Goldfinger (1964)

Posted on November 14, 2013 by badblokebob

It’s long been held as a truism that, though it’s the third film, Goldfinger really defined ‘the Bond formula’; and I’ve long argued against that, pointing to the elements that were ready-to-go in Dr. No and added by From Russia with Love. While that’s not untrue, it’s fair to say that Goldfinger is the Bond formula distilled: the previous two films may have debuted many key ingredients, but it’s Goldfinger that adds the finishing touches and perfects the recipe.

It’s also where the Bond phenomenon began to kick in, reaching its height with Thunderball the year after, and has oft been cited as The Greatest Bond Film — meaning there have been more than enough words written about it (whole books, I’ve no doubt) down the years. What little can I add? Not much, I’m sure, but reiterate what you already know. So instead I’ll say this: Goldfinger isn’t my favourite Bond film. I didn’t even like it that much last time I watched it (the running best-of list I was compiling last time I watched all the Bond films ranks it below three other Connerys), probably due to the constant high expectation placed upon it. My draft review called it “less than the sum of its parts”. Now, I think that’s a bit harsh.

However, I did also note that “those parts are mostly so excellent that its still a greatly entertaining film, and, I’m sure, not undeserving of the adulation lavished upon it by so many”, and that’s certainly true. You only have to list bits to bring back fond memories: the pre-titles (filled with multiple memorable moments, even if it’s completely unrelated to the rest of the story); the title song; the title sequence (by Robert Brownjohn, not Maurice Binder); the gold-painted girl; the gold game; Oddjob and the statue; the Q scene (despite Goldfinger’s Q-branch-tour being the archetype, it’s not repeated in a similar manner for decades); the gadget-laden car; the stunning Swiss locations; “no Mr Bond, I expect you to die”; Pussy Galore; the epic raid on Fort Knox; Oddjob and the electricity; the clock stopping at 007; Goldfinger being sucked out of the plane; hiding from rescue in the life raft… That’s quite a haul. Even the less feasible bits, like the cardboard-cut-out gangsters, have a certain charm.

I’d forgotten just how funny it is too. That’s part of ‘the Bond formula’, of course, and it is present in Connery’s first two films. There, however, it’s more akin to the Daniel Craig era: just flashes of wit and sarcasm; but Goldfinger is where it’s really defined — and in the right balance, unlike some later entries. Although Russia debuts a couple of them, this is really where the famous Bond puns make their mark (“Shocking. Positively shocking.”); but not only those, because there’s a scattering of general humour too. After Bond’s attempted escape at Auric Stud, the roomful of henchmen guarding him, revealed by Hamilton through a slow camera move, has always been one of my favourite gags in the series.

If you think about it too much then the plot is like a machine-gunned windscreen — spattered with holes. But they’re mostly minor niggles rather than glaring errors, and it’s more than covered by the fun you’re having. There are several films that would contend the top spot on my list of Favourite Bond Films and Goldfinger probably isn’t one of them, but that’s a personal thing and it’s surely destined for at least the top ten.

Reviewed as part of an overview of the Bond movies. For more, see here.

From Russia With Love (1963)

Posted on November 14, 2013 by badblokebob

If Dr. No gives the impression that the cinematic James Bond was born almost fully formed, then its sequel stands in stark contrast: with hindsight, it’s hard to avoid the fact that, for great swathes of its running time, From Russia With Love doesn’t feel that much like A James Bond Film. And yet it is nonetheless one of Fleming’s best novels turned into one of the series’ absolute best movies.

Uncommonly, it’s a very faithful rendition of the book. That makes it a Cold War spy thriller, albeit one with fantastical touches — it switches the novel’s Russian villains for Blofeld’s independent SPECTRE organisation, which is duping both the Brits and Ruskies. Mostly, though, it feels remarkably plausible. Sequences like the theft of a decoding machine from the Russian consulate, or the famous confined train carriage fight with Red Grant, have real-world heft rather than typical Bond action sequence fantasticism. With the Daniel Craig era (and Timothy Dalton, if only in retrospect for many) the franchise’s later years have shown it has room for both.

Indeed, those who note Craig’s general toughness undercut with the odd sliver of wit or sarcasm would do well to take another look at films like this one. At this early stage Connery’s Bond can be cold and calculating, as in the sniper-ish assassination of a Russian agent, or the previous film’s wait for Dent. He even slaps a woman. She’s drugged so perhaps it’s not entirely uncalled for, especially by the era’s standards, but it still strikes the viewer. Plus he’s not throwing out puns at every opportunity, or quipping with every particularly notable dispatch of a villain, but instead tosses the odd line or even just glance. There’s a direct line between this and the Craig films, neither of which seemly hugely similar to the more comical Moore (or even Brosnan) era.

In terms of the franchise’s development, FRWL does offer us the pre-titles action scene. Not scripted as such, but moved in the edit for effect, it was producer Harry Saltzman’s idea to kill off the hero in the opening minutes. Even when you know what’s going on, it’s still an impactful sequence. It segues wonderfully into Robert Brownjohn’s title sequence, with the credits projected onto close-ups of gyrating half-naked women. They have some relevance to the film itself rather than being wholly gratuitous (see the gypsy camp scene), but between this and his similar work on Goldfinger, Brownjohn’s significance to the familiar style of the Bond title sequence is perhaps understated. These aren’t the silhouettes and complex visual choreography of Binder’s even more distinctive work, but it’s a step in that direction from the flowing dots of Dr. No.

At times in the series’ past, From Russia With Love has been overlooked as an anomaly; a serious-minded stumbling block in the series throughline of outlandishness that leads directly from Dr. No to Goldfinger to hollowed out volcanoes in You Only Live Twice and the daftness that characterised so much of the Moore years. Recently, it’s garnered appreciation, both as not that much of a sore thumb and as an exceptional film in its own right. It’s well-deserved, because on any level this is one of the absolute best the series has to offer.

