Category Archives: classic movies

Setter’s ‘Spectives: How Did I Avoid ‘The Fortune Cookie’ All These Years?

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Setter Drawing for Blog 082613I must be remiss. Very remiss.

I hadn’t seen Billy Wilder’s The Fortune Cookie until a few days ago. Bad, bad me.

It was terrific. Not the greatest comedy ever made, but this witty farce, concerning an injured cameraman and his lawyer brother-in-law’s scheme to collect a fraudulent insurance windfall, was as smooth and quick on its feet as Walter Matthau’s sleazy attorney. I think I put off viewing it for so long because it was about insurance. Amazing how so dry a subject can make such froth.

I confess there are still a lot of fine films I haven’t seen. But I can now check this Cookie off my list. Thank goodness.

Setter’s ‘Spectives: The Shot Not Seen ‘Round the World

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Setter Drawing for Blog 082613The best shot in all of cinema may be one that’s hardly remembered.

It’s one that I think about periodically when I ponder great filmmaking. Of course, it’s from The Seven Samurai, one of my favorite movies. But it’s not from a famous scene.

Instead, it’s an image from a sequence toward the beginning where a number of farmers are in town to recruit samurai. They’re staying at an inn and discover that most of the rice that they’re subsisting on has been stolen. If I remember correctly, one of the farmers–Rikichi (played magnificently by Yoshio Tsuchiya)–gets angry at his comrade, Yohei (Bokuzen Hidari), who was supposed to watch over it, and throws the last handful at him.

Then comes this great shot, where we see Yohei start to pick up the grains, one by one, from the floor.

Why is this so brilliant? It’s one small, short shot, but the impact is monumental. It tells you everything you need to know about the farmers–that they’re so desperate, poor and hungry that they’ll even try to save a few grains of rice to eat them … the last they have left. They can’t afford to waste any. And director Akira Kurosawa shows this horror by focusing his camera on the floor, as Yohei tries to retrieve the rice.

Absolutely compelling.

There may be more famous shots in the movies, but this is one of the few complete ones, an image that gives us all the information we need, plus a haunting picture, without telling us straight out why. No surprise, then, that I think about it often when I muse on all things cinema.

If only more directors would learn from shots such as this, the movies would be a better place.

Setter’s ‘Spectives: To Like This Movie, You Must Be This Old

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Setter Drawing for Blog 082613Another college story.

The setting: a lively freshman dorm. At the end of the hall, in a small, loungey area, sits a TV with a VCR (remember those?). Enter me, with a videotape, accompanied by another resident.

“What movie are you gonna watch?” asks the resident.

“The Producers,” I say. “Wanna join me?”

“Oh, no. That’s old humor.”

Exit resident, like tears … in the rain.

To this day, I repeat that phrase to myself: old humor. What does that mean? How old does humor have to be in order to be old? Does it get Social Security? And how do we know when new humor becomes old? It’s like that Groucho Marx routine in Duck Soup,  where the funnyman cancels out any discussion of “new business” seconds after it’s mentioned: “Too late, that’s old business already.”

Here’s my theory: There’s no such thing as old humor. Just good and bad. Many of the attitudes in The Producers are dated, but it’s still funny. And I’d rather see that any day over The Secret Life of Walter Mitty  (which, in its original short-story incarnation, ones-up The Producers in the age department, anyway).

Yes, of course, there’s taste, and it differs greatly when humor is involved. You may not like Mel Brooks’ comedies or Zero Mostel’s mugging. Yet to call something old humor seems to me just absurd. If something’s good, it stays that way. The years don’t make it worse.

For the record, I want to note that I’m not just about older comedies. One example: I liked Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues. Though, wait … is that old humor because it’s a sequel to an older film? Does it still count as new?

Ahhh … whatever.

Skip’s Quips: Do You, Frankenstein’s Monster, Take ‘I, Frankenstein’ …

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Blog Sketch 082813Will someone please direct a movie that’s faithful to the great Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley novel Frankenstein?

It’s not hard. The subject matter’s brilliant. Plus, it’s really scary. Perfect Hollywood material, right?

Guess not. Instead, we’re getting the likes of I, Frankenstein, which, judging from its trailer, resembles the original material as much as Taylor resembles Dr. Zaius in Planet of the Apes.

