It’s not my fault.” The realism of the bear becomes too much to handle–we recoil at the trauma Elinor goes through, and recoil again at this majestic creature trapped in a castle, pursued by bumbling animated Scotsmen intent on killing it, and totally capable of doing so.

There is a story about Buster Keaton’s the Navigator that illustrates Brave’s problems here. Keaton spent a hundred grand on this wonderful little underwater dance with himself and a bunch of fish in that movie. The problem was, that this scene occurs at the same moment that the heroine was in mortal danger from a bunch of cannibals. Keaton dances while the girls is seemingly being killed. Audiences hated it, as they were so unnerved by the girl’s trouble they couldn’t laugh–it made them uncomfortable.

So it is in Brave. A scene where the mother, as a bear, is trying to learn how to fish for salmon, is discomfiting. Merida laughs at her, and you can’t help wonder what this girl is thinking–this is hardly funny, as the mother didn’t ask for this, and is horrified at what has happened. In a way, Pixar’s success at rendering the bear undermines this–there’s a necessary disconnect when we see cartoons and movies where someone’s become an animal, but here it’s so real all we can feel is Elinor’s trauma, which is so acute as to be sickening.

From here on out, Brave becomes a chore to endure, as Merida’s annoying habit of trying to avoid culpability and the harrowing near-escapes of this poor animal grate on the nerves. Furthermore, Brave quickly loses track of what it wanted–the movie is really about Elinor, but what does she get from being changed? Nothing really.

To make matters worse, Merida doesn’t learn anything, doesn’t actually save the mother, doesn’t really do anything. The act that returns the mother to human form (this is still Disney–you knew that was coming) is lightweight. And her lesson at the end? That her mother is a good person who didn’t deserve to be turned into a bear. Huh? Merida gets what she wants, Mom goes back to normal, nothing was lost, no one hurt.

You may notice I’m avoiding the names of the filmmakers, because unlike other Pixar movies, this one appears to have been made by committee, which is usually a problem. Three directors–Mark Andrews, Brenda Chapman, and Steve Purcell–worked on it, and those three plus Irene Mecchi wrote the thing (usually a lot of people work on the plot in Pixar movies, though.) But something broke along the way–this is the one Pixar movie chock full of annoying songs, inspirational Scottish folk-rock garbage meant to signal emotion. Plus there’s so much clamor–fighting, screaming, people getting their feet stomped, googly eyes and what not, you wonder whose film you’re watching. Certainly not Pixar’s.

The Pixar films were always a high point of every summer, even if the movie wasn’t my favorite, like Wall*E or Monsters, Inc. There was always this sense of a studio of close-knit individuals, some geniuses but a lot of clever, hard-working craftspeople in love with their art, where character and story reigned supreme… as opposed to just being a product that sold toys at McDonald’s (even when there were toys at McDonald’s.)

Brave feels calculated, it feels like plastic, and it’s nearly awful. If you love movies, this is a moment to lament. Pixar might not be down and out, but it’s certainly down, and cinema is poorer for that.

Five Film Favorites: Those Uncomfortable Nudes

I’ve often said, in a mostly joking manner, that there’s never been a film made that wasn’t improved by nudity. Setting aside my lame attempts at humor, nudity adds, at the very least, an intense realism to movies. Now, I’m not going to speak from a purely artistic standpoint–yes, I find nudity titillating in most films.  It’s fun and exciting to see your favorite actors in a state of undress.

However, I can’t emphasize enough that nudity is essential to certain pictures, making them feel so damned real that you squirm in your seat. Nudity is vulnerability. It is vulnerability on the part of the actor, and on the part of the character. And that unclothed exposure can be so acute that it will stay with you for days. Where some directors try and shock with violence–so overrated–it is a well placed nude scene that really stands out.  Where most of us have hopefully avoided violence in real life, everyone has been naked. From sitting in an examining room with a doctor to using a public restroom, this exposure is something with which we can all relate.

There’s a certain bravery in shooting a nude scene, obviously for the actor, but also for the director. Violence is corn syrup with red food coloring; nudity is real. A lot of our great directors feel very safe drenching their people in blood, but try and get them to remove even a stitch of clothing, and that’s another story.

The tendency in an article like this might be to focus on the startling developments in nudity in films, and with that you typically go back to the 1970s, and examine, say, the works of Bertolucci or Ken Russell (or maybe even the explosion of “art house” porn.) They’ve made great movies whose sex scenes are startling, to say the least. But what interests me are those moments when nudity has been used to a different effect–as a way of communicating extreme vulnerability.

So pardon me for ruining your fun, but these nude scenes, with the exception of one, are hardly arousing. But to be honest, I remember these scenes more than I do moments of supposedly alarming violence. The end result is that these moments are effective, and they remind us that we’re watching people, real people.

NOTE: No nude clips, and there will be spoilers.

5. The Pawnbroker (1964, Sidney Lumet.) To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of this movie. But The Pawnbroker deserves a nod if only because it was the first blow against Hollywood’s rating system and Hays code that prevented nude scenes. This is the story of Sol (Rod Steiger, who himself went without clothes in the awful Illustrated Man), a Harlem pawnbroker whose feelings have been destroyed by his experiences in the Holocaust.

The Pawnbroker forced The Motion Picture Association’s hand, for it has two brief nude scenes that are not in the least bit exciting–one in which a prostitute (Thelma Oliver) tries to get more money from Sol by removing her top for him, which only serves to take the poor man back to that moment when he watched his wife, Ruth (Linda Geiser), raped by a Nazi guard in a concentration camp. Both Geiser and Oliver exposed their breasts. I will also say that both scenes drive home the emotional wasteland that Sol lives in–without these scenes, or say, if they were shot in a way that didn’t show the body (say, from behind), they would not have any impact. We need to see Ms. Olivier’s breasts, see her despair, which in turn leaves us feeling as vulnerable as she is in that moment.

The Catholic League of Decency condemned The Pawnbroker, but the studio, Allied Artists, went ahead and released it without the MPAA’s rating (and basically gave the finger to the League of Decency.) New York censors allowed it to play, and the MPAA, its tail between its legs, allowed it an “exception”. Many historians point to The Pawnbroker’s situation as the beginning of the end of this type of censorship, and from then on it was no hold’s barred.

4. Mulholland Dr. (2001, David Lynch.) You might be saying, now hold on a second, Schilling. The nude scenes in Mulholland Dr. are pretty damned exciting.  Please allow me to disagree, and strenuously.