Reviewed as part of an overview of the Bond movies. For more, see here.

Dawn of the Dead (1978)

Posted on October 29, 2013 by badblokebob

Dawn of the Dead is the Citizen Kane of zombie movies.* And yet, in the same way new viewers arrive at Kane laden with the baggage of its acclaim, and thus come away with a lesser opinion of it, it would seem from user reviews on various websites that Dawn is a less beloved proposition for many a modern zombie acolyte.

Thanks to a shifting timeline, it’s now the late ’70s, but only a few weeks have passed since the zombie outbreak we witnessed in Night of the Living Dead. Society is going to hell: the US public are sentimentally avoiding government orders to burn the dead and abandon their homes. The outbreak, apparently controllable, is getting worse. Four loose acquaintances — a TV producer, her weather ‘copter pilot boyfriend, and a pair of police SWAT officers — escape the madness in the chopper, setting up camp in a deserted mall. Deserted, that is, except for the hordes of undead, flocking to a place that used to be so important to them…

It used to be that people were Clever for spotting the subtext that Dawn is really a critique of mass consumerism. Romero expressed his surprise at this: he didn’t think that theme was subtle, he thought it was blatantly the point. Heck, he even has his characters all but say it two or three times. Today, it’s depressing to see the number of user reviews online that criticise such analysis for being “pretentious”. It’s not pretentious, it’s what the film is about. Those reviews, and so many more like them, focus on the gore and make-up being old-fashioned and unrealistic, or the film not being scary, or there being too little action. Point — thoroughly missed.

Romero has said he considers his zombie movies to be about the time they were made; a little snapshot of the world (or the US, at least) at the time. Thus consumerism is only one of Dawn’s targets, albeit the easiest to spot. Romero was ahead of his time here: gigantic out-of-town malls of this type were, apparently, new propositions at the time the film was made, and the one that stars here was amongst the country’s largest (it still exists, I believe, but now it’s considered a little’un). It’s not just the zombies who are critiqued either. Our protagonists choose to stay in the mall because it apparently has everything they could ever need, even though it also has the constant threat of the undead. On their first trip out for supplies, they’re as interested in expensive watches as food and tools. As time goes on it only gets worse: they turn their little attic apartment bit into a chic pad, with stylish chairs and all the mod-cons. In a world where the apocalypse has happened, they’re not fighting for their very survival, they’re living the high life. They even ‘rob’ the mall’s bank, “just in case” money is still worth something.

As with Romero’s previous zombie outing, characters are as important as anything, and its through them further social analysis is developed. For instance, there’s Fran, the only woman in the group. A deliberate counterpoint to criticisms of Night…, she’s a capable person, who insists on being involved when the men cut her out. She’s the only one who thinks setting up camp in a place overrun with zombies might be a bad idea; she’s the one who insists on learning to fly the helicopter in case something happens to the one other person who knows how. She doesn’t scream once, a touch added by actress Gaylen Ross: when Romero asked her to scream, she refused, and he never asked again.

The men, meanwhile, help shape a commentary on society’s desensitisation to violence. There’s disgust early on at having to shoot these human-like creatures in the head to get rid of them, but so unrelenting is such a task that it becomes everyday. This and the consumerism thread come together in the final act, when a gang of bikers invade the mall: declaring that the place is their possession, one of our ‘heroes’ has become so used to killing the living dead that he now has no trouble opening fire on the plain ol’ living.

The film is rich with such analogy and symbolism for them that wants it (there’s even more than I’ve gone into here, including perspectives on immigration and US intervention in overseas conflicts); what’s kind of depressing is that so many viewers today don’t. I’m a fan of a well-constructed largely-mindless action movie as much as the next Bloke, on the right occasion, but that’s not what Romero was purporting to construct. It’s not “pretentious” to see these themes, because that’s why he made the film. Romero didn’t set out to produce a shoot ’em up and accidentally created some social commentary for chin-stroking cineasts to pontificate over — the zombie action is what’s almost incidental; it’s a prism through which to discuss the world.

All that said, it’s not as if the film stints on action. But this is the ’70s — they didn’t build an entire film from back-to-back action sequences then as we do now. These scenes can be suitably tense and exciting when needed, though, as with almost all ‘old’ action movies, they aren’t going to deliver the same hyper-choreographed visceral thrill as their modern-day counterparts. But they are there, and they are what they are.

I also don’t hold much truck with that “the effects are bad” waffle. I mean, really, what do you expect? The film’s 35 years old! And y’know what, it’s not that bad. OK, the zombie’s skin tone is a little blatant — special effects maestro Tom Savini has said he was aiming for grey but it registered as rather blue on film. Then the blood is a vibrant red — well, loads of older films have that garish red blood, what of it? In fact, it was specifically requested by Romero, who wanted a comic-book-y colour to match what he saw as a comic-book tone to the violence. Then there’s all the flesh-eating gore, which is by turns heightened to the point of silliness and gorily realistic — the stuff with the guts towards the end… Savini was a war photographer in Vietnam and that in part inspired his effects work. You want to argue with a guy who’s seen the real thing that his work doesn’t look as ‘realistic’ as some post-millennial computer nerd’s hyper-CG version of things?

Aside from thematic weight and violent frivolity, Romero also crafts a character drama. Whereas Night put some archetypes in a situation and stressed them out, to sketch-like effect, Dawn takes its time to explore its characters. In some cases their arcs are clear — likeable but cocky copper Roger gets over-confident and pays for it — while others are barely noticeable. The burgeoning friendship/relationship between Fran and policeman Peter, the most level-headed of all the film’s male characters, is so subtle as to hardly register, but it’s there, in part created by the actors getting on well. They earn (spoilers!) the happy(-ish) ending, an alternate to the fatalistic double suicide Romero planned, tested, but ultimately didn’t even shoot.

