Grey Gardens (1976)

Landmark documentary character study of "Big Edie" and "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale, living alone in squalor in their decaying East Hampton estate. The two highly-eccentric women (the aunt and cousin, respectively, to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis) are certainly compelling subjects for a documentary, and the filmmakers do a fine job at exploring their uniquely co-dependent relationship with one another. As "Little Edie" craves independence from her mother and escape from the oppressive isolation of their home, her affection for her mother is also quite apparent, and there is something quite tragic about this woman, so full of life and energy, whose dreams and ambitions never materialized. The Verite approach is perhaps undermined a bit by the subjects' interaction with the filmmakers (who appear on-screen a few times and whose presence is acknowledged throughout), but still the Maysles have an undeniable talent for getting their subjects to open up on film and to capture a great deal of the essence of their personalities.

Salesman (1968)

Landmark work of Cinema Verite about a group of traveling Bible salesmen and their tribulations in trying to earn a living in an impossible, dying business. The Maysles' treat their subjects with dignity and without condescension, and succeed in making the conditions they depict genuinely compelling, without ever feeling exploitative. The film presents an interesting real-life counterpart to similar, fictional depictions of the traveling salesman as a metaphor for the illusions of the American Dream, such as DEATH OF A SALESMAN, and as an evocation of futility and desperation, it makes GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS seem positively upbeat and optimistic in comparison!

Night Train to Munich (1940)

Gripping, highly suspenseful British wartime thriller directed by Carol Reed, about a British agent's mission to smuggle a captured Czech inventor and his daughter safely out of Nazi Germany. Well-acted by Rex Harrison, Margaret Lockwood, and Paul Henreid, ably supported by comic relief team Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne as Charters and Caldicott. Reed's skillful direction creates a real sense of urgency throughout, enhanced by the topical references that give the story a sense of timeliness. Especially impressive is Reed's handling of the climactic escape across the Swiss alps via cable car. A model for future films of its kind.

It Should Happen to You (1954)

Sharp and prescient satire on celebrity for its own sake. Gladys Glover wants to be famous in the worst way, so she rents out a billboard in Columbus Circle and puts her name on it, quickly becoming famous just for being famous.

Gladys Glover is the kind of "dumb blonde" character that Judy Holliday played so well, and this is certainly one of the best showcases she ever had for her comic talents. Jack Lemmon (in his screen debut) does his usual fine job as the good-hearted schnook who falls for Gladys, and Peter Lawford brings the right mix of charm and sleaze to the part of the advertising executive who spots an opportunity to exploit Gladys's newfound celebrity. Garson Kanin's clever script and George Cukor's skillful direction make this an especially observant satire that looks only more relevant in the age of reality TV and social media.

Angels Over Broadway (1940)

Atmospheric romantic drama written and directed by Ben Hecht, about a quartet of characters whose paths cross in a New York nightclub one fateful, rainy night and who are each changed by their experiences together. There is the struggling gambler looking for easy money (Douglas Fairbanks Jr.), the aspiring nightclub dancer looking for her big break (Rita Hayworth), the alcoholic playwright whose cynical exterior masks a broken heart (Thomas Mitchell), and the suicidal clerk (John Qualen) who has decided to end it all after being caught embezzling money from his employer.

Expertly photographed by Lee Garmes, who also receives a co-director credit, this is an imaginatively shot film that includes some interesting visual moments bordering on the Expressionistic, especially in the climactic fight scene that includes disorienting, canted camera angles. It's a surprisingly dark film -- both visually and thematically -- and though it resolves its characters' problems at the end, does not take the expected plot turns in reaching its conclusion.

Bucking Broadway (1917)

An early John Ford Western, marked by stunning compositions and expansive use of the locations. His distinctive eye for detail is already evident in this early work. Silent Western star Harry Carey appears as his iconic "Cheyenne Harry" character, lending a mythic quality to the story. A ranch hand is engaged to the the owner's daughter, but their romance is threatened by the arrival of a slick New York horse trader, who romances the daughter and takes her back East to get married. At the engagement party, the man reveals his true colors when his abusive side emerges after having had too much to drink, but the ranch hand and his fellow cowboys arrive just in time to save the girl from her attacker, climaxing in a big, energetic barroom-style brawl on the balcony of the Columbia Hotel.

Ford has fun with the sight of the cowboys in the big city, riding their horses down Broadway (actually the streets of Los Angeles standing in for NYC). There is the predictable Fordian humor of the cowboy out of place in the city (such as mistaking the sound of steam leaking from a radiator for the hiss of a rattlesnake), but there is also a startlingly touching moment when a couple of con artists target the him as an easy mark, but have a change of heart after being genuinely moved by his sincerity and sense of honor toward the woman he loves.

Despite its simple premise and brisk pace, Ford demonstrates some astonishing cinematic inventiveness throughout. His debt to Griffith is clear -- most notably in the cross-cutting between the ranch and the city,  especially during the cowboys' ride to the rescue, his attention to small bits of character business and powerful use of closeups. Ford gives these techniques his own stamp through achieving a fluidity often lacking in Griffith, whose closeups and cutaways were often presented as obvious insert shots to heighten a detail. Ford, however, uses them in a way that arises naturally from the internal rhythms of the film's continuity. At times, they are so subtle we're hardly aware of them, but they add up to achieve the effects he is after in each scene.

There is also evidence of some influence from DeMille, in the effective and surprising use of chiaroscuro lighting that does much to heighten the intensity of both the marriage proposal scene between Carey and Molly Malone, and the later scene on their wedding day, when he realizes she has left him to marry another man. Most striking of all, though, are those breathtaking, sweeping Western vistas for which Ford seemed to have an innate sense of composition. The spatiality and depth he achieves through his framing of these landscapes is truly something magnificent to behold.

Great Guns (1941)

Weak service comedy, clearly inspired by the blockbuster success of Abbott and Costello's BUCK PRIVATES earlier the same year. Laurel and Hardy are valets to a wealthy, pampered young man who gets drafted into the army, and enlist with him in order to protect him. The young man quickly adapts to army life, proving there is absolutely nothing wrong with him, but Laurel and Hardy cause no end of troubles for their long-suffering sergeant.

GREAT GUNS must rank as one of the least inspired of the team's post-Hal Roach comedies. There are too many scenes that portray the boys as idiots and simpletons, scenes crafted to make the audience laugh at them, rather than with them. The romantic subplot (involving the young man's romance with an army base shopgirl and his rivalry with the sergeant for her affections) is -- thankfully -- actually not as intrusive as it could have been, but Laurel and Hardy still have too few scenes to themselves, instead often being forced to carry the exposition and fawn over their young master. The "war games" finale allows them a few moments of the old slapstick, however, which give the film a bit of energy toward the end. What they really needed were a few relaxed, extended scenes where they could do the kind of leisurely-paced routines that they did better than anyone else.

Produced by Sol Wurtzel's "B" unit at Fox, it is sloppily constructed with a plodding script which works against the lightness and relaxed pacing that marked their best work. The team would go on to make marginally better films for the studio, though none of them approached the quality that they had achieved with Hal Roach.