There are three moments of nudity in Mulholland Dr. and they’re doozies, in part because the two leads are profoundly beautiful women (Naomi Watts and Laura Harring), and because they have a pretty intense love scene together. Oh, wow, sexy lesbians! Boom-chicka-bow.

Sorry, dudes, but every nude scene in Mulholland Dr. is designed tobe a desperately sad or angry moment for these two women, a moment of exposure to a world that swallows souls like breakfast cereal. In the first, we see Diane (Harring) emerge from a shower. She has been in a horrible car accident, one that was actually fortuitous, as the people inside were trying to kill her. Hiding away in a strange apartment, she finally decides to clean up when Betty (Naomi Watts) arrives.

So, in other words, Diane is discovered in one of her most vulnerable moments–when she’s naked, and in a shower (and since Psycho showers are no longer safe places.) Lynch is continually toying with his characters’ ability to create safe spaces in Mulholland Dr., violating even their dreams, as reality and unreality intrude upon one another.

Sex scenes make up the other two moments of nudity–the lesser known of the two fits perfectly into my analysis. Diane has stopped by Betty’s run down bungalow to break up with her. The former has just landed a great part in a movie, the Betty is on the outs, despite, at least in her mind, being the superior actress. As their argument reaches a strangely quiet pitch, Betty very nearly rapes her former lover, and definitely causes her (and us) tremendous discomfort. It’s not fun to watch but nasty.

And then there’s the “famous” love scene. Mulholland Dr., in my mind, has very clear delineations of dream world v. reality, and this is definitely the dream. But if you pay close attention, you’ll notice that Angelo Badalamenti’s haunting dirge is playing while these two young women are climbing into bed and all over each other. It’s a strange moment, and one that takes on even greater significance when you realize later that it is the same music playing when Betty, realizing her mistake at having her former lover killed, commits suicide. The love scene was a foolish dream, and now those dreams are gone. Diane is gone. And Betty, beautiful Betty, succumbs to the existential menace of Hollywood, and blows her brains out in a ratty bungalow in Los Angeles.

Devastating, and made even more so by the powerfully sad nude scenes.

3. Schindler’s List (1993, Stephen Spielberg.) There is a conventional moment of nudity in Schindler’s List, Steven Spielberg’s near-great and terribly flawed portrait of life in a concentration camp. It is a scene where Amon Goeth (Ralph Fiennes, amazingly evil) is loafing in bed, his big belly protruding upward, and a beautiful young woman emerges from under the covers, topless. It’s a bit of a surprise, coming from Spielberg, who doesn’t typically have any nudity in his films.

But this isn’t the scene I’m concerned with. I give Spielberg all the credit in the world for going forward with two moments that are so totally devastating they’ve remained with me for years: that of the Jewish prisoners, men and women, the young and the very old, being forced to run in circles outside, totally naked. The other, of course, is the shower scene. As we know, showers in a concentration camp mean death, horrible, agonizing death.

Let me digress just a bit to say that it infuriates me when directors have to play all sorts of games to avoid nudity. Women in films for some reason sit up in bed and always pull up the sheets to cover themselves, and in the world of cinema you can attend strip clubs to watch girls dance around in bikinis. To me, this only brings back the fact that I’m watching a movie, and not real life.

Spielberg really went for broke here, and knew that if he did not show his actors totally naked, the film would be empty. Schindler’s List pulls its punches in its final hour–boy, does it pull its punches–but up to that point it is a shocking film. And I’m here to tell you that is the nudity, more than the violence, that sends its horrors home.

2. Blue Velvet (1986, David Lynch.) As you can see, there are two David Lynch films on this short list, and I have to say that he is definitely a director who is comfortable with nudity. About half his movies feature actresses in states of undress. However, Lynch is a man who understands the power of nudity–both to excite, and to disturb.

Case in point: Blue Velvet. And I hope you all know the scene I’m talking about. It is one of the film’s most brilliantly terrifying moments. Jeffrey (Kyle MacLachlan) is out driving with Sandy (Laura Dern.) They’ve been on a date, dancing and playing the Hardy Boys meet Nancy Drew. Suddenly, they’re being pursued by thugs in a fancy car. Their reaction–and ours–is that this is Frank (Dennis Hopper.) You know Frank–sucking nitrous and PBR, beating Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini), and slicing off ears. Frank is the heart of a murder “case”, and Jeffrey’s smack in the middle of it, foolishly thinking he can solve this mystery.

But then Lynch toys with us–the car in question is not being driven by Frank and his gang, but a bunch of Sandy’s high school friends, a dopey drunk football player and his pals who are pissed she’s being seen with Jeffrey. We breathe a sigh of relief. And then from the shadows steps a very naked Dorothy, her arms extended toward Jeffrey and whispering “He put his disease in me.”

I’m shuddering even now as I write this. I had the privilege to see Rossellini speak at the Walker Art Center, and she explained that Lynch and his brother, when they were very young, watched as a neighbor woman ran from her home, totally naked, to flee an abusive husband. “It was the first time he’d seen a naked woman,” she explained, and naturally it terrified him. There was no affection, no love, no thrill to this first sighting–it was a moment of pure fear.

In Blue Velvet, Dorothy’s moment adds to the strange mysteries of the film and is surprisingly touching–who has watched this and not wanted to remove their coat to place it over her shoulders, to cover her and comfort her? If we’re relating at all to Jeffrey we’re anxious about this collision between the dark and the light as Sandy recoils at the fact that he’s obviously been sleeping with Dorothy. It’s really an amazing moment, and again, it is Lynch’s brave take on nudity that makes it as acutely uncomfortable as it is.

1. In the Valley of Elah (2007, Paul Haggis.) In the Valley of Elah was the first film Paul Haggis directed since his Oscar-winning Crash. It was a flop, the story of a former soldier, Hank Deerfield (Tommy Lee Jones, in what I believe is his finest performance, which I know is saying a lot), who decides to investigate the murder of his son, himself a soldier recently returned from Iraq.

In the Valley of Elah is one of the most honest films I’ve ever seen about the life of a soldier. For most of the movie Haggis, who typically loves, loves, loves to drive a point home with the subtlety of a VW bus plowing into a redwood tree, here restrains himself, allowing subtle details to color this tremendously sad story. Jones’ Hank Deerfield is a man committed to his country, but he’s not a zealot–we don’t see him swing from one extreme to another. He’s investigating a death with all the tools at his disposal (he was once a crack MP), but we remember that he’s not investigating the death of a stranger, but his own son.

Haggis shows us the world of the young soldier, eating greasy food in restaurants with plastic tables, guzzling beer in trucks and staring at the sun setting, trying to get a grip on their lives.

