Category Archives: classic movies
Skip’s Quips: It’s Time to Call ‘The Band Wagon’ for What It Is
The other day, I came to a conclusion about the beloved Hollywood musical The Band Wagon.
Ready? Here it is.
I don’t like it as much as Singin’ in the Rain.
OK, big whoop. That’s like saying I don’t like foie gras as much as caviar. Honestly, they’re both top-notch films. They both have terrific scripts. They both have rollicking numbers.
But after years of viewing The Band Wagon, I noticed that some of the songs just aren’t up to par. Take “Louisiana Hayride,” for instance. Or “Triplets.”
As Mad Magazine‘s Alfred E. Neuman might opine: “Ecch!”
“Triplets” is a particular puzzlement. Why is this corny, unfunny number so vaunted in the annals of…well, corny, unfunny numbers? It’s dull. It’s forced. It tries too hard. The verdict: phooey.
Same with “Louisiana Hayride.” If I told you how cheesy I thought this bit of idealized Americana is, you might run for a scraper and some quince paste.
The fact is, The Band Wagon is good enough to make these tiresome numbers an afterthought. “That’s Entertainment,” of course, is a showstopper. And the “Girl Hunt Ballet” is a lot of fun. But I don’t think it measures up to Singin’ in the Rain‘s economy, let alone the charm of the songs. Plus, the latter flick’s got better cinematography. Some of the shots in The Band Wagon look strangely drab.
So in conclusion, this arbiter of Superb Movie Musicals has to drop a personal favorite down from its former perch. Just a notch below, but enough to make me wonder if something that’s entertainment can really compete with another thing that’s art.
Setter’s ‘Spectives: Sympathy for the Movies’ Devils
To lift (and thoroughly mangle) a line from the Wallace Stevens poem Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird: I do not know which to prefer, the beauty of an irredeemable movie villain or one with nuance and definition.
On the one hand, I believe a great portrayal of a vile, two-dimensionally loathsome evildoer can make a film–Dirty Harry is one example, with Andy Robinson’s sinister “Scorpio” killer giving viewers every reason to boo him. But then you have pictures such as M and Precious, whose ghastly, repellent villains both get speeches at the end that aim to suggest they remain human … despite their horrific acts.
Not surprisingly, those last two films are a lot harder to watch than Dirty Harry–or, for that matter, any other flick with baddies you love to hate. And I think it’s because making a choice about a character is much more difficult than having one already made for you.
There’s definitely a time and place for movies with clear-cut antagonists. Sometimes, these films can be masterpieces: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King offers evidence of this. Yet the main evildoer, Sauron, is hardly well defined. He’s just … evil. Even Darth Vader from Star Wars shows more love than mean old Sauron. You can blame the great actor James Earl Jones for infusing Vader’s voice with character.
Giving a frightening villain more than one shade doesn’t always work, and it’s not right for every movie. But good directors can make unwieldy things fit while asking questions you don’t want to answer. Alfred Hitchcock did just that in Strangers on a Train and Frenzy, both of which have scenes where the killers frantically try to retrieve misplaced pieces of evidence. Hitch makes us almost feel for these creeps as he forces us to watch their travails. That’s manipulative, folks–manipulative to the nth degree. But it’s something only a great artist can do.
Ultimately, characters with multiple dimensions–whether they’re good or evil–add heft to a movie. It may not be a heft you enjoy, but it’s solid nonetheless and often points to a film’s quality. That doesn’t mean you’ll want to watch them over and over to see if the villain gets his or her due, but it suggests that there’s something more about the picture than providing “you-must-pay-the-rent” thrills.
That’s risk in my book, and filmmakers who take it for art’s sake deserve a hand.
Skip’s Quips: Cinema of the Irritating
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (well, Manhattan), I was told by an otherwise rational budding critic that Jean-Luc Godard was the real French New Wave director–not François Truffaut.
In the words of Michael Caine’s character Peachy Carnehan in The Man Who Would Be King: “Pardon me while I fall down laughing.”
Yes, this was told to me in all seriousness, with the utmost authority. I guess if you make movies that are too enjoyable, it’s trendy to discount them in favor of more “experimental” cinema.
Frankly, I like to be entertained. And in general, Truffaut’s body of work is light-years more entertaining than Godard’s–Breathless aside.