I have to say, the more I think and write about Dawn, the more I come to like it. It’s not really perfect — the biker climax comes almost out of nowhere, and I’m not convinced they were the most effective way to explore an ending. Perhaps this is where the “snapshot of the times” idea begins to fall down: distanced from the time in question, how resonant are those themes? Is that why modern viewers, coming to the film for the first time, miss them? (That’s not to discount the fact that most modern genre film viewers aren’t looking for grown-up viewing, but kids’ movie-style brightly-coloured action — with added gore and swearing to prove it’s actually for adults, despite the lack of adult thought or consideration required. Ironically, these once-B-movie cheap horror/thrillers are now, thanks to their political undertones, more suited to the art house crowd. I see why so many venerate ’70s cinema.) But (to get back to this paragraph’s point) there’s so much in Dawn, so much more than either a zombie kill-fest or a criticism of consumerism, that thoughtful reflection — and, I’m sure, future re-watches — are only to its benefit.

With all these words spent, I’ve not even discussed the throbbing score from Goblin and Dario Argento; or the use of quirky funny stock music to highlight the Comedy of some sequences (including tunes from/also used by Monty Python, which only seems to emphasise the point); or the criticism of religion (which I somehow missed until reading Calum Waddell’s essay in the booklet of Arrow’s Blu-ray! How remiss of me); or the movie’s length — this is definitely an epic! And at times it feels it. Though the methodical way it goes about outlining how you’d set up a new life in a mall is, actually, exactly what I’d want to see from this storyline. You can’t just plonk yourself down there and live, can you? You’ve got to think about where you live, how you stock up, and, in the case of a zombie apocalypse, how you keep the undead at bay… and how you prepare for looters.

Immediately after viewing, I’d say I didn’t like Dawn as much as Night. Though it has many qualities I admire, it also felt a little less focused and more sprawling. The first I found tense and chilling — a Horror movie, albeit one with observable dramatic and thriller-ish elements. Dawn is, at heart, a Drama — it’s about the people in this situation, that situation happening to be an extreme horror one. But on reflection, the bits I was less sure of pale behind the things it does right.

One thing you can’t doubt is that this inspired the zombie genre even more than Night: the gore, the violence, and so on. It’s just a shame that the filmmakers who have followed in Romero’s footsteps concentrate on those aspects rather than the humour, characterisation, and social critique that are actually what make his films classics.

Part of Week of the Living Dead for Halloween 2013.

A quick note on versions: thanks to international cuts and whatnot, there are numerous variations on Dawn of the Dead. Three key ones are included on Arrow’s UK Blu-ray: the theatrical cut (the only one in HD), the longer Director’s Cut, and the shorter Argento cut. The latter, produced for the Italian market, apparently focuses on action, to the detriment of the dramatic elements. The Director’s Cut is reportedly more of an “initial director’s cut” — a longer version before Romero honed it down to his final, preferred version, which is the theatrical cut. Various people swear by various versions; I just went for the one in HD.

* or should that now be “the Vertigo of zombie movies”? ^

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

Posted on October 28, 2013 by badblokebob

The Walking Dead, Warm Bodies, World War Z… zombies seem to be everywhere at the minute (generally in things beginning with ‘W’, for some reason), and generating big business. But this particular subgenre began 45 years ago, in a simple black & white independent movie, made for less than 1% of Brad Pitt’s salary for World War Z.

In a remote deserted cemetery, a twentysomething brother and sister bicker as they lay a wreath on their father’s grave. In the distance, unnoticed, a man in a scruffy suit shambles towards them… A frantic escape leads to a deserted farmhouse, where a group of strangers hole up against an ever-growing number of encroaching undead cannibals…

These supernatural creatures — the dead brought back to life for reasons unknown (though at least one is posited) — are not once referred to as “zombies” in the film. Quite where that moniker comes from I’m not sure — previous zombie-related movies had concerned a more ‘accurate’ version, about “living people enslaved by a Voodoo witch doctor”. Here, the undead are referred to as “ghouls”, or simply “those things”. Quite why that term didn’t stick (the former, obv.), I don’t know.

But the name aside, this is clearly the source-work for the entire zombie subgenre. That said, in terms of the film itself (rather than just the menace it features), its influence is more obvious on horror/suspense cinema in general than zombie films in particular. This isn’t an action-adventure kind of horror with constant gory zombie battles, which is the main route the genre seems to take (perhaps more inspired by Romero’s sequels); rather, it’s a group of people doing their best to hide and wait out the threat. In that respect it’s almost more of a drama, with the characters spending more time in conflict about what their next move should be than battling the undead. The whole “group of strangers holed up in an enclosed space” is a subgenre that feels like it took off in the past 15 years or so (see Cube, Exam, others that escape my memory), but Romero definitely prefigures all of that. Equally, you could look to ’60s Doctor Who and the birth of that series’ own “base under siege” subgenre, which has stylistic similarities but predates this. (Not that I’m saying Romero took ideas from contemporary British children’s television. Indeed, I think it’s fair to say he didn’t.)

Of similar familiarity, the characters are archetypes of the genre now, broadly speaking, but I imagine were less so at the time. De facto leader Ben is great, especially for the era: a strong, leading, commanding black character, whose race is never mentioned. He was written as an unintelligent white truck driver, but black actor Duane Jones gave the best audition and so won the role. An intelligent man himself, he changed the part quite radically, to a point where even contemporary reviews noted how unusual it was to see an otherwise-white cast led by a black character.