And in this amazing scene, the only nude scene in the movie, we get what I believe is the most honest look at stripping ever committed to a feature film (there’s good documentaries out there, I’m sure.) Jones has walked into this cavernous warehouse turned bar and strip club, to see if anyone there remembers seeing his son come in the night of his death. The great Frances Fisher comes from out of the kitchen to wait on him… and she’s topless, and wearing a wig to make her look a lot younger than she his. With a depressing matter-of-fact attitude, contrasting beautifully with Jones’ look of muted shock, she answers his questions, nonchalantly. Later, its driven home by a shot from the end of the bar, where we see two men drinking cheap beer, totally indifferent to the nude woman in dark blue jeans with porcelain-white skin.

You can see it here, with weird dubbing. This scene shocked me then, as it does now. And it makes me sad. It made me sad to think of those kids living their brutal lives who were in there just to get a glimpse at a beautiful body, something comforting, something exciting (that didn’t involve death), and this contrasted with my feelings for this woman, working this job that probably pays better than all the other crappy gigs around town. Real strip clubs don’t feature beauties like Marisa Tomei (as in The Wrestler), but the cheaper ones have women like Fisher, older, unable to afford a boob job, broken a bit by this life or putting up a good front to show they’re tough.

Fisher isn’t unsexy because she’s old–this scene depresses because of the context, and, again, the nudity heightens the situation. It’s there for a reason, and a very good reason, and even though she’s not a soldier, Fisher’s nakedness exposes everyone’s vulnerability. Brilliant. Despite it’s shortcomings, and there’s a lot of them here, In the Valley of Elah is one to see.

Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Recommendation: The Queen

Even though I am a bit of an Anglophile, I still cannot get jazzed up over Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee.  Maybe I rebel against the fact that most of the English-speaking world seems to be reveling in her reign in the most banal and stereotypical ways: Union Jack sunglasses, Union Jack hats, Union Jack shirts, Union Jack anything you can think of.  After all, nothing honors and recognizes the complicated and intense history of England and Great Britain like slapping a Union Jack on some lousy souvenir. Pointless displays of the national flag is an American tradition, and I do not know how I feel about the British stealing our thunder.

However, if you want to watch a film that actually does examine (recent) British history and Queen Elizabeth II’s reign as monarch, I recommend Stephen Frears’s wonderful The Queen (2006). The Queen does not sentimentalize, romanticize, or condemn.  It examines.  The film neither makes us like or dislike the Queen, but it does let us look at her as a human with a personal history, motivations, fears, desires, and limitations.  She is neither better than us or worse than us.  Frears’s terrific film shows her as one of us.  No, we are not all royalty with massive wealth, but we make mistakes, try to take care of our families, and eventually (hopefully) recognize our failings.  Sometimes we do this well, and sometimes we do not.  Sort of like Queen Elizabeth II.

The film is blessedly not a biopic, a genre that grows more and more tired. Instead, The Queen relates the events that occurred shortly before and just after the sudden death of Princess Diana.  The reaction by Queen Elizabeth II and the entire royal family nearly destroyed the monarchy. Narrowing in on this single episode is more enlightening than a tired, drawn-out life story.

The Queen succeeds above all else because of the singular and magnificent Helen Mirren, an enormous talent who defies age.  I will not spend any more time attempting to describe her greatness. Anyone who needs convincing about the marvelousness of Mirren lies beyond any help that I can offer.  And if you are already aware of her greatness (as you should be), then any words I write will be redundant. 

While not in the same class as Mirren, Michael Sheen does an admiral job as former Primer Minister Tony Blair.  The Tony Blair in this film was essentially tasked with being Queen Elizabeth II’s foil, and Frears does a masterful job of constantly comparing and contrasting the two individuals and their lives, values, and beliefs without delving into simple clichés.  Scenes in which Queen Elizabeth II and Blair talk over the phone allow us to see sharp class distinctions and how social class informs and directs personal behavior.

And even if the gulf between Sheen and Mirren is as vast as the class difference between the Queen and the Prime Minister, Sheen is still a talent who has a wonderful knack for adroitly playing late twentieth century historical figures: Blair, David Frost, and Brian Clough.  By the way, watch Sheen as Clough in The Damned United (2009), my favorite football film.

So view or re-view The Queen.  Unlike the various news reports about and footage from the Diamond Jubilee, The Queen will actually entertain and inform.

Five (Not So) Film Favorites: Actors Who Try Too Hard

The idea for this piece came from the tail end of conversation between radio host Bob Edwards and Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten. For whatever reason, the final few minutes of their hour-long conversation turned to the acting abilities, or lack thereof, of one Victor Mature. Weingarten observed that Mature always looked as though he was trying too hard. While I am not familiar enough with Mature’s work to verify Weingarten’s analysis, this observation of Mature as an actor embedded itself in my mind.  It took root, I think, because it is the perfect criticism of bad acting.  While acting, in cinema or the theatre, requires tremendous talent, labor, and practice, good acting should appear effortless.  The exertion should not be visible.  If the actor makes the exertion visible, then he is not doing it right. (And, yes, this is a male list.  I might at a later date produce a list of actresses who try too hard.)

Victor Mature might very well belong on the list of actors who try too hard, but below is my own personal recollection of actors who, despite their efforts, or maybe because of them, have appeared to have tried much, much too hard. Without further ado, my five (no so) favorite actors who try too hard.

Daniel Radcliffe in the final three Harry Potter films.

I suppose trying to kill Voldemort would make anyone tense up.

When he was originally cast as Harry Potter, Radcliffe was a little boy who had a bright smile and looked the part.  And as small boy, he did not need to carry the film.  As the series progressed, more was required of him, and, in my judgement, Radcliffe simply was not up to carrying this film franchise on his back.  He looked overmatched compared to the Alan Rickmans and Michael Gambons who surrounded him, but, he did give it the old college try. Unfortunately, the old college try usually involved tensing his face and neck muscles to convince us that Harry actually was experiencing the emotions that the director asked him to express.  Go back and watch some of those last Harry Potter films.  Radcliffe is always tensing up his neck and face. Tense neck and face muscles are to acting what ALL CAPS are to persuasive internet writing.

John Phillip Law in Death Rides a Horse (1967).