The Crazy World of Laurel and Hardy (1967)

A feature-length compilation of highlights from Laurel and Hardy's films, produced by Jay Ward and written by Bill Scott, and obviously modeled on Robert Youngson's anthologies, such as The Golden Age of Comedy and Laurel and Hardy's Laughing '20s. With its more focused approach and drawing on fresh material, it actually works a bit better than the later Youngsons, since the narration (by Garry Moore) is less intrusive and Jerry Fielding's music score is a bit more effective. It also makes good use of clips from the sound shorts, albeit with new underscoring and sound effects (and in some cases, voice dubbing of supporting players!)

Working with the cooperation of Hal Roach Jr. and Raymond Rohauer, Ward and Scott were able to gain access to clips that had not been previously used in any of the Youngson compilations, most notably the silent Bacon Grabbers, as well as highlights from numerous sound shorts and features, including extensive extracts from The Music Box, Towed in a Hole, Way Out West, The Bohemian Girl, and Swiss Miss, which represent some of Laurel and Hardy's very best work. Though there's nothing new here that won't be familiar to long-time Laurel and Hardy fans, it's nevertheless a sincere tribute and a solid collection of some of the team's best scenes.

Book Review: "The Films of D.W. Griffith" by Scott Simmon

A superb survey of the types of films Griffith was making during his creatively fertile tenure at Biograph, Scott Simmon's "The Films of D.W. Griffith" (Cambridge University Press, 1993) is rich in analysis and scope. After a chapter situating Griffith within both American culture and film history, Simmon devotes four chapters to specific themes within Griffith's work: the urban spaces of his city dramas, the role of female characters in the "woman's pictures", family honor in The Birth of a Nation and other Civil War pictures, and, finally, the role of film as a tool of reform, in relation to Intolerance.

In dealing with Griffith's overwhelming 450-plus film output, Simmon takes a wise approach in discussing one representative film per each year of his Biograph period (1908-1913). This allows for a thoughtful examination, not only in terms of the themes Simmon discusses, but how Griffith's approach to those themes changed or remained consistent over the first five years of his directorial career. Included is a convenient listing of all the titles Simmon discusses in the book, which provides a good starting point for readers to study this vast period of Griffith's career in greater detail. Thankfully, Griffith is unique among early filmmakers in that nearly all of his output (with the exception of maybe ten or so films) survives, making it easier to have something closer to a comprehensive survey of his work than is possible for other filmmakers of the era.

A Child of the Ghetto (1910)

One-reel melodrama, one of hundreds directed by D.W. Griffith during his time at the Biograph company. The plot is fairly simple: a young Jewish girl, living and struggling to find work in the crowded conditions of New York's Lower East Side, is falsely accused of theft. She eludes the police by riding a streetcar out to the country, where she meets a kindly young farmer who takes her in. By coincidence, the policeman and his friend head out to the country to do some fishing on the weekend, and end up stopping at the farmhouse where the girl is now hiding. The policeman recognizes her, but, after taking a long look at her, has a change of heart and decides to let her go.

As Scott Simmon notes in "The Films of D.W. Griffith", the film plays on the commonly-explored contrast between the poverty and squalor of the big city, and the idyllic, pastoral country. Griffith's use of contrasting locations is handled effectively enough, but what makes the film really remarkable is the shot (reproduced above) taken on Rivington St. in New York, apparently with a concealed camera. The actor playing the policeman (George Nichols) moves about the actual crowd, with the young boy on the right reacting to the "officer's" presence after he has passed by.

Griffith's impeccable eye for detail and composition resulted in some impressive re-creations of urban street scenes noted for their high degree of realism, in such film as The Musketeers of Pig Alley and Intolerance. Here, though, Griffith uses the real thing -- and it creates a powerful moment of authenticity that breathes with life.

"Young Indiana Jones" and D.W. Griffith

One of the delights of George Lucas' Young Indiana Jones Chronicles was that its creators had an obvious love of the movies that was apparent throughout the series, which was unusually cinematic for a television program at that time. One of the later made-for-TV movies, Young Indiana Jones and the Hollywood Follies (1994) was built entirely around Indy's brush with silent era Hollywood, being tasked by Irving Thalberg to keep Erich von Stroheim's Foolish Wives from going over-budget, and joining John Ford and his company on location during the shooting of a Western. This episode was clearly made by people with a real knowledge of the historical figures, places and films of old Hollywood.

But earlier in the series, in the first two-part episode that aired in 1992, there is another silent film reference to be found. The episode, "The Curse of the Jackal", involved Indy traveling south of the border on spring break from college, and getting mixed up with Pancho Villa and his troops. In one scene, following a violent raid, the revolutionaries attend a movie to unwind. Indy is on hand to provide translation of the subtitles for the men, who are moved to tears by the tender love story, set against the backdrop of the Civil War, that is unfolding on screen before them in flickering, black and white images accompanied by a tinkling piano.

The movie is D.W. Griffith's The Battle, which he made for the Biograph company in 1911 and was one of a number of films the director made dealing with the subject of the Civil War. The actors in the shot above are Charles West, a leading man at Biograph who would continue acting in bit parts until 1940; and Blanche Sweet, who was a favorite leading lady of Griffith's during this period, appearing in such films as The Massacre and Judith of Bethulia.

The premise of The Battle involves a young soldier in the Union army who is separated from his girlfriend when he is called to march into war. During the fighting, he becomes panic-stricken, deserts his fellow soldiers, and seeks refuge in the girl's house. She laughs at him and brands him a coward, but when the boy sees his comrades facing almost certain defeat at the hands of the enemy, he summons up the courage to go back to fight, commandeering a supply wagon and delivering the troops with the ammunition they need to win the battle. In the end, he is reunited with the girl and recognized for his bravery.

Overall, it is a fairly routine melodrama, one of many of its kind that Griffith turned out during this period of his career. It is mainly of interest for some well-staged battle scenes that play like a kind of warm-up for The Birth of a Nation. I had seen the clip of the film used in the Young Indiana Jones episode years before I saw the actual film in its entirety; when I finally did, I recognized it instantly, and was reminded of the attention to historical detail that made the Young Indiana Jones Chronicles such a rewarding program to watch.

I wonder if Pancho Villa and his men ever actually saw the film?

Sullivan's Travels (1941)

Probably Preston Sturges' best-known film, though not necessarily the funniest or finest comedy he made during his brilliant streak of hits at Paramount from 1940-44. Engagingly acted by Joel McCrea and Veronica Lake, ably supported by Sturges' famous stock company of expert character actors, the film is at times quite uneven in tone, veering between fast-paced satirical farce and surprisingly dark moments of violence and grim social realism for a comedy.

The dramatic scenes make for some of the most self-consciously stylized moments in all of Sturges' filmography, particularly the courtroom sequence, in which McCrea is swiftly sentenced to a prison term while in a dazed and confused state, and the sequence in the Southern black church, where the chain gang inmates have been invited to join the congregation for a movie night, and the entire audience breaks down laughing hysterically at a Disney cartoon.

Where the film becomes problematic is in the heavy-handedness and contradiction of its message, that laughter is the most important thing of all to those who have nothing else ("It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan," McCrea intones somberly at the film's conclusion). Sturges' point seems to be a bit more complex than that, and he offers as much an indictment of self-righteous Hollywood types who want to change the world instead of producing entertainment. But if Sturges' personal philosophy is indeed that laughter is the best medicine, and that Hollywood should stick to entertaining the masses rather than delivering a message, then his explicit dealing with that message here can't help but seem a bit hypocritical.