Elsewhere there’s examples of ‘The Coward’ and ‘The Young, Willing, But Ultimately Incapable One’. Ben aside, however, the most interesting characters are the women, mainly because plenty of reviews and commentary talk about how weak they are. Several of Night…’s numerous remakes have even explicitly addressed this, changing how they behave. I don’t hold with that, and I’d like to think as time moves on fewer people will. Much of this argument centres on Barbra, who after initial events shuts down and sits catatonic on a sofa for much of the film. The apparently-accepted point of view is that she’s useless and pathetic, and the film’s written that way because she’s a woman, while the men are capable and get on with things. Poppycock. Barbra is clearly in shock and, even more so, traumatised. It’s a great performance by Judith O’Dea in that regard, thoroughly believable as to how someone with such damage to their mental health might behave. Far from being the weakest or most irritating character, I think she’s the most fascinating, especially when you add in her final reaction.

Of the other two women… OK, in fairness, ‘The Girlfriend’, Judy, messes things up royally. If that role were a man then he’d just be ‘The Idiotic Character’, but because it’s a woman it has to be read as a pathetic and weak characterisation. It’s not helped when seen alongside the inactive Barbra, of course. But perhaps we should remember that this was the 1960s — it’s a part that’s of its time, not only in the filmmakers’ attitudes but in how people would genuinely behave. Not that women couldn’t be strong or capable in the ’60s, but if you’re brought up thinking you’re a certain thing, some people are going to develop into that and no more. ‘The Mother’ is certainly better: she argues with her wannabe-controlling husband, disobeys his instructions, sides against him. Her fate, again, is not the weakness some paint it as, but a plausible reaction to the situation.

Watching Night… knowing that it was made by enthusiastic first-time filmmakers on a next-to-nothing budget makes for an interesting perspective. It starts out contained to a few rooms of a house with just a handful of actors — that makes sense, it’s cheap to do. But then the ~~zombies~~ ghouls begin to amass. OK, cheap extras. But then the TV begins to show the outside world — and suddenly you’ve got dozens of men with guns setting up posses, and then military officials apparently in Washington D.C., being hounded by the press; and then our heroes attempt to escape and there’s bombs and shooting and fire and explosions! You become unsure of where it might go next, and that’s never a bad thing.

Some of the photography also belies the ultra-cheap budget. Not all of it — a few bits look exactly as cheap as they were — but a lot looks great, actually. As I understand it, there still isn’t a definitive Blu-ray edition, but the UK Region B Optimum disc offers superb picture quality (it’s slightly cropped in places, apparently, but not noticeably so to the unfamiliar eye). Whatever the motivation (it may well have been budgetary rather than stylistic), shooting in black & white lends numerous great effects, from moody film noir lighting in places, to a kind of documentary realism at others. Sometimes it just makes it plain old creepy — towards the end, with the kid, and the basement… brr. Much more chilling than bright red ‘blood’ and other ‘stuff’ just being splattered left, right and centre. Indeed, black & white helps to hide any limitations in special effects or make-up, adding impact to every scene featuring the ghouls.

The low cost is probably part of why it’s so small and contained, the same route so many low-budget genre filmmakers still take today. The pay-off is that it becomes an interesting character drama in a horror situation, as much about creeping terror as gore (though it certainly has its moments of the latter). That may not be to the taste of the gore-hounds that the horror genre can attract (particularly zombie movies, with all their flesh-ripping), but it does make it of more merit to a wider film-fan audience.

As the extent to which you can tell a story with just a few characters in one house reaches its limit, and the glimpses of the outside world suggest that a solution to the outbreak may be presenting itself, and as things begin to look more and more hopeful… it all goes to hell — spectacularly. It’s not just that “all the action is in the last 20 minutes”, as some dismissively assert (for one thing, there are at least two ‘action sequences’ earlier on; and it’s more like the last 30 minutes than 20), but that once things Go Wrong they really, really Go Wrong. If only our heroes had just waited it out, etc. But then we wouldn’t be treated to some of the film’s most striking imagery, including a fast-cut stabby murder to rival the one from Psycho in terms of effectiveness.

And after all seems said and done, there’s that ending — the one that cost the film a mainstream release from a major distributor when the filmmakers refused to alter it. It’s also the bit that provokes the most discussion about the film’s commentary on ’60s American society and attitudes: is it making a point about racism? Romero insists it isn’t. You can debate that if you like; personally, I can see where he’s coming from (it’s not quite refined enough thematically to be making a statement), but, either way, it’s a shockingly effective climax. The under-the-credits series of stark, journalistic photos just ram the point home… though they do also seem to lend credence to the allusions some feel the film is making.

After nearly five decades, numerous sequels, innumerable remakes, rip-offs, and films just plain influenced by it, you’d expect a low-budget shocker to have gone stale. The most remarkable thing about Night of the Living Dead, then, is just how well it holds up. It still feels fresh, with a story and style that seem as if it could have been made yesterday, only the fashions and film stock letting us in on its ’60s origins.

Romero thought he was making a rip-off of Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend. Instead, the originality and perspective he added to the mix spawned a whole new subgenre; one that, as I demonstrated at the start, is increasingly dominant in the horror landscape. I’m no expert in the field, but even if Night of the Living Dead has been equalled or bettered, it’s a film that’s still capable of standing beside the countless follow-ups that all owe it a debt.

Part of Week of the Living Dead for Halloween 2013.

Night of the Living Dead placed 8th on my list of The Ten Best Films I Saw For the First Time in 2013, which can be read in full here.

My Week with Marilyn (2011)

Posted on October 24, 2013 by badblokebob

2013 #32
Simon Curtis | 95 mins | TV | 2.35:1 | UK & USA / English | 15 / R

1956: global superstar Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) comes to England to star opposite Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh) in his latest directorial effort, The Prince and the Showgirl. Midway though production, the troubled actress goes AWOL with young production assistant Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne) in this true story based on the latter’s memoirs.