This is the only film in which I have witnessed Law’s acting, and I should thank fellow James River Film Journal writer Peter Schilling for reminding me of him and the film in a prior Facebook chat.  Death Rides a Horse, directed by Giulio Petroni, is a truly terrific Italian Western, and Lee Van Cleef, whose effortless grace and style directly oppose Law, is magnificent as always.  The film’s greatness can be measured by the fact that it overcomes Law’s rigid portrayal of a vengeful man.  Schilling described Law’s performance as “stiff as a board.”  Actually, a sun-baked two-by-four would be supple and sinuous compared to Law. I suspect that Radcliffe learned that neck tensing trick from Law. 

Matthew McConaughey in films in which he takes off his shirt.

McConaughey’s chest is giving Kate Hudson its full attention.

Despite many of McConaughey’s characters being laid back and “cool,” McConaughey has still always seemed too tight and tense, as if he is desperately trying to convince us that even as a laid back bro’, he is still a quality actor.  To my eyes, McConaughey never seems comfortable in his own skin, which is odd since he so often removes his shirts, but his shirtlessness seems like an act of last resort. He bares his skin in an attempt to bare his emotions. His chest, unfortunately, cannot adequately communicate pathos.   

Bradley Cooper in films in which he stares into the camera and/or utters the phrase “Woooo!”

He is looking at you in an intense manner.

I think the burden of having two last names forces Cooper to over exert himself in an effort to convince everyone of his character’s emotional state.  Cooper’s laborious efforts are easily witnessed in the constant staring contests he seems to have with someone or something.  He is always staring intently.  I assume that someone challenged him to a staring contest, and, as a macho stud, he cannot refuse.  Or he is convinced he can fire Superman-like lasers out of his eyes.    While Cooper does not tense his body in ALL CAPS style, he often speaks in ALL CAPS.  Phrases such as “Wooo!” and “Holy Shit!” are delivered at the same decibel level regardless of the situation.  Apparently, actions that are as varied as flying tanks and playing black jack elicit the same emotional response.

Sylvester Stallone in most films made after 1980.

He will soon be very tired.

It is hard to imagine that at one point Stallone was a respected Hollywood figure who had been nominated for Oscars.  Sometime during the 1980s, Stallone must have become convinced that the more winded one is, the better one is at acting.  He is always huffing and puffing through a monotonous list of exercises: shooting arrows, running, chopping wood, boxing, rock climbing, scaling snow-covered peaks, hiding behind trees, etc.  The problem with Stallone’s acting is that he, not his character, actually looks out of breath.  I want to see the character’s emotional, psychic, and physical reactions, not the actor’s reactions.  According to the Stallone logic of film acting, one could produce an award-winning performance by simply walking briskly up twenty flights of stairs.

Please feel free to add to this list in the comments.

Five Film Favorites: Johnny Depp Films

Upon viewing a still image of Johnny Depp as Tonto for the upcoming Lone Ranger flick (2013), I came to the conclusion that Johnny Depp looks tremendous in makeup. He probably looks good all the time, but he shines in makeup.  While the choice to have Depp represent Tonto may be politically and culturally dubious (as if the character of Tonto is not always already fraught with political and cultural dubiousness), Depp nonetheless looked terrific in makeup that may or may not be a culturally and historically accurate representation of Native Americans.  Maybe it is the slight and angular nature of Depp’s face and jawbone, or maybe his constant work with director Tim Burton has made me accustomed to seeing him made up with eyeliner, rouge, and base.  Whatever the reason, Depp almost always wears some sort of painted mask, yet this mask has not hidden his gaze.  Indeed, Depp, at his core, seems to always be clown, a jester, a joker.  He is always playing at playing someone or something else.  Instead of hiding behind the makeup, the makeup illuminates his true cinematic self. 

The image of Depp as Tonto along with the release of Dark Shadows (2012), another Burton film in which Depp dons a heavy dose makeup, provided the genesis of this five film favorites list.  Depp’s career is surprisingly long and agile; he has artfully and successfully meandered through a multitude of genres and styles. 

Depp also has the distinction of being cited as a hottie by some of the coolest and most intelligent women I have known.  He is the anti-Matthew McConaughey in the same way that Cate Blanchett is the anti-Angelina Jolie.  Without further ado, my five favorite Depp films.

Ed Wood (1994) – Directed by Tim Burton

A terrific examination of the cult B-movie director, Ed Wood indulges in Depp’s ability to simultaneously be both goofy and sincere.  This is also one of Burton’s more sincere films.  Burton often deals in fantasy, but Ed Wood depicts an actual artist’s striving and longing.  While often played for laughs, neither Depp nor Burton ridicule Wood’s desire and devotion.  The film also has terrific support from Martin Landau, Bill Murray, and George “The Animal” Steele. 

Dead Man (1995) – Directed by Jim Jarmusch

I can say, without hesitation or qualms, that this is my favorite Depp film.  Similar to Ed Wood, Depp is beautifully rendered by black and white film.  Indeed, the entire cinematography of Dead Man is stunningly gorgeous.  Aside from being my favorite Depp film, this is also my favorite Jarmusch piece.   Both Depp and Jarmusch should make more Westerns.  There is so much to love about Dead Man: natural black and white cinematography, references to William Blake’s poetry, Robert Mitchum (Robert Mitchum!), and Crispin Glover. I once took a date to see Dead Man at the University of Chicago.  She thought that the film was dull and tedious.  We did not go on another date.

Donnie Brasco (1997) – Directed by Mike Newell

Depp plays a tough guy, a FBI informant deeply embedded within the mob, and he exhibits a range and skill set that had not been afforded to him in previous films.  Depp is still most frequently cast as the artsy or quirky loner or trickster, but here he pulls off the FBI/mob tough guy schtick well.  He easily holds his own alongside more traditional tough guy actors such as Al Pacino, Michael Madsen, and Bruno Kirby.   

Finding Neverland (2004) – Directed by Marc Foster

Depp’s turn as author J.M. Barrie is both similar and different to many of his earlier roles.  He is an odd and artsy loner, but his performance is reserved and understated.  While the British accent is nothing special, he does pull off a particularly British mode of masculine self-restraint and emotional repression: a necessity in any British period piece that, like Finding Neverland, seeks to mimic a Merchant/Ivory production.  This film deservedly earned an Oscar nod, as did Depp, and is filled with terrific performances all around: Depp, Kate Winslet, Julie Christie, Radha Mitchell, Dustin Hoffman, and Kelly Macdonald.

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007) – Directed by Tim Burton

I suppose that this might be classified as a British period piece, but it certainly contains no restraint or repression.  Gore and guts abound.  Probably my favorite Burton film, Sweeney Todd succeeds as a lavish and horrific fantasy and a musical.  Moreover, it succeeds as a musical even though Depp and Helena Bonham Carter cannot sing.  In other words, it avoids the fate of Paint Your Wagon (1969).  Depp is able to get through the musical numbers by relying on his rock star like persona rather than his voice.  The more I reflect back upon Sweeney Todd, the more I like it.  And rather than list all the reasons that recommend this film, I will list only one: Alan Rickman.  If you need more explanation, you are beyond help.