He Walked By Night (1948)

An atmospheric, tightly-paced police procedural, directed by Alfred Werker and an uncredited Anthony Mann, and groundbreaking at the time for its use of actual events from the case files of the LAPD. The plot follows the investigation into the murder of a policeman, and the search for the killer, an ex-police radio operator who uses his knowledge of the department's operations to stay one step ahead of the cops. Well-acted by Richard Basehart, Scott Brady, Roy Roberts and Jack Webb (whose own, later procedural TV series "Dragnet" was inspired by this film). It remains one of the best post-war police dramas, thanks largely to Basehart's intense performance as the criminal, its extensive use of LA locations (most memorably the complex underground sewer system, which is used quite effectively in the film's climactic chase sequence), and for its stunning, high-contrast B&W photography by the great John Alton. One of the best films of its kind.

The Bribe (1949)

High-gloss, late-studio era film noir from MGM, about a Federal agent (Robert Taylor) sent to South America to arrest a group of crooks who have been defrauding the government by selling recycled war plane motors on the black market. When he arrives in the town of Carlota, he gets involved with a sultry, mysterious nightclub singer (Ava Gardner), who happens to be married to the chief suspect in his investigation.

This is one of those films that is so well-made at every level, with such care and precision typical of the studio system, that every strand of hair, every bead of sweat seems to be arranged perfectly in its place. Yet this does not detract from its dark and menacing tone. Directed by longtime MGM stalwart Robert Z. Leonard, it's a highly effective mystery-thriller, greatly aided by the performances of Vincent Price and Charles Laughton as the villains. This is not one of Laughton's greatest roles, but he still does his usually fine job as the fat, pathetic crook who has turned to crime just to get by.

Even at 98 minutes, the plot drags a bit at times, though it is consistently entertaining, with nice cinematography by Joseph Ruttenberg and an atmospheric (if at times a little too busy) score by Miklos Rosza. The highlight is a climactic showdown between Taylor and Price amidst a shower of fireworks, a visually stunning set-piece, though it is Laughton who quietly walks away with the film's great, last line.

The Man on the Eiffel Tower (1949)

Enjoyable, light mystery, starring Charles Laughton as Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret. Laughton as Maigret is inspired casting, but unfortunately he is hindered by weaknesses in the script and direction. It is highly uneven; there is much that works, but just as much that doesn't. The improbable plot involves a man, torn between his mistress and his wife, who wants to see his aunt killed in order to collect an inheritance. The murder is carried out by a stranger who perhaps seems a little too eager to help, and it soon becomes clear that the killer sees it all as something of a sport, as he manipulates the different parties involved in a kind of intellectual gamesmanship.

Franchot Tone (who also produced) is superb as the somewhat fey, coldly intellectual criminal mastermind who leads Maigret on a merry chase, throwing out red herrings and false flags to trip up the inspector in his investigation, but whose own cunning proves to be his undoing. Burgess Meredith (who also directed) is the timid, poor man framed for murder, and brings a certain amount of pathos to the part of the man trapped in circumstances beyond his control. Laughton does his usual fine job as Maigret, but because of the shortcomings of the script, is reduced to often playing the role as an eyeball-popping, sputtering caricature, rather than being able to really mine the part for the little bits of character business that could have made this one of his great roles.

Then there is the City of Paris itself, photographed in the Anscocolor process by the great Stanley Cortez (though the photography is not well-served in existing prints of the film, which are quite faded and battered). Treated like a picture-postcard version of the city, Cortez isn't given the opportunity to do much more than capture the surface-level beauty of the city, especially around the River Seine and the Eiffel Tower. But it fails to move beyond this kind of "tourist's" perspective of familiar landmarks.

This is typified by the climax, a thrilling chase atop the Eiffel Tower, in which the characters clamber over the majestic structure like a massive jungle gym. While undoubtedly impressive at a purely visual level, the use of the Eiffel Tower feels arbitrary. It is tempting to speculate what a more skilled director could have done with the scene. There are certainly some suspenseful moments, but by this point in the film, there is too little invested in either the plot or the characters for the outcome to be of much concern to anyone, and is not helped by clunky staging and slack editing. The entire sequence ends rather weakly and anti-climactically, too, as if the filmmakers couldn't think of what to do when the characters finally reached the top of the tower. And, as in other scenes, Laughton is too often given little to do beyond sit by and watch the proceedings.

In the right hands, THE MAN ON THE EIFFEL TOWER could have probably emerged as a very effective mystery and even a minor classic of its kind. As it is, there are too many problems in the script and direction that keep it from ever being much more than a trifling, if nicely-photographed, diversion.

Cecil B. Demented (2000)

Very funny satire from John Waters skewering both the shallowness of Hollywood and the clichéd pretensions of guerilla/underground filmmakers. The premise involves a group of "cinema terrorists" called The Sprocket Holes who kidnap an A-list Hollywood movie star and force her to perform in their underground film, in which they rage against the Hollywood machine.

The satire here is more on-point and biting than in Waters' rather genial and tepid kidding of the New York art world in PECKER. Its characters are also less sweet and good-natured, but they're also a lot more fun to spend time with. Cecil B. Demented, the self-proclaimed "ultimate auteur", is played by Stephen Dorff in an incredible tour-de-force performance that never misses a beat, and he plays the part with the perfect amount of conviction, which makes the wildly over-the-top dialogue he's given all the funnier. He's supported by a fine cast including Alicia Witt, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Adrian Grenier, and many others who are given highly eccentric, richly-defined characters that they can really sink their teeth into. Melanie Griffith does a splendid job in her caricature of the self-centered, spoiled movie star, and convincingly portrays her transformation to cult celebrity when she realizes her career is quickly fading. Griffith really gets into the spirit of the absurd proceedings, and it is her performance that holds the film together.

Waters certainly seems to identify with Cecil and his merry band of cinematic misfits (they have the names of directors such as Warhol, Kenneth Anger, William Castle, and others tattooed on themselves), but he also presents them as ludicrously misguided in their crusade against Hollywood, such as the moment when Cecil admonishes his crew not to sully their talents with financial success, their taking vows of "celibacy for celluloid" until the film is finished, and their rather limp, pathetic climactic showdown against the police and moviegoers at the Bengies' Drive-in, in which the remaining members of the gang celebrate the wrap of their film by immediately having sex in front of the stunned crowd. Waters seems to be taking digs at those who take the idea of cinematic revolution a little too seriously.

Waters gets in some great digs at the local film scene, too, especially in the scenes with Cecil and his gang kidnapping Griffith at a fundraiser event being held at the Senator Theater, infiltrating a Maryland Film Commission luncheon at Harborplace, and creating chaos on the set of a fictional filmed-in-Baltimore FORREST GUMP sequel ("Gump Again") starring Kevin Nealon. It's also a lot of fun to see the various local movie theaters, especially the old Hippodrome in its pre-restoration phase. The satire of the movie business circa 2000 is understandably rather dated now (though the jokes about idiotic remakes and ill-conceived high concept pictures are just as relevant as ever), but it also serves as an interesting time capsule of that moment in the late 90s and early 2000s when there was a resurgence of interest in underground/DIY filmmaking.