In many respects, this is an actors’ film, not least because everyone’s playing a real person. Michelle Williams thoroughly earns her multiple award noms (and Golden Globes win) by expertly capturing the different facets and nuances of Marilyn’s complicated character. In a case of life imitating art, the end credits suggest she couldn’t have done it without a small army of voice, acting, and movement coaches.

Kenneth Branagh does what the crueller critic might say he’s been doing his whole career: emulates Larry Olivier to a tee. Perhaps unexpectedly, it’s a showier performance than Williams’, what with a clipped period accent, random Shakespeare quoting, and mood swings between charm personified and frustrated anger.

Eddie Redmayne makes for a likeable enough lead, even when you know his character is making some plainly foolish decisions. Even he can’t sell some clunky opening and closing expositionary voiceovers, though. Meanwhile, Judi Dench is the personification of loveliness as Dame Sybil Thorndike. After harder-edged roles like M and Barbara Covett, it’s nice to have Dame Judi being nice again, a trait one feels comes naturally to her.

The supporting cast is a veritable who’s who of recognisable British faces, stars of screens both big and small. Barely a speaking part goes by without an actor you’re certain to recognise. I’d list them but, honestly, there are far, far too many. Despite Marilyn coming with a hefty entourage, Williams is the only American in the cast, meaning American accents are lumbered (to varying degrees of success) upon Zoe Wanamaker, Toby Jones, Dougray Scott, and Dominic Cooper. Hey, of course Dominic Cooper’s in it — is it even legal to make a mid-budget British movie without him now?

Somehow, these performances (plus the writing (by Adrian Hodges of TV series like The Ruby in the Smoke, Survivors, and Primeval) and directing, of course) gel to make a film that is both very funny and dramatically affecting. It was, I must admit, significantly better than I was expecting.

A Trip to the Moon (1902)

Posted on October 14, 2013 by badblokebob

aka Le Voyage dans la lune

2013 #2a
Georges Méliès | 16 mins | DVD | 1.33:1 | France / silent | U

Of all the defining images of cinema — certainly of the silent era — the face on the Moon with a rocket in its eye must be one of the most recognised, though you have to wonder how many have actually seen Méliès’ full vision. More than it could have been, though, because A Trip to the Moon was so popular that, in the copyright-lax world of early cinema, it was widely copied and ripped-off; the kind of thing that destroyed Méliès’ career and, along with it, much of his work.

Unsurprisingly for a film only quarter of an hour long, the plot is quite straightforward: a group of gentlemen are shot out of a giant cannon in a little bullet-shaped craft (not that far from how we actually ended up getting to space), which crashes on the Moon, where they meet a race of man-sized insect-ish creatures (I believe this also happened to the crew of Apollo 11), kill most of them (that too), and take one back to Earth as a slave/performing monkey (now that’s just silly).

As you can see, the politics of the film have dated somewhat… though it’s not a world away from the storyline of some blockbusters — just make the aliens more overtly threatening and the slave a willing volunteer and you’re there. What’s equally remarkable are the similarities to actual space missions — not only what I’ve already mentioned, but the craft splashing back into the sea at the end, for instance. In fairness, this could be as much coincidence as design, because there are plenty of other bits that are way off the mark.

But Méliès wasn’t making a documentary, he was making an entertainment. Indeed, the analogy to a blockbuster is a good one, because this is essentially the turn-of-the-century equivalent. The fantastical sets, costumes and story are all designed to wow the viewer — and remember, we’re only a few years on from people diving out of the way of film of a train arriving in a station.

The spectacle is even more evident in the hand-coloured version, which is what I watched. Discovered in 1993 but (for various reasons) not fully restored until 2011, it made its public (re-)debut at Cannes and was released on UK DVD at the tail end of last year (if you have deep pockets, there’s a pricey Blu-ray version available from Flicker Alley in the US). The colours are vibrant and rainbow-like, though somehow not garish. They emphasise the fantastical nature of the journey very well, and this kind of thing must’ve been a sight to punters familiar with only black-and-white images. From a technical point of view, considering the film was hand-painted frame-by-frame, it’s amazing how consistent and stable the colours are.

This version comes with a new soundtrack by French electronic music duo AIR. It’s somewhere between obtrusive and exciting, depending on your predilections. Whatever it is, it’s certainly not period-authentic.

A Trip to the Moon is a defining moment in cinema, undoubtedly a must-see for cinephiles. But, more than an obligation, it’s an entertaining experience in its own right; a burst of imaginative storytelling and impressive technical achievement, even more so in the coloured version.

See also my review The Extraordinary Voyage, a documentary about Méliès and the recovery and restoration of this silent print, here.

Batman: The Dark Knight Returns – Deluxe Edition (2013)

Posted on October 3, 2013 by badblokebob

Warner Premiere’s $7 million animated adaptation of one of the seminal graphic novels is here rejigged from its original two–part release into a single two-and-a-half-hour experience. To persuade those who didn’t make the purchases first time around — and to lure back those who did — the Deluxe Edition Blu-ray also includes a new cast & crew audio commentary and a 79-minute documentary about Frank Miller’s original novel, as well as all the old special features. I don’t normally review editions on here, but in this case it’s relevant.

But before all that, what of the new cut itself? Personally, I felt it worked better as two movies.

Thing is, Miller’s original wasn’t just released as four issues, it’s very much a four-parter: sure, there’s an overarching plot, but each issue/chapter works as a finite unit. In making the transition to the screen, director Jay Oliva and screenwriter Bob Goodman did a great job of adapting two issues at a time to create two complete-feeling films: Part 1 tells the tale of Batman vs the mutants, building to a cliffhanger; Part 2 deals with the fallout of said cliffhanger.