RACING TO THE BOX OFFICE

             In the 1960s, there was a genre of film comedy about fictional international races to promote the seminal days of modern travel, The Great Race (1965), Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines (1965) and  Those Daring Young Men in Their Jaunty Jalopies (1969). Largely inspired by It’s A Mad Mad Mad Mad World  but with Victorian backdrops, these films have large famous casts, big budgets, long running times and were released as events in “Showcase Theaters” able to feature Wide Screen technology and stereophonic sound.

THE GREAT RACE

Filmed in Hollywood, with some inspired moments, passable effects and a score by Henry Mancini, The Great Race is not a great film and did not recoup its 12 million dollar budget. It had, though, a real bonus for teenage boys like me: watching and hearing Natalie Wood larger than life. The direction is overwrought as was the occasional wont of director Blake Edwards; the story is less than intriguing but like Magnificent Men has a strong dose of feminism. An international car race circling the world is sponsored to publicize a newspaper; Vivian Vance plays the feminist wife of the newspaper’s publisher (Arthur O’Connell) who refuses to allow his female cub reporter (Wood) to do a dangerous story. Wood’s character, Maggie Dubois, is industrious and connives to tag along in the car of The Great Leslie (Tony Curtis). Leslie’s rival, Professor Fate, is played by Jack Lemmon as an ill tempered, snidely whiplash villain. His not too bright assistant is played by Peter Falk. Except for scenes in the southwest desert, most of the ‘foreign’ locations – Russia, France etc. – are clearly filmed indoors or on the backlot of Warner Brother’s Burbank studios. It has that studio’s fakey, 1960s look ala My Fair Lady (filmed on the same sets the year before). In a major sequence, Lemmon and Curtis’ cars are stranded together on an iceberg – clearly filmed indoors. With its American cast it lacks the international flavor that made the next film such a big hit.

THOSE MAGNIFICENT MEN IN THEIR FLYING MACHINES OR HOW I FLEW FROM LONDON TO PARIS IN 25 HOURS 11 MINUTES

The masterpiece of the three films – exciting, cinematic and a real crowd pleaser. A similar feminist story, it’s about an international air race in 1908 at the birth of air travel. Sarah Miles is Patricia, the daughter of Lord Rawnsley (Robert Morley), a sponsor of the race. She is clearly challenging mores when we first meet her by posing nude on a beach for an oil portraitist. Her suitor, Richard, a young aristocratic pilot played by James Fox, refuses to take her “up”, old fashioned is his belief that proper women should be grounded. She finds a sympathetic ear in a rugged Arizona cowboy, Orvil, played beautifully by Stuart Whitman (one of his best roles) who sees little difference between rustling a wild bull or airplane.

The flying scenes are sensational and palpably put the audience into the air (“Great Race” has one flying sequence that is badly matted). A lot of care was taken to reproduce the era’s airplanes and they really fly! Director Ken Annakin* was a scion of Victorian era and you can feel its rhythms and pacing in his thrilling film. It’s an “outdoor” movie that clearly takes us on an adventure in super wide-screen 70 mm Todd-AO by cinematographer Christopher Challis (who shot some Michael Powell/Emeric Pressburger films and shares their aesthetic for color). The sets and costumes clearly put us back in turn of the century England with comedic performances by Terry Thomas, Gert Frobe, Alberto Sordi, Jean Pierre Cassel, Benny Hill, Red Skelton, Eric Sykes and Robert Morley. The romantic triangle between the American cowboy, the young feminist and the snobby upper-classman powers the story. Though produced by the 20^th Century Fox and personally supervised by studio head Darryl F. Zanuck, Annakin’s capable English crews make for a euro-sensibility.

THOSE DARING YOUNG MEN IN THEIR JAUNTY JALOPIES

In 1969, Magnificent Men director Annakin and co-writer Jack Davies made Monte Carlo or Bust” released in the U.S. as Those Daring Young Men in Their Jaunty Jalopies, another big budget but independent production (the copy I saw was distributed by American International though IMDB credits Paramount). Despite a deviously funny and nasty turn by Terry Thomas (in one scene, when he is told on a golf course his father has died, he can hardly hide his glee at his coming inheritance and insists the game go on), it is a lame copy of Magnificent Men clearly designed by it’s producers to replicate its success, even putting Tony Curtis back into a Victorian car race. Frobe and Sykes return with different character names but play basically the same parts.

There were others: Those Fantastic Flying Fools  (1967 Burl Ives joins Terry Thomas and Gert Frobe in a race to the moon), as well as Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968 again – Frobe) adapted by Roald Dahl from Ian Fleming’s novel – fantastical, Victorian  entertainments – but by 1970, the genre had pretty much died out. In less than a decade, the Merchant/Ivory team would begin to paint a different picture of how we perceive the Victorian era.

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SOME BACKGROUND ON KEN ANNAKIN

Though Annakin’s early British career produced critically acclaimed low budget, mostly B&W films like Hotel Sahara (1951), Across the Bridge (1957), Crooks Anonymous (1962) and The Fast Lady (1963), he quickly developed a bent for commercial studio fare. His Huggetts family series featuring Petula Clark (sequels were rare back then) did well at the box office and are considered, along with the films of Douglas Sirk, a precursor to TV soap operas. Next up was a series of live action Technicolor adventure films for Disney: The Story of Robin Hood and His Merrie Men (1952), Third Man on the Mountain (a childhood favorite -1959) and Swiss Family Robinson (1960 – a massive hit). He became a “go to” guy for extremely big budget productions like The Longest Day (1962) and Battle of the Bulge (1965) – often with mixed results. This talent for complicated productions and big casts paid off handsomely, however, with the heartfelt Magnificent Men.

Really Great Film Recommendation: Nowhere in Africa

For sometime now, I have desired to write about and recommend director Caroline Link’s fantastic Nowhere in Africa (2001). The right opportunity has just never seemed to present itself. I do not know if mid-April 2012 is the right opportunity, but I did not want to sit on this any longer or devise excuses to not write about a film that has stayed with me like few others. One of the ways in which I judge a film is by the degree to which I can recall its moments and visions after only a single viewing. I viewed Nowhere in Africa nearly a decade ago, and it still resonates strongly; I have no qualms about discussing and recommending it nearly ten years removed from seeing it a single time.