While it doesn't rank with Waters' best work, it's still a great deal of fun, helped immeasurably by the excellent performances of Griffith and Dorff, mixed together with the outrageous charm of Waters' comic sensibility, and holds up as perhaps the best of his post-SERIAL MOM movies.

Up in Smoke (1978)

Cheech & Chong's first screen vehicle is a loose and episodic affair, but one with plenty of laughs for those who enjoy their distinct brand of comedy. It was wisely decided to translate their humor to the screen with little interference or changes to their characters or comedy style (not surprising, as Cheech and Chong wrote the script). The direction by Lou Adler -- who produced the team's comedy records -- is unobtrusive and generally effective enough, though it's perhaps a little too loose at times, with some scenes going on a little past their worth and dragging the pace a little. For the most part, though, the sprawling and ambling structure works -- it's certainly in keeping with the burnt-out, anything-goes nature of the comedy. Among the supporting cast, Stacy Keach does a fine job as the hot tempered, wildly exasperated narcotics officer on the trail of a massive pot smuggling operation, and Strother Martin and Edie Adams have a brief but memorable turn as Chong's parents. All in all, it's infectious, silly, good-natured fun, extremely vulgar but never mean-spirited, and almost certainly the best and funniest of the Cheech and Chong comedies.

After Hours (1985)

Dark, offbeat comedy, intriguingly directed by Martin Scorsese, right after the dark, offbeat KING OF COMEDY. Scorsese was not the original choice to direct the film, and it shows: it bears little of his style, and seems to call for a director who would be more in touch with the absurd elements of the script. Tim Burton was apparently originally considered to direct, and it's tempting to think about what he would have done with the material, with a more self-consciously stylized approach and even an animator's sensibilities. As it is, the film's "look" is an uneasy mix of realism and fantasy. Though shot on location in New York, the city's streets have never looked more like a backlot set.

Griffin Dunne stars as a New York office worker who gets sucked into one crazy night of nightmarish events in downtown Manhattan, which begins when he goes to the apartment of a young woman whom he'd made a date with earlier that evening. From there, things spiral out of control, and his efforts to take care of one problem invariably leads to another one. Before long, all he wants to do is to get home, but this proves to be far more difficult than he could have ever expected.

The cast of characters that he meets along the way include Rosanna Arquette, Teri Garr, John Heard, Catherine O'Hara, Linda Fiorentino, Verna Bloom and the always-wonderful Cheech & Chong, who effortlessly walk away with the film's funniest moments as a pair of bumbling burglars. The talented cast really makes the film work, adding immeasurable value with their vivid and quirky characterizations.

Interiors (1978)

Woody Allen's first dramatic film is a fascinating if flawed work, admirable in many ways but frustrating in others, especially in his self-conscious stylistic aping of Ingmar Bergman after the delightfully original and fresh ANNIE HALL. There is much potential in the script to explore the dynamics between the family, greatly enhanced by the fine performances of the entire cast, but too often it is unwilling to explore the characters and situations fully, instead becoming devoid of serious insight, and falling back on stilted and cliched dialogue that comes dangerously close to being an unintentional parody of the brooding, moody Scandinavian art films that provide the model here.

The problem is that Allen, in his first dramatic effort, seems to equate seriousness with unrelenting pessimism and bleakness. The characters could be more human if he'd permitted them moments of happiness or humor. It is telling that perhaps the most sympathetic character, played by Maureen Stapleton, is the only one who exhibits any sense of humor, and is looked upon with disdain by the other characters for her cheerful vulgarity.

Still, there are some moments of real beauty, particularly in Gordon Willis' photography of the Southampton beachfront house. It remains one of Allen's most interesting films purely in terms of his use of the physical screen space, providing a palpable sense of depth and space in the film's indoor locations.

Annie Hall (1977)

Woody Allen's masterpiece. Funny, poignant, bittersweet and often painfully honest, it represents the summation of everything Allen had learned as both performer and filmmaker in the previous decade. The unique cinematic structure, part New Wave and part standup comedy routine, plays like a masterful jazz riff on a theme. Co-written by Allen and Marshall Brickman, the script is tightly-packed with enough gags and one-liners for several films. Allen and Keaton were never better, and they are ably supported by a fine ensemble cast (especially Carol Kane, Shelley Duvall, Colleen Dewhurst and Christopher Walken) that make each of their characters unique and well-defined even in their limited screen time.

One appreciates more than ever the value that Allen's collaborators, particularly editor Ralph Rosenblum and cameraman Gordon Willis, brought to the project. Willis' cinematography here ranks with the very best work he ever did, because it is so deceptively simple, unlike the later MANHATTAN or STARDUST MEMORIES, which dazzle with their shimmering black-and-white images. His work here need only be compared with the photography in Allen's recent efforts, which is too often strikingly flat and bland, in order to really appreciate what Willis brought to the table. The editing is equally masterful in its way, never allowing scenes to linger needlessly past their natural ending point, an essential contribution given the riff-like structure Allen is working in here.

It's a pity Allen did not continue to develop this cinematic style further. His following films would become either more stylistically subdued (HANNAH AND HER SISTERS), or, too often, self-consciously derivative (STARDUST MEMORIES, ZELIG). In ANNIE HALL, he struck the perfect balance between his earlier nightclub- and standup-infused structure, and a greater formal sophistication that marked his best mature work, and placed him firmly in the pantheon of the great screen comedians.

Le Roi des Champs-Elysees (1934)

Following the disastrous and crushing end of his association with MGM in 1933, Buster Keaton appeared in this film in France for producer Seymour Nebenzal. On the surface, it might seem that such a project -- a Hollywood star, on hard times, accepting work in a foreign picture -- would be a step down for a star of Keaton's magnitude. For even following his period of fertile creative independence during the 1920s, his talking films for MGM -- while certainly a far cry from the brilliant work he'd been doing just years earlier -- still did well at the box office. Audiences had not forgotten his immense talents, even if studio executives seemed to. But there were Keaton's personal and professional problems behind the scenes that really came to a head in 1933, contributing to his swift downfall and acrimonious departure from MGM, which must have made his fall from grace seem all the more devastating, then.

But Keaton was very much what the entertainment industry now calls a "survivor". Where others might see a comedown, Keaton saw opportunity. Le Roi des Champs-Elysees is, at its best, a whimsical, visual comedy that contains much of the old Keaton magic. It is the tale of a hapless young man, Buster Garner, who lives with his mother and bounces from job to job trying to make something of himself. His most recent endeavor involves posing as a millionaire, in top hat and tails, and walking down the Champs-Elysees passing out bills of money that are actually coupons for a large company. However, when he accidentally gives away a stack of five million francs  -- set aside to cover the company's debts -- he is quickly fired. In the process of passing out the money, he has inadvertently saved a young woman from eviction, for which she is eternally grateful. Her sudden appearance at an outdoor cafe, where Buster has planned to consume poison in order to put an end to his failures, rejuvenates Buster's will to live, and he sets out to make good. As in most of Keaton's films, the girl is merely a plot device, their "romance" another goal that he works toward accomplishing throughout the film. Though the circumstances of their meeting and subsequent encounter at the cafe are played with a degree of pathos and sympathy uncharacteristic of Keaton, their remaining scenes underline the arbitrary nature of the relationship, as there seems to be little doubt (and therefore little dramatic tension) over the fact that Buster has already earned the girl's affection (their first kiss even causes Buster to display one of his very rare on-screen smiles!)