As one long film, it fades to black halfway through and then resumes again. Whole new plot threads suddenly appear that, were this conceived as a single 2½-hour movie, should have been introduced earlier in the running time. The pace goes skwiffy, because it was designed to flow naturally as two distinct movies — action sequences butt up against each other in the middle of the film, one of which is basically a climax before the halfway mark. Considering Miller’s original structure, that arguably leaves the film with a good three or four climaxes scattered throughout.

I suppose you could count these as nothing more than niggles. Given the choice, I think this adaptation functions better in its original, intended, two-part version; but the single-film version is not fundamentally different to double-billing its constituent parts. (If you want more detailed thoughts on the film itself, you can find my original review of Part 1 here and Part 2 here.)

Though there are aesthetic reasons for choosing to watch The Dark Knight Returns as two separate features, there are several unavoidable reasons why picking up the Deluxe Edition is preferable. For starters, it’s potentially a heckuva lot cheaper. I don’t know how much Parts 1&2 are available for now, but the Deluxe Edition is only slightly more expensive than just one of those halves was when new. That said, from a UK perspective, importing it will cost in the region of £18, whereas Part 1 has already made its way into 2-for-£10 offers, and I’m sure Part 2 can’t be far behind.

Cost aside, the disc — or, rather, discs (two Blu-rays and a feature-only DVD) — themselves present a couple of incentives. Exactly two, in fact, because that’s the number of new special features. Oh, but they’re hefty ones: a feature-length audio commentary by director Jay Oliva, screenwriter Bob Goodman, and voice director Andrea Romano (for some reason the latter doesn’t merit a credit on either the box or the disc’s menu, but she is there); and a feature-length documentary all about the original graphic novel, Masterpiece: Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns. (I’ll review the latter separately at some point. If you like we can debate the line that distinguishes films from TV programmes/DVD special features/etc, but Masterpiece is almost 80 minutes long and begins with the full Warner Bros and DC Comics logos, just like A Proper Film, so I’m goin’ there.)

For the completist, all the original special features are also ported over. That’s five featurettes totalling almost two hours, delving into: the character of Carrie Kelly (aka Robin), the Joker, the film’s depiction of Superman vs Batman, the story of Batman’s creator Bob Kane, and a lengthy exploration of the adaptation and animation process with director Oliva, in a kind of Maximum Movie Mode style (though for 43½ minutes rather than the entire film — though that’s not to be sniffed at, is it?) There’s also five additional animation episodes from the archives (four from the classic Batman: The Animated Series and one from the more recent Batman: The Brave and the Bold). The only stuff that’s gone walkabouts are the Sneak Peek promos, though as they’re all for now-released titles that’s hardly a major loss (though as they constitute mini-featurettes rather than pure trailers, some completists may feel a mild tang of disappointment). All-in, you’re looking at 7½ hours of special features to complement your 2½-hour film, something even the most hardened whinge-happy fanboy would struggle to complain about.

While I’ll continue to champion viewing the two halves of The Dark Knight Returns as separate movies, this single-film version is far from a travesty. If you’ve already got the separate releases, it definitely isn’t worth picking this up just for the film; so a purchase depends on how much value you place on the commentary and Masterpiece documentary (oh, and four art cards found in the box, which I’ve used to illustrate this review). If you don’t own the existing releases then whichever way works out as most cost-effective (bearing in mind which extras can be found where, of course) is the way to go.

Batman: The Dark Knight Returns – Deluxe Edition is currently available in the US on DVD and Blu-ray as a Best Buy exclusive, but goes on wide release from next Tuesday, 8th October.

* Technically the BBFC haven’t classified this single-film version, but the two halves each received a 15. ^

It Happened One Night (1934)

Posted on August 19, 2013 by badblokebob

2013 #2
Frank Capra | 100 mins | TV | 4:3 | USA / English | U

It Happened One Night was the first film to win the Oscar “grand slam” (Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Director, Screenplay), and is still one of the few to have won everything it was nominated for (alongside The Last Emperor and Return of the King), yet everyone involved seemed to think it would be a disaster: several people turned it down (five actresses); Claudette Colbert only agreed because she got double her salary and would be done in four weeks (and didn’t bother to attend the Oscars — when she won, she was rushed to the ceremony to make her speech); on the first day Clark Gable declared “Let’s get this over with”; and so on. So is it a multi-Oscar-worthy triumph, or the mistake so many cast and crew thought it to be?

Firstly, it’s the archetypal rom-com: two mismatched people are forced together, initially hate each other, fall in love. I don’t know if it was such a well-known set of events back then, but today it’s a formula we’ve seen repeated a thousand times in cinema. Despite that, its execution here feels fresh. Partly it’s the way the narrative cunningly draws the stars closer and closer together: losing suitcases, switching modes of transport, running out of cash… Partly, it’s the ineffable charm of a well-written, well-performed story. Gable and Colbert light up the screen like true stars. Their chemistry is immense, and though both characters could be intensely dislikable, instead they’re captivating.

It’s often credited as the first screwball comedy, and there is an element of that, though it’s no His Girl Friday in this regard. Still, numerous sequences work really well comically, like the motel argument (a particular stand-out). The Walls of Jericho running motif is also nicely executed, leading to perhaps the sauciest final scene not to feature a single shot of human beings that I can think of.

Fortunately, It Happened One Night‘s successes are nearer the truth than the opinions of those who made it. Even 80 years on, this stands up firmly as a gloriously entertaining film.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007)

Posted on June 10, 2013 by badblokebob

September 1881: after admiring their leader for years through cheap magazine stories, 19-year-old Robert Ford manages to hook up with the James Gang. Little does he suspect that, just seven months later, he will be responsible for the murder of his idol, Jesse James. (That’s not a spoiler, it’s in the title.)