A German director, Link writes about and directs a story that is quite familiar to us now: Jewish refugees fleeing from the Nazis and Holocaust during the late 1930s and 1940s.  Many films, too many to list or name here, have dealt with the plight of Jews during the Holocaust.  Some of these have been heartwrenching and depressing, but still excellent.  Link’s film, which deservedly won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film, discusses the same subject from a decidedly different perspective.

Link accurately acknowledge’s our familiarity with the horrible images of concentration camps, so she gives us none of those.  The horror is communicated by other means: a train leaving a station or a husband informing his wife that her family has been moved.  We know what is to happen in the film and what happened in history.  Link feels in no way compelled to recreate unnecessary imagery, and for that she should be thanked.

The storyline of Nowhere in Africa centers on a married Jewish couple, Jettel and Walter Redlich (Juliane Kohler and Merab Ninidze), and their daughter, Regina (Lea Kurka and Karoline Ekertz), who relocate to Kenya to avoid the catastrophes of Nazi Germany and WWII. And while WWII and the Holocaust settle into the backdrop, the film becomes much more a study of a family, a husband, a wife, and a daughter, who must come to know and re-know each other through global horrors, family traumas, and personal loss.

Nowhere in Africa begins with an image that is simultaneously endearing and ominous.  Jettel Redlich stands on picturesque Bavarian mountain as children sled.  Snow appears beautiful and innocent as only snow can when great cinematography wants to make snow appear beautiful and innocent.  Jettel stumbles in the snow, and young German officer, with the swastika clearly on display looks down at her, a German Jew.  He offers her his hand and guides her to his feet.  Both smile and continue to enjoy the Bavarian winter wonderland.

This beautiful initial sequence sets up one of the film’s tragedies: Jettel is denied a German identity even though she clearly values it.  Yes, Jettel is Jewish, but she sees herself as a German citizen who can lay claim to being part of the Germany.  Her Jewishness does not preclude her national identity.  For the longest time Jettel refuses to believe that her nation, one which she admired and defended, would not only deny her a right to be German but would exterminate her and her family because she and they also happened to be Jewish.

Walter comes to a quicker realization of how Nazi German sees Jews and the danger posed to him and his family, so he finds a way to relocate them to Kenya.  Jettel, jarred by dislocation and disbelief, struggles in her new home and engages in a dalliance with another man. The dissonance between Walter and Jettel on their Jewish and German identities frays their relationship.  Jettel, angry at being relocated to Kenya, directs her frustration and disappointment toward Walter.  Walter, in turn, grows increasingly frustrated at Jettel’s refusal to see the designs and intentions of Nazi Germany.

Jettel and Walter mend their relationship, but the mending occurs organically and lovingly, not through sappy closeups and bad background music.  Link allows both characters to develop and change, and it is through such careful character development that their marriage is lovingly put back together.

Jettel eventually realizes the more than horrible consequences of Nazi Germany.  In painfully emotional scene, she is told of the deaths of her family.  Kohler’s performance is exquisite.  She allows us to be frustrated with her character but at all times understand her internal dilemma.  Despite Jettel’s flaws and mistakes, we desire to love her much like Walter does.

Other films have documented and told tale of Nazis, WWII, and the Holocaust; these films often use and rely on grisly images to relay what was an evil reality.  Link’s film takes vastly different tactic, not necessarily better, but different and effective.  The film never forgets or attempts to elude the Holocaust.  The Redliches, while lucky in comparison, were torn from each other, their families, and cast out.  Large events can be told with a variety of narratives; Nowhere in Africa is one terrific narrative.

Five Film Favorites: Female Action Leads (Heroes and Villains)

Much of the press and publicity surrounding the release of the now box office sensation The Hunger Games (2012) focused on the fact that the film (and the franchise that is sure to follow) has, as its lead, a young female protagonist (the terrific Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss Everdeen). Melissa Silverstein celebrates this occasion by asking if The Hunger Games will be the “the first real female franchise?” Silverstein is correct to note that men and boys disproportionately populate action and superhero films. Despite the gross gender inequity within the film industry, some excellent women actors have performed wonderful turns as leads in action films, so I thought I would use this installment of “Five Film Favorites” to chronicle my favorite female action leads.  I have included heroes and villains.  Please feel free to add to my list in the comments.  Without further ado . . .

HEROES DIVISION

Sigourney Weaver as Ripley in all of the Alien films

Upon reading the title of Silverstein’s article, I wondered how Weaver might react.  By any measure, the four Alien films were the first action film franchise to have a female lead.  (If I have forgotten any such films that predate Alien, please correct me.) And these four films truly belong to Weaver and her magnificent Ripley.  Beginning in 1979 with Alien and ending in 1997 with Alien: Resurrection, each film had a different director, but Weaver was the constant.  She was neither sexualized nor romanticized.  She was smart, resourceful, brave, and empathetic: a hero.  To put Ripley’s magnificence into perspective, keep in mind that she defeated those indestructible creatures four times.  Four times!  If producers of the reality death show in The Hunger Games had dropped the aliens into the battle arena, the teens would all be dead within 15 seconds.  The aliens would then escape from the arena and lay waste to the rest of humanity until Ripley arrived and showed everyone how to properly get things done.  (By the way, that is how I would write any sequel to The Hunger Games.)

Jodie Foster as Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

It would have been wonderful if Foster had continued in her role as Agent Starling in the sequel.  I do not dislike Julianne Moore’s portrayal, but it is not the same.  Despite Anthony Hopkins’s brilliant portrayal of the sinister Hannibal Lecter, Foster ably matches him and prevents The Silence of the Lambs from solely becoming the villain’s tale.  Similar to Ripley, Starling is granted the space grow and overcome challenges, internal and external. Also similar to Ripley, Starling is not a sexpot or hamstrung by romance.  She simply use her wits, skill, and courage to defeat the bad guy.

Pam Grier as Jackie Brown in Jackie Brown (1997)

Out of the five in my list, Grier’s Brown is the only one who has any sort romance.  She captures the heart of Robert Forster’s middle aged bail bondsman.  However, the romantic subplot does not sideline her to “woman who needs to be rescued” status.  Like Ripley and Starling, Brown proves more than capable of defeating her various adversaries with smarts and skill.  Grier’s character seems to be an unlikely hero given that as an aging African-American woman clinging to the bottom rung of the lower middle class, she is immensely vulnerable.  She is a target for both the criminals who can implicate her and the prison industrial complex that can lock her up without a second thought.  Grier has always possessed terrific strong eyes, and in Jackie Brown those eyes simultaneously convey the precariousness of her circumstances and her inner strength.