Fortunately for Buster, his mother works as a prompter in a local theater, and gets him a job in the company as a bit player in a prison drama. This leads to another set of complications, however, as Buster is the exact double of crime boss Jim La Balafre (Keaton, in a dual role), who has just escaped from jail and is waiting near the theater to be picked up by his old gang. Predictably, the two get switched, and Buster finds himself trapped in Jim's elaborate hideout. The last half of the film deals with the clever mix-ups and confusions that the appearance of the exact doubles cause for the gangster's moll and henchmen. When Jim finally discovers the inconvenient doppelganger, Buster has to escape with his life intact, and make it back to the theater in time to deliver his line in the play.

This plot has echoes of a number of Keaton's earlier films. The whole case of Buster being mistaken for a criminal formed the plot of his 1921 two-reeler The Goat. The criminal element also recalls the gangsters and crooks in his earlier two-reelers The High Sign and The Haunted House, as well as the features Sherlock Jr. and Spite Marriage. Indeed, with its elaborate passageways, trapdoors and revolving walls, the criminal lair here is strongly reminiscent of the similar contraptions in the gang's hideout from The High Sign. Keaton demonstrates his remarkable physical skill and timing in these scenes, proving that he had not lost the dexterity that he had used to such astonishing effect in his silent classics, and which had only been too rarely allowed to show itself in his MGM talkies. There is also some really impressive trick photography, too, with the two Busters appearing in the same frame. It is far more sophisticated than similar split-screen effects used in Hollywood films of the time, enhanced by expert editing, and more than once I had to pause and re-watch a certain shot to try and figure out how it was accomplished.

The film also gives Keaton a chance to demonstrate what a really fine actor he was. In essaying a dual role, he gets the chance to play both his usual characterization of the aimless young man, slightly befuddled by the world around him but always able to resourcefully adapt to the obstacles the universe puts in his way, and an uncharacteristically tough "heavy" role of the crime boss. In this latter role, Keaton achieves a striking balance in making the character both genuinely menacing but also funny, such as the moment he runs and clips his head on a rising gate, knocking him flat on his back -- an impressive bit of slapstick played with Keaton's typical flourish.

As "Buster", Keaton's character is a bit older and slower than his screen incarnation of a decade earlier, but still possesses the grace and poetic movement that defined his character. He certainly appears to be in better condition here than he had in his past couple MGM films, though his face is visibly aged and worn. He still moves with the youthful zeal and energy, though, which makes his portrayal of the bumbling boob funny rather than pathetic. Interestingly, because his lines are dubbed by a French actor, there is a disconnect between Keaton's body and his voice. This has the effect of showing how superfluous speech really is in Keaton's comedy, and distancing the audience from the unfamiliar voice while simultaneously focusing our attention on his inimitable physicality. The dubbing can be distracting at times but because so much of the performance is purely physical, it scarcely matters.

There are some wonderful moments taking place behind the scenes in the theater, including Buster getting caught on a set that rises to the top of the stage, swinging across the stage on a rope and disrupting the act, and the final on-stage melee between Buster and the gangsters, all of which recall the backstage antics of his earlier shorts The Playhouse and Daydreams, as well as his MGM features Spite Marriage and Speak Easily, both of which involve Buster inadvertently wrecking a show.

The best scenes, however, take place in the very opening of the film, in which Buster parades down the Champs-Elysees, dressed as a millionaire, throwing away wads of cash. His movements, not to mention the behavior of throwing away money, immediately create a funny contrast with his the station and status implied by his fancy costume. It is just that: a costume. We immediately wonder who this empty-headed millionaire really is. Keaton's appearance and behavior immediately bring to mind his turns as wealthy idlers in films such as The Saphead, The Navigator, and Battling Butler, where he drew a sharp, comic contrast between the character's apparent stupidity and helplessness, and the resourcefulness and cleverness with which he triumphed over adversity when confronted with it for the first time. Here, however, it soon becomes apparent that Buster is no millionaire, he's simply playing one for the sake of a publicity campaign. Like his theatrical role, and like his being mistaken for the crime boss, it is just another part he must play.

Ultimately, this is a comedy of identity, or rather multiple identities, with Buster forced to play many roles and succeed at each one in order to achieve success.

Book Review: "The Marx Brothers: Their World of Comedy" by Allen Eyles

I was first introduced to Allen Eyles' writing on the Marx Bros. with his book "The Complete Films of the Marx Bros.", one of the late entries in Citadel's "Films of" series. His book was more involved than most in that series, providing in-depth analysis of each of the Marx Bros. films (rather than just the customary credits, synopses, and reviews as so many others did). I was delighted to learn that Eyles had written an earlier book on the team, which I finally tracked down a copy of a couple months ago at my local used bookstore.

"The Marx Brothers: Their World of Comedy" takes a quite similar approach as "The Complete Films of the Marx Bros." in providing critical analyses of each of their movies from THE COCOANUTS (1929) through LOVE HAPPY (1949), and indeed some of the sections of this book seem to have been adapted into the entries on the films in the later book. However, the level of analysis is, overall, deeper here, as Eyles thoughtfully examines the routines and gags of each film, providing real insight into the team's humor and how it works without getting lost in the mire of trying to explain why it's funny.

Eyles deserves much credit for giving equal attention to all of the films, not just the acclaimed classics like DUCK SOUP and A NIGHT AT THE OPERA, but also such lesser efforts as ROOM SERVICE and LOVE HAPPY. In his analysis of the former, Eyles is especially interested in detailing the differences between the film and the stage play on which it was based, as well as examining where the film falls short as a Marx Bros. vehicle. And in writing on the latter film, he offers a nice appreciation of how the film serves as a showcase for Harpo's talents, despite its other shortcomings.

Even when I found myself disagreeing with Eyles (for example, he really likes THE COCOANUTS, and considers its comedy scenes, when taken as a whole, superior to those in ANIMAL CRACKERS, which I consider to be one of the very strongest comdies), I am still drawn in by his superb writing and commentary that allow me to look at these old favorite films, which I've seen countless times, in a fresh light.

Some readers may find Eyles' writing style a bit dry or clinical in talking about this madcap comedy team, but the seriousness of his approach is certainly warranted given the brilliant insights he reveals about their work. He avoids a straightforward research approach, which may disappoint readers looking for facts about the performers or production histories behind the films. However, with his thoughtful and interesting analysis of these rich and delightful comedies, the book stands as one of the essential works on the Marx Bros.

Book Review: "The Comic Mind" by Gerald Mast

An excellent survey of screen comedy, from the earliest turn-of-the-century filmed comedy sketches through the films of the 1960s. Mast is less interested in a purely historical survey of names, facts and dates, instead undertaking a thorough and insightful critical analysis of key comedy performers, filmmakers and styles. The emphasis here is on comic film artists who did used the medium in unique ways or exerted some level of creative influence and control over their films. Thus there are no chapters on performers like Abbott and Costello, Bob Hope or Wheeler and Woolsey, for example.