A planet where junk evolved from quality? Say it ain’t so.

Not even James Whale’s Frankenstein keeps strictly to the book, an issue I’ve always lamented, as it’s otherwise a classic film. Shelley’s monster is, unlike the character appearing in most cinematic depictions, intelligent, vengeful … and the negative mirror image of the man who created him. Are filmmakers today afraid that if they show the creature thusly, it’ll conflict with our mental image of him? If so, why is that a bad thing? We need a truer adaptation.

I, Frankenstein doesn’t fit the bill. Oh, and as an aside, putting “I,” before the name in the title is silly in this context. What does that mean, anyway? “I, Frankenstein, do solemnly swear to star in bad movies until Hollywood gets sick of this story.”

Directors should trust the novel. It’s a good one … and still topical. Great literature always has something to say.  There’s no reason why we can’t put the same content onscreen as well.

Setter’s ‘Spectives: Looking Anew at a Laurel and Hardy Classic

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Setter Drawing for Blog 082613To me, watching March of the Wooden Soldiers is like opening a Christmas present.

It still offers surprises, no matter how many times you do it. The fact that it was on TV on Xmas Day, as usual, drove that point home. This year, I marveled at the elegance of Laurel and Hardy’s routines. I smiled at the charm of Victor Herbert’s lilting score. And I pondered the idea that those mean “bogeymen” invading Toyland at the end were racist caricatures.

Yep, I did just that. It basically ruined my naive memory of viewings past. But it also instilled an awareness that many of the pleasures we grew up on don’t always retain their innocent luster.

OK, you say, but this movie is totally silly. It’s just fantasy and isn’t political. It’s escapist. It’s Laurel and Hardy, for crying out loud!

It is, but I’m reminded of other “innocent” routines in otherwise sterling pictures, such as the big musical number in A Day at the Races, that have disturbing social connotations attached to their entertainment value. In March, the bogeymen are monstrous, cartoony, but also apelike in their movements, unintelligible and savage. Plus, they attack Toyland in masses, attempting to carry off the inhabitants while causing as much damage as possible.

Doesn’t that sound like the white establishment’s worst fear—that the race it has pressed down for so many centuries will invade and destroy it?

This isn’t a subtle message, yet I’m chagrined that it has taken me this long to understand it. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen it so many times and, in the past, have only looked at it superficially. Now, however, I’m noticing the subtext, and although I still find the movie amusing, my joys are somewhat deflated. Like Races, it’s attained a mark that—though based in misconceptions of yore—serves as a strike against it. These ideas can’t be discounted, no matter how old they are or antiquated they seem.

That’s because they still appear on TV … every year, in the case of March. And they still have the capacity to be offensive.

If we examine all of our holiday traditions, I’m sure we’d all find concepts we disagree with. The hardest ones to explore, though, are the ones we’ve grown up accepting but don’t make sense once we revisit them with older eyes.

I’m feeling that way about March, though a present worth opening is also worth discussing. Perhaps we can continue to do that as the holidays amble by.

Skip’s Quips: Whatever Happened to Tyranny of the Majority?

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Blog Sketch 082813I deserve props. Last night, I sat through Now, Voyager without rolling my eyes … more than three times.

Do I get a prize? The Max Steiner Schmaltz Award for Tear-jerker Toleration?

More likely, this feat will fly under the radar. Especially since Voyager seems to be lauded by every film buff in the world but me.

I’m missing something, right? The charm of a story in which a damaged, fearsomely eyebrowed (and mothered) woman, played by Bette Davis, becomes the talk of the town and the blatant object of desire for every gainfully employed blue blood in Massachusetts, as well as the lover of an uncatchable architect taking the form of Paul Henreid. The irony surrounding her care of said architect’s melancholy daughter. The romance of Steiner’s repetitious, Oscar-winning score.

I tell you, I felt like blasting a bit of the old Ludwig van on the stereo after hearing Voyager‘s main musical motif for the thousandth time yesterday evening. Please, Max—for the love of all that is viscous, stop the melody; I want to get off!

The fact is, I found the movie horrid. Ludicrous situations abound—such as the scene in which Claude Rains’ doctor OKs Davis, a former patient, being nurse to her married beau’s daughter. And the script is like an exercise in manipulation, with every stop in the book pulled out to draw tears down the most reptilian of cheeks.