Ultimately released in 2007, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford found itself going head-to-head in the awards season with No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood. The accepted narrative of that time is about the two-horse-race between the latter two, though Jesse James fits with them in some kind of thematic and stylistic triumvirate: they’re all products of what I’d call “American mainstream art house” cinema; all classifiable as Westerns, though none in a strictly traditional sense; all more concerned with their characters and their lives than the machinations of the plot. In the end, No Country garnered most of the awards, There Will Be Blood seems to have settled in as a critical darling, but, for my money, this purest Western of the three is by far the best.

I’m not going to waste much time making direct comparisons between the three films. I suspect there’s an article in that, if someone hasn’t written it already, but it’s not one I have much interest in penning: I don’t think I’ve made much secret of my distaste for the Coen and Anderson efforts in this little threesome, both being films I never really engaged with and certainly didn’t enjoy (in fairness, I should give Blood a second shot, but even the idea of sitting through No Country again makes me shudder). The Assassination of Jesse James, however, is a film I both engaged with and enjoyed greatly.

Let’s be clear, though: this is not a film for everyone. This is not an action movie set in the Wild West, which might be what’s expected from a Hollywood studio movie starring Brad Pitt. Apparently director Andrew Dominik intended to make a film with a Terence Malick vibe, so I read after viewing, which chimed with me because “Malick-esque” was one of my foremost thoughts during viewing. This is a slowly-paced two-hours-and-forty-minutes, with more shots of crops blowing gently in the breeze or riders approaching gradually over distant hills as there are flashes of violence. Despite what the studio wanted, this is not a fast-paced action Western, it’s a considered, sometimes meditative, exploration of character and theme.

The character explored is not particularly Jesse James, but Robert Ford. As the latter, Casey Affleck was largely put forward for Supporting Actor awards, which does him a disservice — the film is largely told from Ford’s perspective, and though there are asides where it follows James or other members of the gang, it begins with Ford’s arrival and ends with his departure from this world. Affleck is superb in a quiet but nuanced performance, which I would say ranges wildly without ever appearing to change. At times he is cocky and self-sure, at others cowardly and defensive, often creepy and occasionally likeable, sometimes both worldly and naïve, a perpetual wannabe who even when he achieves something is still poorly viewed. You might think the title is stating its position on him, but it really isn’t — it’s a position to be considered, a point of contrast to the man’s motives and actions; a statement that is in fact a question.

Conversely, Pitt’s Jesse James is closer to a supporting role. We see him primarily through the eyes of others; he is distant, unknowable, his moods and actions unpredictable thanks to years of law-dodging that’s led to a paranoia about his own men — not all of it misplaced. Jesse’s mood swings are more obvious than Ford’s, but Pitt makes them no less unlikely. At times charming and a clear leader, at others he is a genuinely tense, frightening presence, without ever needing to resort to the grandstanding horror-movie grotesques offered by (Oscar winners) Daniel Day-Lewis and Javier Bardem in There Will Be Blood and No Country respectively.

Though there are other memorable and striking performances — particularly from Sam Rockwell, Paul Schneider, and a pre-fame Jeremy Renner; plus a precise, perfectly-pitched, occasional voiceover narration from Hugh Ross (who doesn’t have many credits to his name but surely deserves some more now) — the third lead is Roger Deakins and his stunning cinematography. There are many clichés to use for good-looking films, and the vast majority of the time they are trotted out as what they are and not really meant. Jesse James, however, is one most could be applied to with total accuracy. For example, there are very few — if any — films where you could genuinely take any frame and hang it as a perfect photograph; but if there is one where you could, this is it.

Deakins has reportedly said that “the arrival of the train in darkness is one of the high watermarks of his career”, and he’s right to think that. It’s a glorious sequence, made up of several shots where every one is perfectly composed and lit to create a remarkable ambience and beauty, as well as telling the story, which in this instance involves as much creation of suspense as eliciting pure artistic appreciation. Deakins did take home a few awards for his work here, but not the Oscar. I can’t remember which film did win and, frankly, I don’t care, because whichever it was this outclasses it by miles.

This must also be thanks in part to director Andrew Dominik. Every last shot feels precisely chosen and paced. Of course, every shot in every film has been chosen and placed where it is, but the amount of thought that’s gone into that might vary. Jesse James somehow carries extra weight in this department, with no frame in its not-inconsiderable running time wasted on an unnecessary angle or take that’s allowed to run even a second too long. Somewhat famously, there was a lot of wrangling over the film’s final cut (delaying its release by a year or more), with the aforementioned debate between something faster and something even slower: a four-hour version screened at the Venice Film Festival, to a strong reception. Sadly, the intervening years haven’t seen that cut, or any of its parts, resurface (to my knowledge). That’s an hour and twenty minutes of material and I’d love to know what’s in them.

One thing in there, I’d wager, would be the performances of Mary-Louise Parker and Zooey Deschanel. Both their characters have a tiny presence in the finished product, and while that may be fine for the overall story (some would criticise how much female characters are sidelined, but that’s another debate), casting two moderately major actresses creates a disjunct with the size of their roles. I was going to say this is one of the film’s few flaws, but it’s debatable if it even qualifies as that: if they’d cast less recognisable faces, their lack of presence would pass by unnoticed.

The other thread I mentioned, seven paragraphs ago, was “theme”. The film has a lot of concurrent aspects one might consider — “loyalty” being a major one, for instance — but I think the biggest is “celebrity”. Not in the modern sense, though I’m sure there are analogies for those that wish. To pick up on what I was saying before: Ford is the main character, and the main thing he wants, even if he doesn’t realise it, is fame. He joins the James Gang because he’s enamoured with the adventurous tales he’s read; because he’s obsessed with the notoriety of Jesse. Later, once the titular deed is done, he becomes an actor (not without talent, as the narration informs us) and re-performs the act that made him famous hundreds of times. It’s his legacy, however, to not be as well-remembered as his victim; to not be as well-liked, even; not even close. There’s something there about the pursuit of fame for its own sake, if nothing else.

