The past couple of nights, I've been watching some of my "guilty pleasure" films-Hollywood B Mysteries. I love all of them. Lone Wolf, Boston Blackie, The Falcon, The Saint, The Crime Doctor, Philo Vance, Charlie Chan...the list goes on.
The past couple nights, though, I watched the Warren William "Perry Mason" films, produced by Warners in the mid-30s, which are a delight in their apparent simplicity, tight plotting, fun performances, and crisp dialogue. On the surface, these B-films (programmers would be a more fitting word, I think, as these films do not contain the kind of cheap production values that are often associated with the term "B-movie") are the very definition of slick, streamlined simplicity. But looking closer, I was taken with the level of cinematic sophistication apparent in each one of them. "The Case of the Howling Dog", from 1935, features incredibly well-executed camera moves. The interesting thing is that the camera moves do not seem terribly logical to the style of the filmmaking, but rather seem to exist to keep audiences "moving forward" in the plot. Each establishing shot of the different attorneys is opened with an elaborate pan up and pull back. It's the kind of camera move that's easy to take for granted, maybe even to dismiss as "showy", but as any filmmaker who's attempted such a camera move in one of their own films can tell you, is incredibly difficult to pull off.
It's a testament to the invention and skill of the craftsmen who put these films together. Under the studio system, it's easy to see the beaurocratic rankings of producers, technicians and stars as the crassest kind of commercialization of an art form. But upon closer examination, one can't help-viewing these films more than 70 years later-the amount of skill and craftsmanship involved in even a little programmer like "The Case of the Howling Dog".
Showing posts with label Essays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Essays. Show all posts
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Shane and The Psychological Western
As the Western progressed out of its pulp roots, which had been firmly established in the movies' earliest days, a new view point, a mythical, legendary perspective of the genre developed. The first film to really portray the Western on an epic scale was James Cruze's 1923 film "The Covered Wagon", followed the following year by John Ford's epic of the building of the transatlantic railroad, "The Iron Horse". Over the decade, there were numerous other epic Westerns, including William S. Hart's "Tumbleweeds" (1925) and Raoul Walsh's "The Big Trail" (1930). Because of the cost and logistics of the location work involved, the Western took a dramatic downturn in the early '3os, and spent most of that decade as the lowest form of Saturday morning kiddie fare, much as the science fiction film would in the 1950s. Cecil B. DeMille's "The Plainsman", which appeared in 1937, represented a triumph for the Western, but it was John Ford who, with his "Stagecoach" in 1939, revolutionized and re-energized the genre to the level of art. Ford's Westerns, along with those of other notable directors such as Anthony Mann, Budd Boetticher, Howard Hawks, and others took a genre that had become completely set in conventions to the point of tedium, and took it to new heights combining the use of psychological elements, character development and strong story to elevate the genre to a new glory.
The films of these directors took root during the 1960s and 70s due to the interest of auteurist critics, who admired the consistency of themes and style from film to film. Ford's best Westerns stand out among the genre. As fine entertainment, Hawks' "Red River" and "Rio Bravo" stand out, but for me, lack the psychological depth that marks my three favorite Westerns.
The three that I admire the most are "The Ox-Bow Incident" (William A. Wellman, 1943), "High Noon" (Fred Zinnemann, 1952), and "Shane" (George Stevens, 1953). Of these, "Shane" stands out for me as the ultimate achievement within the genre.
"Shane" tells the tale of Shane, a flawed White Knight of a gunfighter (Alan Ladd) who comes in off the plains and offers support to a small ranching community under constant threat from a gang of ranchers who want to re-claim the land for themselves. Mr. Starrett (Van Heflin) and his wife (Jean Arthur) don't know what to make of this stranger, but their son (Brandon de Wilde) takes an instant sense of friendship to him, and sees him as a sort of guardian figure in some ways. Shane touches their lives, and stands off against the villainous rancher (Emile Meyer) and his chief henchman, Wilson (Jack Palance).
For me, "Shane" represents a Western with heart and a psychological element that works on several levels. It explores the relationship between Shane and Mrs. Starrett, saying so little yet conveying so much; it examines the relationship between Shane and the Starrett's son, who comes to see him as a tragic hero; and finally, between right and wrong, in interestingly gray terms for an American Western: in one scene, we hear an explanation as to why the rancher (Emile Meyer) wants to drive off the new settlers, and it makes the audience understand his point of view.