Well, I must be a crocodile, because it didn’t work for me.

Ms. Davis was a talented actress, and I’m partial to a number of her films, including The Man Who Came to Dinner. Voyager, however, didn’t float my boat. Perhaps someday I’ll discover why this much-venerated movie impresses so many fans. For now, though, I’m happy to praise the moon over the stars.

Skip’s Quips: Dusting Off the Snow for a Little de Broca

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Blog Sketch 082813It’s wintry days like these that make me want to watch movies such as That Man From Rio.

The tropically tinged Philippe de Broca film—a ludicrous and wonderfully affable 1964 romp through the titular city with Jean-Paul Belmondo, Françoise Dorléac and Adolfo Celi—is one of the most chipper movies ever to gild the silver screen … and also one of the most unsung. I’m not sure why de Broca has fallen by the public-estimation wayside; he was a master of light comedy, and That Man is one of his frothiest creations. It’s totally silly, with jewel thieves, egomaniacal archaeologists and other characters pursuing and/or being pursued by Belmondo’s carefree Adrien, who crosses the Atlantic in a mad chase to rescue his kidnapped girlfriend (Dorléac). Plus, there’s some sort of ancient statue that everyone’s after, because it’s the key to getting all of these riches or whatever.

Yeah, it’s a far cry from Breathless, isn’t it?

I’d recommend trying this flick on a day like today. It’s sunny, summery, full of bright music and craziness. And you’ve got the charming Belmondo and Dorléac careening through the picture. True, it’s fluff, but it’s so well done, you’ll remember it, along with vehicular color-and-design-combinations such as “pink with green stars.”

Oui, pink with green stars. That Man will explain all.

Skip’s Quips: Remembrance of Scares Past

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Blog Sketch 082813Way back when, while I was still in college (so this is really back when), I attended a showing of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window at the campus theater. I’d seen it before, but I was interested in observing how other people reacted to it, given its age and lack of profanity, graphic violence or anything else that might draw a contemporary audience.

I settled into my uncomfortable, non-stadium seating chair. So did everyone else. The movie started. We watched.

And then we got to the part where Grace Kelly’s Lisa is wiggling her finger to show Jimmy Stewart’s Jeff—who is watching from his window across the courtyard—that she has the ring once owned by the wife of Raymond Burr’s murderous Lars Thorwald. Thorwald notices what she’s doing. Gradually, he looks up at the camera. At us.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhh!” screamed the audience.

Yep. Quintessential movie moment. Proof that great films, no matter how old they are, can still affect people. And Rear Window is a great one.

This seemingly trivial incident made me happy. It was like the train in silents of old coming at you onscreen and scaring the daylights of everyone in the theater. The flick is so good that the audience believed it was there with Jimmy in his apartment, looking into places he wasn’t supposed to. This despite the old-time New York of the 1950s depicted in the movie. This despite the film’s age. This despite the lack of swearing or blood-squibby gunfights or … well, it did actually have a steamy interlude: that great, slow-motion kiss that Kelly and Stewart have at the beginning. And there was quite a lot of innuendo, in the manner typical of Hitch.

But this wasn’t beat-you-over-the-head filmmaking. This was director-in-control stuff.  And it had the right effect: making everyone watching it shriek. In joy, of course, like the shriek you expel while riding a roller-coaster. A true movie shriek.

One of these days, I’ll have to go see Rear Window again in the theater to observe how people react now. I suspect it will be similar. Great films don’t date; they remain pertinent forever. So viewers will scream afresh … as long as Thorwald looks at them in recognition.

That’s the kind of scream we need more of at the movies.

Setter’s ‘Spectives: The Ugly, Ambiguous Truth About Art

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Setter Drawing for Blog 082613Back in the day, when I still thought good taste had nothing to do with opinion, I sat down with a dear friend of mine to watch the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera on video. Ed adored classical music, especially Puccini, and had such elevated sensibilities that he often preferred singers who were just a smidgen flat to more on-pitch, yet less idiosyncratic performers. He was so erudite that I thought he’d go ga-ga over Night, one of my favorite comedies and, in my opinion, an affectionate look at the opera world. If anything, he’d get the joke and, like me, want to see it over again in the future.