It’s difficult to call any film “perfect”. Certainly, there would be plenty of viewers who would consider The Assassination of Jesse James to be an overlong bore. Each to their own, and I do have sympathy with such perspectives because there are acclaimed films that I’ve certainly found to be both overlong and boring. Not this one, though. From the constant beauty of Deakins’ cinematography, to the accomplished performances, to the insightful and considered story (not to mention that it’s been cited as the most historically accurate version of events yet filmed), there are endless delights here. As time wears on and awards victors fade, it deserves to elbow its way back into the debate for the best film of the ’00s.

The UK TV premiere of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is on ITV4 tonight at 10pm. It’s screening again tomorrow at 11pm.

It placed 3rd on my list of The Ten Best Films I Saw For the First Time in 2013, which can be read in full here.

The Lost Weekend (1945)

Posted on May 27, 2013 by badblokebob

Directed by the inestimable Billy Wilder, winner of the Grand Prix (forerunner to the Palme d’Or) at the first Cannes, winner of the Best Picture Oscar in 1946, and also Best Actor, Director, and Screenplay, it’s a wonder that The Lost Weekend isn’t better known. I don’t think I’d even heard of it until Masters of Cinema announced their Blu-ray release back in January 2012, and comments I’ve seen around the internet express a similar experience of prior unawareness. Thank goodness for MoC, then, because this isn’t a film that deserves to be forgotten.

Adapted from the novel by Charles R. Jackson, the entire film takes place across one particularly eventful weekend (well, that plus flashbacks), in which should-be-recovering alcoholic Don Birnam (Ray Milland) tries desperately to fall back off the wagon.

The plot may smack of a worthy social drama (perhaps why it’s been forgotten), but most every sequence is loaded with more tension than a thriller. This is Wilder’s skill as both co-writer and director: he gets us on Birnam’s side early on, so that we follow him through the almost-self-induced hell that follows; and he keeps us on the edge of our seat, as desperate for it to work out as Birnam himself is. But, right from the very first scene, hardly a one of his plans does work out; all of them thwarted at the last possible moment, when victory seems assured. The film isn’t preachy, but if it does teach us a lesson then this is how it does it.

Wilder’s direction is excellent throughout, with innumerable striking compositions, perfectly paced scenes, and the aforementioned tension ratcheted up to maximum. There are other very good directors who would’ve made a hash of a film like this — made one that screams “meaningful movie about An Issue” — but the way Wilder handles affairs means it’s more than that. It explores its issue, it exposes us to the facets of it so that we might learn something, but it does so under the auspices of a drama about a man we come to care about. It’s not an “alcohol is bad” sermon, it’s a “can this man survive it?” thriller.

Equally, the flashback structure could scupper the film, but instead it raises it, with two of the best sequences coming here. There’s the exceptional La Traviata scene — it’s very obviously a bit of Good Direction, but while you could call it showy, it works — and the scene where Wick tries to cover for his brother to his new girl, which lends weight and backstory to the opening scene where he seems ready to (and, indeed, does) callously abandon him.

Milland is astounding. The film rides on him and he really carries it. It’s easy to play a comic drunk, but Milland doesn’t sink to that. Indeed he doesn’t do one type of drunk at all, swaying back and forth across various levels of inebriation as required. I often find films of this era contain performances we assess as great, but if you put them in a film today no one would buy it; they’d find it stagey and fake. Milland’s transcends that — it fits the era, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find it would play just as potently today. I think it’s fair to say that Milland is not widely known today, but with every film of his I become more convinced that history has been unkind.

Also worthy of praise is Frank Faylen as Bim. In his featurette on the MoC release, Alex Cox says he’s the second best character in the film, and he’s probably right. Cox notes that at least one review at the time really laid in to Bim, painting him as an evil sadist. Today, I don’t think we have that perspective at all. Bim tells Birnam the truth, painting his illness like it really is. Whereas his other friends and relations all try to do their best for him, but wind up enabling his addiction to continue, Bim’s experience and detachedness means he can be blunt and truthful. Birnam may not realise the good it’s done him, but good it does ultimately do.

There’s also able support from Howard Da Silva as barman Nat and Doris Dowling as Gloria (is she a whore of some kind? Just an escort? A bar-crawler? Did I miss something?), whose slang is oddly infectious. No offence to Jane Wyman, but her lovelorn-but-strong girlfriend character only seems to really come alive in the closing minutes, when she considers abandoning Birnam to his fate.

The Oscar-nominated score by Miklós Rózsa at first seems highly unusual, a warbling horror movie score, but it quickly comes to fit very well, and not just the nightmarish daydream sequence near the film’s climax. The movie was also nominated for John F. Seitz’s cinematography and Doane Harrison’s editing. They lost to The Picture of Dorian Gray and National Velvet respectively, neither of which I’ve seen, but they must have something special to outclass the work on show here.

I think the same can be said of the whole film. Issue-focused movies from the past are often badly dated, even if we can still admire the filmmaking techniques involved. That’s not their fault — it’s the cultural climate of the time, or the shifts in understanding that have come since. I’ll admit I know next to nothing about alcoholism so can’t comment definitively on the film’s enduring accuracy, but from what I do know of other conditions of addiction and mental health, this feels as if it’s still thoroughly relevant.

Even if you don’t care about The Issue, there’s an engrossing, thrilling drama for everyone to enjoy. If The Lost Weekend is indeed forgotten, then it merits widespread rediscovery.

That concludes my reviews from 2012.

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