Visually, the film is beautiful, and takes place in a slightly different "West" than is often portrayed in Hollywood films. The Westerns usually take place in the dry, desert climates of such locations as Monument Valley and other far Western locales. But "Shane" is beautifully photographed by Loyal Griggs in the mountains and plains of Wyoming, in gorgeous Technicolor. It is a pity that the film was not made just a year or two later, as it would have probably been photographed in widescreen, which would have contributed greatly to the scenery. "Shane" has been criticized as being too neat and tidy for a Western, but I would disagree. The costuming is well-researched and accurate, despite the criticisms of some. And the performances have a certain beauty to them that add great depth to the characterizations.
The "Psychological" western fascinates me endlessly, and I will offer up more on it after re-watching both "High Noon" and "The Ox-Bow Incident".
The films of these directors took root during the 1960s and 70s due to the interest of auteurist critics, who admired the consistency of themes and style from film to film. Ford's best Westerns stand out among the genre. As fine entertainment, Hawks' "Red River" and "Rio Bravo" stand out, but for me, lack the psychological depth that marks my three favorite Westerns.
The three that I admire the most are "The Ox-Bow Incident" (William A. Wellman, 1943), "High Noon" (Fred Zinnemann, 1952), and "Shane" (George Stevens, 1953). Of these, "Shane" stands out for me as the ultimate achievement within the genre.
"Shane" tells the tale of Shane, a flawed White Knight of a gunfighter (Alan Ladd) who comes in off the plains and offers support to a small ranching community under constant threat from a gang of ranchers who want to re-claim the land for themselves. Mr. Starrett (Van Heflin) and his wife (Jean Arthur) don't know what to make of this stranger, but their son (Brandon de Wilde) takes an instant sense of friendship to him, and sees him as a sort of guardian figure in some ways. Shane touches their lives, and stands off against the villainous rancher (Emile Meyer) and his chief henchman, Wilson (Jack Palance).
For me, "Shane" represents a Western with heart and a psychological element that works on several levels. It explores the relationship between Shane and Mrs. Starrett, saying so little yet conveying so much; it examines the relationship between Shane and the Starrett's son, who comes to see him as a tragic hero; and finally, between right and wrong, in interestingly gray terms for an American Western: in one scene, we hear an explanation as to why the rancher (Emile Meyer) wants to drive off the new settlers, and it makes the audience understand his point of view.
Visually, the film is beautiful, and takes place in a slightly different "West" than is often portrayed in Hollywood films. The Westerns usually take place in the dry, desert climates of such locations as Monument Valley and other far Western locales. But "Shane" is beautifully photographed by Loyal Griggs in the mountains and plains of Wyoming, in gorgeous Technicolor. It is a pity that the film was not made just a year or two later, as it would have probably been photographed in widescreen, which would have contributed greatly to the scenery. "Shane" has been criticized as being too neat and tidy for a Western, but I would disagree. The costuming is well-researched and accurate, despite the criticisms of some. And the performances have a certain beauty to them that add great depth to the characterizations.
The "Psychological" western fascinates me endlessly, and I will offer up more on it after re-watching both "High Noon" and "The Ox-Bow Incident".
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and the Importance of Location
The other night I watched a classic film that I have to admit I had not yet seen; "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" (1948), released by Warner Bros., and directed by John Huston.
I will not give a review of the film here; instead, I wanted to comment on the aspect of the film that perhaps struck me more than any other: its use of location. Location is an often overlooked aspect of filmmaking. Too often, a good location has to be sacrificed because of cost, time, permission or other external factors often beyond the producer's control. Thankfully, and perhaps remarkably, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" must stand as one of the finest examples of location work committed to film.
At first I was uncertain where the film was photographed. I assumed it was a combination of location work within driving distance of Burbank, and backlot work done at the Burbank Studio. However, there was a convincing atmosphere to it that made it very impressive and after some research, I found that the film was in fact shot extensively on location in Mexico.
The use of authentic Mexican locations adds immeasurably to the film. For those unfamiliar with it, the film tells the story of Fred Dobbs (Humphrey Bogart), an unemployed American stranded in Mexico, who, along with a fellow American (Tim Holt) and a grizzled old prospector (Walter Huston), takes to the mountains to pan for gold. Jealousy, greed and fear soon consume the group before events turn ugly. To give a sense of the isolation and destitution of Bogart's character, the authenticity of the grimy, gritty Mexican town provide a perfect backdrop. Those mountains where the trio goes prospecting are so perfectly chosen, so completely atmospheric, that it is easy to forget one is watching a fictional, "studio" film.