VILLAINS DIVISION

Cate Blanchett as Marissa in Hanna (2011)

While the Saoirse Ronan does a fine job in the lead role as a 16 year-old would be assassin, Blanchett’s role as a devious and unethical intelligence agent drives the film forward and provides the necessary tension.  Readers of this blog know that I really like Cate Blanchett, but Blanchett’s pitch perfect portrayal of a dastardly villain should be quite apparent to more objective eyes. Marissa remains deadly and threatening not through kickboxing or the mastery of weapons, but through the tone of her voice (a wonderfully sinister Texas accent) and her ability to control and inspire fear in others.  Marissa is the only character I have seen whose own personal dental hygiene is as ominous as her soul. If Ronan’s character ever comes back for a sequel, she will be disappointed in the caliber of villain that must replace the deceased Marissa.

Mercedes McCambridge as Emma Small in Johnny Guitar (1954)

Weaver’s Ripley is my favorite character in this list, but Johnny Guitar is my favorite film.  Made during the height of Nicholas Ray‘s visual and narrative powers as an auteur, Johnny Guitar remains more subversive and visually stunning than most films made today.  I will not recap Johnny Guitar’s cult status or why one should see it (but you should see it if you have not).  Instead, I want to highlight McCambridge’s role as Small, who is anything but. Well, she is physically small compared to the rough and tumble cowboys, but the last third of the film is really driven by her relentless desire to destroy and defeat Joan Crawford‘s Vienna.  I have always found something admirable in Small’s ascent up the steep, rocky slope up to the hideaway in which Vienna and her men are stashed.  Yes, Small is evil, but she alone seems capable of bringing her villainy to fruition.  The film’s final scenes between her and Vienna are some of the best moments of cinema that I have ever seen.

Five Film Favorites: The Sound of (Relative) Silence

Apropos of Jean Dujardin’s Oscar triumph last month, I’ve been pondering some of the great nearly silent performances in cinema. David Thomson once wrote (in an essay I can’t find for the life of me) about the limitations of silent cinema, in part noting that silence itself is hampered in a silent film. After all, if no one is talking, then the quiet loses its impact.

So I’m more impressed whenever I see an actor carry a movie without saying much, or anything, for they’re made to communicate so much with their faces, hands, bodies. Dialogue exists, but it’s so much more difficult, and perhaps more intriguing. The unspeaking actor forces other characters to respond to the silence, probing them to carry their half of the conversation differently. (And I can only imagine the challenges of remembering cues!)

Half the movies on this list have characters working in silence for most of the film in question, and when they open their mouths it’s a revelation.  In fact, that tension–of knowing a character could speak, but chooses not to–is damned exciting if you ask me.

Note: don’t bother to complain that Will Sampson is not on this list for Cuckoo’s Nest, because I don’t find that a particularly incredible performance (though I dig Sampson), and besides, he’s only in that one for about fifteen minutes. I wish that Harry Dean Stanton spoke less in Paris, Texas, but he does, so I’m not including that one, either.

5. Max von Sydow as Dr. Vogler in The Magician (1958). Bergman’s Magician is one of his lesser seen films, and to be honest, I can see why. The film is rich and intriguing, the story of a band of traveling players who are forced to perform before a skeptical audience of a police officer, town official, and a doctor, the collision between faith, mysticism, and reason. I loved three-quarters of this one, but Bergman raises the stakes so much that the ending cannot match the expectations, resulting in a total, and I mean total, disappointment at the end.

But von Sydow is a wonder as “Doctor” Albert Emanuel Vogler, the magician in question. He has, you come to find out, made a vow of silence, disgusted as he is by the conditions of the world. von Sydow has a face I could stare at for hours anyway, his gracefulness is in full measure here, as he communicates the pain and suffering of a man in the throes of a complete existential breakdown. When he speaks, it is startling.

Here is one of the best scenes, around the 3:00 mark, where Dr. Vogler is interrogated by the patronizing city fathers, eager to disprove this mystic.  The Magician, despite its flaws, is definitely worth seeing, especially if you’re a Bergman or von Sydow fan.

4. Peter Boyle as the Monster in Young Frankenstein (1974). Man, I love this movie. And don’t bother trying to give me grief about leaving out the original Frankenstein. Have you seen that one lately? Karloff’s Monster is amazing, but the rest of the movie is pretty damned tedious (and Dr. F is a tremendous annoyance more than anything.)

But Young Frankenstein! Not only is it hilarious, and thrilling, but Boyle’s casting as the Monster was inspired. He brings a very strange, very touching humanity to the role, in part because of the startling contrast between the silences and the moments where he speaks… or tries to speak.

Case in point: the “Puttin’ on the Ritz” scene. Boyle’s Monster is right on the edge of failure throughout that whole performance. We know it won’t work, but for a broad comedy such as this, aren’t you surprised by how touching this scene is? Every time, I sit up in my seat, anxiously hoping the Monster doesn’t screw it up, even as I know he’s going to screw it up. Young Frankenstein has been building to this scene, and Boyle’s struggle to speak, to utter words we’ll understand, is both funny and heartbreaking.

Also: later, when Boyle’s Monster becomes quite, uh, articulate, it’s damned funny, and quite shocking. You couldn’t do either in a silent film.

3. Holly Hunter’s Ada McGrath in The Piano (1993). There’s no possible way to have an article like this without mentioning Hunter’s Oscar-winning performance in The Piano. Hunter uses every means at her disposal to create a mute character whose anger, frustrations, confusions, and most intriguingly, passions, are communicated clear as crystal.

And it is that last emotion that is most impressive to me. Yes, Anna Paquin won a surprise Supporting Actress Oscar playing her daughter, who also serves to speak for Hunter’s Ada. But director Jane Campion is not content to have the little girl (or Ada’s notepad) do all the speaking–Harvey Keitel’s George Baines cannot read (the pad is not worthless), and of course, Ada, as she falls for this hunk, isn’t going to have the girl around when things get, er, hot and heavy.

All this speaks to the complexity of The Piano, and the supreme confidence Campion has in her performers, even when they don’t say a word.

2. Warren Oates’ Frank Mansfield in Cockfighter (1974). I almost literally wrote this piece just so I can try and get you to dig a little bit and get Cockfighter, Monte Hellman’s follow-up to his masterpiece, Two-Lane Blacktop. This one should be no surprise, to a degree, since Two-Lane is itself a nearly-silent film, with long, long stretches of quiet as the heroes drive across the country.