The geniuses of silent comedy are well-covered here, with individual chapters on the great clown-filmmakers Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd and Langdon. While some silent comedy aficionados might see the emphasis on these four giants as limiting and redundant, Mast provides deep insight into their work, and is primarily interested discussing these comic artists in terms of their distinctive cinematic styles. Mast does look briefly at other distinctive film clowns like Douglas Fairbanks, Charley Chase and Larry Semon who made their mark on the medium. There are also discussions of the "fun factories" of such comedy producers and visionaries as Mack Sennett, Hal Roach and Al Christie.

The chapters on silent comedy rank alongside Walter Kerr's "The Silent Clowns" and James Agee's essay "Comedy's Greatest Era" as one of the finest critical surveys of that period. Mast is perhaps less eloquent than either Kerr and Agee in his descriptions of the clowns and their personalities, but he is highly perceptive in describing what makes the films of Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd and Langdon both incredibly funny and deeply profound.

Moving on to the sound era, Mast provides a thoughtful analysis of the principles of sound comedy before moving on to such masters of the form as Ernst Lubitsch, Rene Clair and Jean Renoir. He presents an interesting contrast in how Lubitsch and Clair use sound and image together in different but equally effective ways, and provides some much-welcome insight into Renoir's often-overlooked gifts for comedy. Mast then discusses three main modes of screen comedy in the sound era. First is the Dialogue tradition, represented by the great writer-directors like Leo McCarey, Preston Sturges and Billy Wilder. Mast also examines how directors such as Capra and Hawks imposed their distinctive directorial styles on writer- and script-dominated comedies.

Next is the Clown tradition, which examines how the distinctive personalities of performers such as W.C. Fields and the Marx Bros. shaped their films. Mast's observations on the Marx Bros. are particularly astute, differentiating between the invisible, intentionally artless filmic style they achieved under skillful craftsmen like Norman McLeod and Leo McCarey in their final three Paramount films, and the uninspired and clunky theatrical approach of their first two films for the studio. It's easy to mistake the plain and unassuming style of films like MONKEY BUSINESS, HORSE FEATHERS and DUCK SOUP for a lack of cinematic imagination, but it is in fact perfectly suited to what the Marx Bros. and their directors worked so hard to achieve. For example, a deliberately elegant style would be at odds with the roughness and anarchy of the humor of these films. Similarly, he argues that the more showy style of their first two MGM films essentially works against their comedy.

It is worth noting here that unlike the silent comedians discussed earlier, who were often heavily involved in the direction, writing and producing of their own pictures, these sound comedians rarely had such clear, direct creative control over their films due to hierarchical differences under the studio system. Thus, the films of clowns like W.C. Fields and the Marx Bros. have posed a special problem for critics (especially those trained in the auteurist approach) in determining the ways in which the performer could exert their personality on the film style even when they were not credited with the script or direction (although Fields wrote the stories for a number of his films under his variety of comic pseudonyms, and Mast takes the unique stance that Fields' films for Universal -- rather than Paramount -- represent his greatest and freest work since he was given greater independence in writing the screenplays). Mast does an admirable job of dealing with these films in terms of how the comedians were able to exercise varying degrees of creative control, both through their choice in collaborators and through shaping the cinematic style to suit their comic persona.

Finally, in the Ironic tradition, Mast discusses a select sampling of comedies -- including Max Ophuls' LA RONDE, Ingmar Bergman's SMILES OF A SUMMER NIGHT, and Stanley Kubrick's DOCTOR STRANGELOVE -- and how they work to subvert expectations and provide humor through their ironic comment on human behavior. Mast concludes the book with a thoughtful consideration of comedy's importance within the arts.

"The Comic Mind" is a thorough and perceptive survey of film comedy, and is certainly essential reading for anyone with an interest in the subject.

Reference:
Mast, Gerald. The Comic Mind: Comedy and the Movies. Indianapolis and New York: The Bobbs-Merrill Company Inc., 1974.

White Heat (1949)

The last of the classic Warner Bros. gangster pictures, with James Cagney in his meanest, toughest role as a tortured, psychotic killer whose only friend his mother. His Cody Jarrett seems interested in a life of crime primarily in that it allows him to kill people, which he does so frequently and without remorse; the money and rewards from the various jobs he pulls off are almost secondary. Virginia Mayo as his wife is at once conniving and sympathetic as she tries to find an escape from Cody's sadistic control. Edmond O'Brien is the undercover cop who ingratiates himself with Cody while in prison, infiltrating his gang and eventually leading to the gangster's downfall. The climactic shoot-out in a nocturnal, brightly-lit California oil refinery is a visually stunning set-piece that reaches a fever pitch under Raoul Walsh's masterful direction and recalls his expertly-staged stand-offs in films such as HIGH SIERRA and COLORADO TERRITORY. It's also an interesting study in contrasts of style and genre, a key transitional film between the classic Depression-era gangster films and the post-war crime dramas, with Cagney giving his old gangster persona a terrifying new psychological dimension, and as much emphasis on the procedures used by the police to bring the criminal to justice.

Behind Stone Walls (1932)

Ludicrous, improbable drama, with silent screen star Priscilla Dean as a district attorney's wife involved in an affair with another man, whom she kills after he wants to end the affair. Her lawyer son confesses to the murder in order to protect her, but when the case comes to trial, the son finds himself prosecuted by his own father. After the son is sentenced to life in prison, the victim's butler sets out to blackmail the DA's wife, whom he knows is the true killer.

With its funereal pacing and total lack of cinematic imagination, the film is only of interest as one of the very few examples of Dean's sound film work. One of Universal's biggest stars of the early '20s, by the middle of that decade her career had already slumped to the point where she was working in two-reel comedies for Hal Roach. Her performance here seems unsure and rather awkward, not helped by the clumsy, preposterous script, stilted dialogue and uninspired direction, though there are still glimmers in her screen presence of the qualities that had made her a star a decade earlier.

Babes in Toyland (1961)

Walt Disney's slick, overproduced adaptation of the Victor Herbert operetta is a charmless and lifeless affair, devoid of any sense of fun despite the obvious resources poured in to its production, directed with all the sincerity of a network TV commercial. Despite his superficial attempts to re-create the magic of the classic 1934 Hal Roach production with Laurel and Hardy, Disney's version falls far short. Its drawn out, loud musical numbers (featuring unnecessary new and updated material in addition to the Herbert originals), candy-colored, garish sets and costumes, and overblown special effects are merely a distraction from the absence of genuine charm and heart that made the earlier version such a favorite.

That Disney obviously modeled his production on the Roach version can be seen most glaringly in his Laurel and Hardy substitutes played by Henry Calvin and Gene Sheldon, who pale in comparison with the real thing. Calvin does at least a serviceable job as the corpulent, gentlemanly Hardy stand-in, while Sheldon, ostensibly meant to resemble Laurel, rather brings to mind a weird cross between Harry Langdon and Harpo Marx in his mute, zany characterization. To be fair, they try their best with the material they are given, but it is, of course, an impossible and utterly pointless task to try and re-create the chemistry or comedy genius of Laurel and Hardy.