Location work was still rather uncommon even in 1948. Despite the increased demand for "realism" in the years following World War II, Hollywood films were often still shot on sound stages and backlots. This made economic sense, after all. Even though the production financing of films now had to come from more independent sources (since the studio-owned theatre chains which generated a constant cycle of profit had been broken up in anti-trust rulings in 1946), the studios still called most of the shots, and in many cases, films were shot entirely at the studios just as they had been in the "studio era", even using all the staff technicians on studio payroll. Location photography was used for bigger budget productions, but during the 1930s and 40s, it seems that many producers forgot that natural locations were one of the first major differences between cinema and theatre, which first caught the attention of audiences 30 and 40 years earlier.
"The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" represents a major step forward in American filmmaking. It goes beyond its use of locations, of course, but these are at the heart of its innovations and significance. One can look at the film as a step forward in a sort of "maturation" process that Hollywood was undergoing. It can be seen, too, as a representative film of the increasing power that certain directors were able to exert over their productions. During this period following World War II, more and more directors were able to make artistic decisions that had previously been made at the sole discretion of the studio heads. Huston was one of the most instrumental directors in effecting this change. Along with fellow directors William Wyler and George Stevens, he represents the "old guard' directors who were able to successfully make the transition to the post-war era while becoming more independent as artists.
It is ashame, indeed, that more filmmakers do not pay attention to locations the way Huston did in this film. As it is, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" remains a benchmark film, and its locations still emphasize the power of setting in the cinema.
I will not give a review of the film here; instead, I wanted to comment on the aspect of the film that perhaps struck me more than any other: its use of location. Location is an often overlooked aspect of filmmaking. Too often, a good location has to be sacrificed because of cost, time, permission or other external factors often beyond the producer's control. Thankfully, and perhaps remarkably, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" must stand as one of the finest examples of location work committed to film.
At first I was uncertain where the film was photographed. I assumed it was a combination of location work within driving distance of Burbank, and backlot work done at the Burbank Studio. However, there was a convincing atmosphere to it that made it very impressive and after some research, I found that the film was in fact shot extensively on location in Mexico.
The use of authentic Mexican locations adds immeasurably to the film. For those unfamiliar with it, the film tells the story of Fred Dobbs (Humphrey Bogart), an unemployed American stranded in Mexico, who, along with a fellow American (Tim Holt) and a grizzled old prospector (Walter Huston), takes to the mountains to pan for gold. Jealousy, greed and fear soon consume the group before events turn ugly. To give a sense of the isolation and destitution of Bogart's character, the authenticity of the grimy, gritty Mexican town provide a perfect backdrop. Those mountains where the trio goes prospecting are so perfectly chosen, so completely atmospheric, that it is easy to forget one is watching a fictional, "studio" film.
Location work was still rather uncommon even in 1948. Despite the increased demand for "realism" in the years following World War II, Hollywood films were often still shot on sound stages and backlots. This made economic sense, after all. Even though the production financing of films now had to come from more independent sources (since the studio-owned theatre chains which generated a constant cycle of profit had been broken up in anti-trust rulings in 1946), the studios still called most of the shots, and in many cases, films were shot entirely at the studios just as they had been in the "studio era", even using all the staff technicians on studio payroll. Location photography was used for bigger budget productions, but during the 1930s and 40s, it seems that many producers forgot that natural locations were one of the first major differences between cinema and theatre, which first caught the attention of audiences 30 and 40 years earlier.
"The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" represents a major step forward in American filmmaking. It goes beyond its use of locations, of course, but these are at the heart of its innovations and significance. One can look at the film as a step forward in a sort of "maturation" process that Hollywood was undergoing. It can be seen, too, as a representative film of the increasing power that certain directors were able to exert over their productions. During this period following World War II, more and more directors were able to make artistic decisions that had previously been made at the sole discretion of the studio heads. Huston was one of the most instrumental directors in effecting this change. Along with fellow directors William Wyler and George Stevens, he represents the "old guard' directors who were able to successfully make the transition to the post-war era while becoming more independent as artists.
It is ashame, indeed, that more filmmakers do not pay attention to locations the way Huston did in this film. As it is, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" remains a benchmark film, and its locations still emphasize the power of setting in the cinema.
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