Once we got to the scene, however, where Harpo and Chico switch the sheet music for Il Trovatore with that of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” I knew my choice was ill-conceived.

“This is a travesty,” Ed said as the brothers tossed a baseball in the orchestra pit.

The takeaway: Not everyone likes the Marx Brothers. But there’s another takeaway, and it’s less definite. It’s the question of what’s good and what’s not, and how do we know if something’s art or junk?

Tommy Chong answered that hilariously in the movie After Hours as his character steals a statue containing Griffin Dunne’s hapless yuppie: “Art sure is ugly.”

It would be easier to assess if it always were.

The problem is, it’s not always anything. You can’t say: Art has this quality and this quality, so therefore it’s what it is. And it’s not always known at first sight, either; plenty of works are pooh-poohed when they first debut and only obtain recognition years later. The lexicon has no deadline.

To a certain extent, art should affect you greatly, as A Night at the Opera does to me; it makes me laugh, and I never get tired of watching it. Yet what of those who prefer other comedies—or those who like slightly off-pitch singers? Their opinions matter as much as mine … if not more.

I once attended an event where basketball legend Michael Jordan was asked by movie critic Gene Siskel what his favorite film was. “Friday,” Jordan ultimately said, to Siskel’s visible dismay.

I saw Friday. Some of it was amusing. Some of it was junky. Is that personal taste, or can I say with authority that it doesn’t hold a candle to Night? After all, Jordan liked it. Who am I to dispute him?

We live in a world where the word “genius” is applied indiscriminately, where a man can break bottles pointlessly on the street and attract a curious audience—as I observed with bemusement one day during a trip to Paris. Can anything be called art as long as there’s someone backing the claim? Is it just a popularity contest?

I don’t think so. But I can’t figure out why. All I know is that some people love the Marx Brothers, and some people don’t. I don’t understand their perspective, but I’m not them.

If I knew how to sing just a little bit flat, maybe I’d get the idea.

Skip’s Quips: Nitpicking the Hearts of ‘Coronets’

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Blog Sketch 082813There’s a scene in the film Kind Hearts and Coronets that has troubled me for a while, and I’m not sure how to address it.

The bit occurs toward the end in a dialogue between debonair serial killer Louis Mazzini, who has murdered all of the members of his estranged D’Ascoyne family in line to inherit the dukedom before him, and Sibella, his conniving mistress, who has framed him for the supposed killing of her husband. Mazzini (played by Dennis Price), now behind bars, is asked by Sibella (Joan Greenwood) if he remembers the nursery rhyme “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” which—in the form depicted in the movie—features an atrocious, offensive term used pejoratively to describe someone who is black. Both characters say the word, equating it with the people Mazzini has dispatched … something Sibella insinuates as part of her realization that his rapid rise to nobility isn’t natural.

So this is an issue. It’s a crucial scene, and the two protagonists, whom we’ve followed throughout the film, make these remarks in the casual way reserved for people lacking even a cursory understanding of racial sensitivity. Yet these are protagonists, not villains, and despite their despicable actions, also have likable qualities—ones that are essential to the film’s watchability.

Can we separate these traits from each other? Must we view them as either good or bad? I’m reminded of the mobster in The Godfather who is repulsed by the idea of selling drugs near schools but has no compunction about doing so to African-Americans and letting them “lose their souls.” He was a cut-and-dry villain, and the movie points that out. But Mazzini and Sibella are textured, flawed; their traits are mixed. Racism is one of their worst ones. Does that preclude us from enjoying their adventures as a whole?

One alternative is rooting for the characters such as the movie’s callous duke, who’s much worse, so that’s out. Another, however, is the affable, photography-mad nobleman who has done nothing wrong and is blown up in his lab by Mazzini. We’re forced to disagree with this decision and laugh at the incredible villainy, so perhaps we don’t have a choice.

And maybe that’s what bothers me so much—not being free to decide for myself whom to like or dislike. The movie makes the choice for us and does so ingeniously. One can make the argument that the offensive dialogue is in character and in keeping with the era in which the film takes place, but I wonder if that’s enough. Does that legitimize its use?

It’s a question I’ll need to continue asking as long as I watch and rewatch the film. Only great pictures deserve that kind of inquiry.