Annette Funicello and Tommy Sands, as the romantic leads, lack any of the innocent charm of Charlotte Henry and Felix Knight. Indeed, Sands' wooden performance as Tom makes Knight's performance in the original seem positively dynamic in comparison! The only real standout in the cast is the wonderful Ray Bolger as Barnaby, but even he lacks the real sense of menace and over-the-top villainy so superbly acted by Henry Brandon in the original. Bolger is clearly having a lot of fun with the role, and demonstrates his fine singing and dancing skills, but he is such a likable, delightful performer that he just can't seem to muster up the threatening tone that the role requires in order to be really effective. Ed Wynn as the bumbling, bombastic Toymaker is amusing enough doing his usual comic shtick, and at least adds a bit of fun to the proceedings with his presence.

The finale, with the parade of the wooden soldiers, has none of the dramatic urgency of the corresponding sequence in the Hal Roach version, and by the time it finally occurs, feels like just one more overdone special effects set piece (even lacking the quaint charm of Roy Seawright's stop-motion effects in the original). Compared to Hal Roach's timeless classic, which continues to delight new audiences 80 years after its release, the Disney version is instantly dated camp, with its concessions to contemporary fashion.

Luke's Movie Muddle (1916)

Typically rough, knockabout early Harold Lloyd "Lonesome Luke" one-reeler, with Luke running a movie house. The cinema setting provides a fun backdrop for the comedy, with Luke finding time to flirt with his pretty female customers while interacting with a parade of eccentric moviegoers who cause him no end of trouble.

Snub Pollard -- Lloyd's frequent co-star in these early comedies and later a star in his own right -- lends fine comic support as the projectionist, and there is a clever moment when Pollard furiously overcranks the projector, causing the film-within-the-film to race by breathlessly. Generally, though, the gags feel routine and uninspired, showing no real flashes of the brilliant construction that would mark Lloyd's mature work. Lloyd was cranking these comedies out at a staggering rate while still learning the craft and developing his character. He was still basically aping Chaplin at this stage of his career; despite superficial differences (a split mustache, a loose-fitting jacket), many of the mannerisms and gestures are reminiscent of Chaplin. It would be another year or so before he'd find the character that was to become his trademark, and another year or two after that before he really found his style as both a performer and filmmaker. Early shorts like this provided Lloyd with his training ground, and can still hold surprises in their fast-and-furious gagging.

Six of a Kind (1934)

Delightfully zany, madcap comedy that serves as a vehicle for no less than six fine comic talents, the charming domestic comedy of Charlie Ruggles and Mary Boland, the verbal nonsense of George Burns and Gracie Allen, and the great character humor of W.C. Fields and Alison Skipworth. For its freewheeling, loose 62 minute running time, the plot is actually rather complicated: Bank clerk Ruggles and his wife Boland are setting off by car on their second honeymoon, and have advertised for another couple to travel with them to help share expenses. To their horror, they get stuck with Burns and Allen, who intend on riding with them all the way to California and proceed to turn the trip into a nightmare. Meanwhile, a fellow bank clerk has stolen a small fortune and smuggled it out of the bank in Ruggles' suitcase, and follows the couple on their journey in pursuit of the loot. The characters and situations all run into one another in a small-town hotel, run by Alison Skipworth and watched over by W.C. Fields as Sheriff "Honest John" Hoxley.

This fast-paced road comedy is directed with characteristic skill by the great Leo McCarey. It's the kind of leisurely--paced comedy where the plot can be put on hold for several minutes at a time while W.C. Fields regales long-time stooge Tammany Young with his rambling story of how he came to be known as "Honest John" (due to his returning a man's lost glass eye), or while Gracie Allen explains to George Burns that her niece has three feet (since she last saw her, she grew another foot). Rather than distracting from the plot, these isolated sequences provide some of the film's biggest highlights. Even with these interludes, the pace and energy never lag thanks to McCarey's expert direction, and when the routines are this good, who cares about the story?

Although he doesn't appear till nearly the last third of the film's running time, Fields very nearly steals the picture. This film was made during the height of his creative powers at Paramount, when he was alternating between his own series of starring vehicles, and appearances in ensemble comedies in which he shared the stage with other fine talents. His assured performance provides so many really funny moments, many of which appear to have been improvised or at least suggested by Fields, that he becomes the most interesting part of the film to watch. It's a tribute to the Great Man's talents that he was able to find so much to do with this role, which amounts to little more than a supporting part, and to inject so many memorable bits of business into his scenes.

The Private Life of Don Juan (1934)

A playful, tongue-in-cheek romantic farce -- about an aging Don Juan faking his own death in order to take a rest from his romantic conquests -- directed by Alexander Korda with a deceptively light but evocative style reminiscent of both Lubitsch and Sternberg (especially THE DEVIL IS A WOMAN). Douglas Fairbanks, in his final film role, stars as the title character, and plays the legendary lover with a decidedly vigorous approach. His Don Juan is a weary, wiser take on the character, which works quite nicely here, and suits Fairbanks at this late stage of his career. It's probably Fairbanks' finest sound film performance, coming across as more relaxed and at ease than in his other talkies. He certainly exhibits the old Fairbanks charm, even if he is a perhaps a bit more subdued than usual, and still gets the chance to show off some impressive physical feats, such as leaping over a staircase railing, with incredible grace. Overall, it's a fine and fitting swan song for the great silent screen swashbuckler.

I Walked With a Zombie (1943)

A lyrical, dreamlike Gothic horror classic, exquisitely directed by Jacques Tourneur and produced with real imagination by Val Lewton. A nurse comes to the island of St. Sebastian in the West Indies, to care for the catatonic wife of a wealthy plantation owner, but it soon becomes apparent that the situation between the owner, his wife, and his young half-brother is far more complicated than it first appears. As the nurse learns more about both the family's history, and the islanders' belief in zombies and voodoo practices, she comes to believe that such a ritual may be the only hope to rescue the wife from her state of living death.

Val Lewton's B-horror films, produced for RKO in the '40s, are famous for their minimalism and their ability to conjure up real horror and suspense using the barest of elements in highly creative fashion. This may be the most effective film of the group, both for its literate screenplay (loosely based on the premise of "Jane Eyre") and for its poetic, ethereal style, evoking a dream experience that moves lucidly and mysteriously. The sequence in which the nurse and the owner's wife make the trek across the island to attend a voodoo ritual is an especially masterful exercise in atmospheric horror, with the symbols of the skulls, hollow gourd and hanging goat, the sound of the wailing wind and rustling leaves, and the contrast between light and darkness creating an unshakable sense of dread.

The Man I Love (1947)

Superb romantic musical melodrama, directed by Raoul Walsh for Warner Bros. at the peak of his career. Ida Lupino stars as a New York nightclub singer who travels to Long Beach to spend the holidays with her family but finds that they are all embroiled in their own personal dramas. She gets involved with an unscrupulous nightclub owner (Robert Alda) while falling in love with a tormented but brilliant pianist (Bruce Bennett), haunted by painful memories of his ex-wife.

THE MAN I LOVE is the work of a director who had developed his technique to a point where there is not a shot, not a single moment, out of place. It is an incredibly atmospheric piece, enhanced by the artifice of its studio-bound sets, rear projection and stylized dialogue that combine to create something really special -- a fantasy that is simultaneously grounded in realism. The mood is heightened by the evocative score, which features velvety, haunting arrangements of several pop standards (including the title song). It is a supreme example of the stylish entertainment that the Hollywood studio system, at the height of its powers, was capable of producing.