Of course, the irony is that the chatterbox in that one is Warren Oates’ G.T.O., for in Cockfighter Oates plays Frank, who trains his killer birds and then makes a vow never to speak until he wins the Cockfighter of the Year award. His journey toward that prize is the story of the movie.

Like Two-Lane Blacktop, director Hellman totally immerses himself in a little-known world, peopling this planet with the obsessives who would thrive there. Author Charles Williford wrote the script (from his novel) and it’s fascinating to see how he makes the characters respond to Frank’s silences–from the competitors who face him, to the friends baffled by his decision (and it is clearly a decision to everyone in the film), to the women who love him.

Oates is amazing when he doesn’t speak, using his fists, little glances, that strange smile of his to say everything. When he does talk–in a flashback that explains why he takes this vow of silence–it’s a let down, and you think the man doesn’t ever need to open his mouth. (Though not in every flick–Oates is one of my favorites, and especially G.T.O. and the crazy stories he spins in Two-Lane Blacktop.)

Cockfighter is hard to find, though eBay has some copies for fifteen to twenty bucks… about the price of seeing The Lorax at the cineplex. You know it’s worth it. Cockfighter, that is.

1. Anything by Harpo Marx! The Marx Brothers. There’s not much I can add to that, except to say that without Harpo to add those amazing pantomimes, well, the group just isn’t as funny, not by a mile. It’s the contrast to Groucho’s cynical wisecracks, the great collision between witticisms and incredible physical humor–not to mention that damned horn!–that make the Marx Brothers the Marx Brothers.

Much as I love the silent comedians (especially Buster Keaton), it’s those contrasts that make Harpo so effective. For starters, it makes no sense that a woman would fall for this speechless lunatic, but whenever one does, Harpo responds with those faces, that horn, and God damn it all, that thing where he gets someone to hold his leg against their will (why that makes me laugh every single time is beyond me.)

Where Groucho’s one-liners expose the fissures in polite society, so too do Harpo’s manic silences expose the utter futility of the spoken word, reducing people to bumbling, stumbling fools, and thus elevating Harpo to the ranks of the most gracefully articulate. For a man who doesn’t speak, Harpo, in essence, talks for everyone who rages against the world around them, who wants just to be goofy, who wants to anesthetize themselves and fall into the arms of a beautiful woman. Er, isn’t that what we all want?

Spring Training Recommendation: Eight Men Out

While attending a Super Bowl party over a month ago, I decided to thumb through my phone for any news. I saw a rumor that the Mariners were close to signing Hong-Chih Kuo. Kuo, late inning relief pitcher, had been an All-Star as recently 2010, but he performed somewhat abysmally in 2011. Still, this news made me more excited than any single play or event that occurred during the Super Bowl. My reaction confirmed two truths: I like baseball and the Mariners much more than American football, and the Super Bowl is a rather dull, cardboard-tasting media affair.

So as spring training passes its mid-point, I felt that I would once again recommend one of the few baseball movies worth a damn: Eight Men Out (1988).  This film, directed by the perennially underrated John Sayles, chronicles the 1919 Chicago White Sox and the scandal that nearly brought down professional baseball.  Sayles’s film is not perfect; it has a tendency to traffic in the over romanticization of baseball, and at times it tries too hard to tug at our heart strings in drawing out sympathy for some of the eight White Sox who were punished with lifetime bans for attempting to throw the World Series.  I think that the actual historical record will not look as kindly upon Buck Weaver (John Cusak) and Joseph “Shoeless Joe” Jackson (D.B. Sweeney) as Eight Men Out does.

Regardless of the bouts of sentimentality and occaisonal historical inaccuracies, Eight Men Out rises above the usual baseball film fare, which ranges from mediocre to disastrous.  Part of what helps Eight Men Out succeed is that it exposes the seedy and unseemly side of professional baseball.  Baseball is a busines,s and the players and owners are out for themselves.  Some a greedier and slimier than others.  And Charles Comiskey, according to this film and anecdotal evidence, was one of the greediest and slimiest.  Comiskey is probably the film’s most prominent villain.  His greed and indifference to his employees helped spur many of the players to engage in an arrangement to throw the Series.  Yet few, if any, escape without some blame attached to them. In many ways, this baseball story is much more “American” than the more conventional baseball films.  Moments of fun and joy become intertwined with regret, sorrow, and, ultimately, loss.  Like Sugar (2008), which I recommeded last year, Eight Men Out refuses to end on a victorious note.  There is no triumph, and I believe that this violation of the sports film genre has led it to be forgotten among the pantheon of baseball and sports films.  Victory is easy to narrate; loss is difficult.

The other factor that separates Sayles’s film from so many other baseball projects is Sayles himself.  I have long admired Sayles, and Eight Men Out does not even number among my favorite Sayles flicks.  Matewan (1987), City of Hope (1991), Lone Star (1996), and Sunshine State (2002) all rank higher on my personal list.  Eight Men Out‘s ranking says more about Sayles’s quality as a director than it does about Eight Men Out.

As a writer, Sayles has always been able to capture men and women in moments of moral dilemma.  His characters have no good options.  Every avenue they choose has consequences, but they must choose an avenue and live with what that choice brings.  In Eight Men Out, pitchers Eddie Cicotte (David Strathairn) and Claude ‘Lefty’ Williams (James Read) embody this trait.  As viewers, we hate what they do, but we cannot hate them.

Eight Men Out also contains the requisite brilliant visual sparseness that can be found in most Sayles films.  The eye of Sayles’s camera rarely if ever capture broad vistas and horizons in glorious detail.  Everything in Eight Men Out is much more condensed, almost limiting.  Hotel rooms, train cars, and locker rooms all put the characters in close contact with each other, thus elevating the tension.  Even the ball parks seem bounded by the stands and outfield walls.  Many cinematic view of stadiums provide the grand overhead shot that projects largeness and possibility.  Sayles’s camera rests on the ground level, chaining itself to the field of play.  In the same way that the players have limited possibilities, we have limited vision.  And while the cinematography of a Sayles film would never be confused with that of Malick or Scorsese, I can still distinctly recall the colors in Eight Men Out.  The outdoor shots have a brightness that seems slightly drained, as if dusk is always closing in.  Of course, for eight players it metaphorically is.

I suppose that my recommendation of Eight Men Out has more to do with my love of baseball than of the film itself.  I do not think that Eight Men Out is a great film, but it is a good baseball film, which might be one of the rarest films of all.

P.S. Kuo has pitched abysmally this spring, and might be cut.