You’re right: The critic’s point was that Godard was more of a New Wave exponent than Truffaut … not necessarily a better filmmaker (although I think that was implied). Yet I’ll have to disagree with this, too. Truffaut’s edgy cuts, intimate camera, and use of tricks ranging from irises to freeze-frames invigorated the cinema, bringing it close to an accessible, pertinent ideal. That his films are greater, in general, than Godard’s is just gravy. It’s François I think of when I think of La Nouvelle Vague, not Jean-Luc.
Do I consider Breathless a hallmark of world cinema? Of course. But I consider it a Truffaut film, anyway. Sans François, Godard’s films aren’t as good–and often veer on the irritating.
To be a “real” artist in any medium, one must excel in the field. That’s why I also prefer Alban Berg’s compositions to Arnold Schoenberg’s–despite the latter’s involvement in the development of 12-tone music. And I like Picasso’s art more than Braque’s, though they both had a hand in Cubism. The greater creator is the real one, the one whose works you’d rather absorb.
At least, that’s my reality. Is it everyone’s?
Ha. In my dreams.
Setter’s ‘Spectives: ‘Psycho’ Viewers, Qu’est-ce Que C’est?
Watching Alfred Hitchcock’s inimitable scare-fest Psycho last night on TV thrilled me more than it ever has in the past.
Why? Well, for one thing, I didn’t like it.
Yes, that’s thrilling. Really. Because last night, the reason became apparent.
It’s a negative movie. It’s oddly structured. The dialogue is bizarre. And Hitch spends a heckuva lot of time showing you these seemingly “mundane” details, like Janet Leigh packing and unpacking her suitcase and Anthony Perkins cleaning up the bathroom after he has dispatched her.
All of this is deliberate. I’m not saying Hitchcock wasn’t in command. But it’s almost as if the great director was trying to call attention to ordinary activities that aren’t normally seen in the movies.
That helps develop character…and I think that’s why the film’s so effective. Perkins’ obsessive mopping and post-murder preparations reveal how deeply disturbed he is, while Leigh’s behavior suggests an interior schism over the money she’s stolen. It’s all brilliantly done, and it’s an incredibly watchable movie, despite all of the minutiae.
Yet I still don’t like it. It seems more experimental to me than many of the master’s other pictures, a grim, stark-looking study rather than a finished product. Again: I don’t think anything is loose, here; Hitch was in control through and through. But for me, it’s hard to watch. I’d rather sit down to a viewing of The 39 Steps, you know?
Something where you don’t feel like you have to take a shower afterward.
Setter’s ‘Spective: The Slo-Mo and the Furious
I blame you, Akira Kurosawa.
Remember: You started it. Or rather, you helped popularize the use of slow-motion photography in fight scenes–specifically via two different shots of villains dying in The Seven Samurai.
I adore your films, Akira. But I’m not happy with the seeds you’ve sown.
Ok, so you’re not responsible for all that ludicrous pseudo-Spartan posturing in 300. Or the (prolific) guts and glory in The Wild Bunch. But without those scenes in Samurai, we wouldn’t be so deluged with half-speed onscreen violence.
Granted, you used slow motion judiciously–and I think that’s what separates you from the rest. Peckinpah’s technique can hardly be called subtle, but his Bunch certainly packs a punch. Not so much all that silliness in 300, where the idea seemed to be showing how cool it is to kill ancient Persians with as much CGI blood as possible.
And I think that’s where all this slo-mo falls rather quickly on its face.
We’ve diluted its purpose, the whole point of its effectiveness. See it once in a while, and it’s as startling as a flower in snow. Yet watch it over and over again, and it loses its potential impact. Today, it seems to be de rigueur in “action” scenes, as if directors have forgotten how to film normally. So it has become showy instead of telling, obvious instead of shocking.
Frankly, I’d rather see My Dinner with Andre. That’s got more action than any Matrix pose-a-rama.
So Kurosawa, I’m going to take time out from praising you to gripe a bit, though with a heavy heart. Because I know as much as I loathe what slo-mo has become, without it we wouldn’t be what we are today.
Old man Sykes says in Peckinpah’s Bunch: “It ain’t like it used to be, but it’ll do.”
I don’t think it should.
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