Minstrel Man (1944)

Above-average PRC musical drama about a blackface minstrel (Benny Fields) who abandons his newborn daughter after his wife dies in childbirth. He leaves the infant in the care of his best friends and disappears from her life for years until he learns that his daughter, now a teenager, is set to star in a revival of his old "Minstrel Man" show on Broadway, and is reunited with her on stage.

Aside from singing some pleasant songs by Paul Webster and Harry Revel, crooner Benny Fields does not make much of an impression in this, his only dramatic starring role. He seems ill at ease playing the dramatic scenes, though the reservation in his performance probably works to the advantage of some of the moments of high melodrama -- such as receiving the news of his wife's death, or encountering his estranged daughter -- which are actually rather nicely understated. When he's given the chance to sing though, Fields shines.

Stylishly directed by Joseph H. Lewis (who took over from Edgar G. Ulmer, who reportedly directed the first several days of filming), there are some interesting camera moves, including a particularly well-executed crane shot on a pair of dancers in the Havana sequence and an effective high-angle shot in an early theater scene. Lewis' direction is a fine example of the craftsmanship that makes even a Poverty Row quickie like this visually compelling.

The King of Comedy (1983)

Like all great satires, Martin Scorsese's THE KING OF COMEDY has only become more prescient and relevant with age. The film is partly a wry comment on the cult of celebrity, and partly a dark character study of a delusional schmuck named Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro) who imagines himself a comedy genius and whose eventual appearance on a fictional "Tonight Show"-type of program seems to embody Warhol's idea of 15 minutes of fame. "Better to be king for a night than schmuck for a lifetime", Rupert proclaims at the end of his act.

Rupert -- like all of life's losers who build their identities and derive their self-worth from basking in the reflected glory of people more successful than they (in this case, by collecting celebrity autographs) -- doesn't have much going on in his life. He lives in his mother's basement in one of the outer boroughs of New York City, where he holds imaginary conversations with cardboard-cutouts of celebrities like Liza Minnelli and Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), the host of a wildly-popular, self-titled nightly TV talk show that can make or break new comedy talent. Of course, it's pure fantasy, one that seems galaxies away from the reality of Rupert's pathetic existence. 

That is, until, fate lands him a seat in Jerry's limo after the show one night. Riding a few blocks from the studio to Jerry's apartment, Rupert takes the opportunity to pitch himself to Jerry as a potential guest for his show. In order to get rid of his personable but rather unbalanced passenger, Jerry tells Rupert to send a tape of his act to the show's producers for consideration. This chance encounter plunges Rupert into a wild fantasy in which he becomes convinced he and Jerry are best pals, and that his future as "the king of comedy" has been handed to him on a silver platter.

De Niro's performance as Pupkin strikes a masterful chord. He and Scorsese wisely avoid making him a caricature or an object of ridicule. Even when we want to laugh at his delusional behavior, ridiculous as it may be, there is a layer of real pain and sadness not deep beneath the surface. Scorsese only hints at Pupkin's past, and even what we see of his personal life is limited largely to his fantasies. His mother, for example, is only ever heard as a disembodied voice, shouting down into the basement for Rupert to go to bed or turn down his music as if he were still an adolescent boy. The most we ever learn about Rupert's childhood is, tellingly, through the anecdotes he delivers in his standup monologue, though even these -- at least one of which (involving his mother being dead for nine years) is directly contradictory to what we know -- are infused with a level of fantasy. What Rupert's jokes do reveal -- when we finally hear them -- is that he seems to use self-deprecating humor as a way of dealing with an unhappy childhood (through jokes about his abusive and alcoholic parents, bullying classmates and indifferent teachers). We get a further hint of this earlier in the film, when Rupert imagines his old high school principal publicly apologizing to him on television for the way he and the students treated Rupert.

Indeed, it seems that what Rupert wants more than anything in being famous is just to be loved and adored. Though he treats Jerry like a buddy and an old pal, it is conceivable that he could also see in him something of a father figure, someone who can give the affection and approval that Rupert has always lacked. But that would also imply that Rupert realizes he could learn something from Jerry. Instead, he seems to view Jerry purely opportunistically, as someone whose fame and fortune can rub off on him and who will get him to where he wants to be. Of course, Langford is hardly a perfect role model himself; you don't get to the top by being a nice guy. That said, Lewis and Scorsese are careful not to portray Langford merely as a belligerent jerk or egotistical bastard, which would undercut the character. Langford is clearly a hard-working and dedicated show business professional who has paid his dues to get where he is, but has become jaded by his experiences in dealing with hangers-on and phonies. If he is impatient or demanding, it is only because he expects of others what he expects of himself. Ultimately, he is portrayed neither as a monster or a towering genius but -- as Langford says of himself in one scene -- a human being.

In addition to his relationship with the celebrities he worships, Rupert is also incapable of real friendship with other people in his life, no doubt a result of his social awkwardness and also of his extreme narcissism (it quickly becomes clear that Rupert's favorite, indeed only, topic of conversation seems to be himself). He seems to have a kind of love-hate relationship with an even more unbalanced celebrity stalker named Masha (Sandra Bernhard, in a brilliant performance) -- though their relationship is never made clear, it doesn't seem to be sexual in any way, but it does seem to be co-dependent on often borderline sadistic behavior toward each other. Around his fellow autograph hounds, Rupert sees himself as superior, telling one of them that collecting is "not my whole life", suggesting that he views the others as pathetic, while his purpose in collecting is more noble. When he rekindles an acquaintance with Rita, an old high school crush, Rupert seems to only be capable of viewing her as another character in his life story that he's mapped out, going so far as to give her his own autograph as a gift, since it will no doubt be worth a lot of money someday, and fantasizing about the two of them being married on live television. Even in his fantasies about Jerry, Rupert frequently imagines Jerry groveling toward him (begging him to take over the show for a few weeks, and telling Rupert how envious he is of his genius) rather than imagining any kind of real friendship between the two of them.

Rupert's illusions about that friendship come crashing down when he takes Rita out to Langford's Long Island home, where -- he assures her -- Jerry has personally invited them to spend the weekend (he has, of course, done no such thing; the invitation was purely the product of Rupert's overheated imagination). When the pair show up unannounced, Jerry has to cut his golf game short to come home and deal with the intruders. Mortified, Rita apologizes and insists on leaving (but not before pocketing one of Jerry's knick-knacks as a memento). Rupert, however, insists Jerry has mis-treated them and makes veiled threats, whereupon Jerry has them both thrown out of the house. This is the breaking point for both men -- Jerry tells Rupert exactly what he thinks of him in no uncertain terms, and Rupert concocts an incredibly dangerous and foolish scheme to get his big break in show business that will have lasting consequences on the rest of his life.

It is revealing in this scene that when Rupert does get a glimpse of Jerry's private life, it does not turn out to be the glamorous atmosphere of schmoozing and hobnobbing with other celebrities that Rupert has no doubt envisioned. Instead, Jerry spends his Saturday relaxing with a game of golf and enjoying the peace and quiet of his home, enjoying the leisure time he has earned and re-charging his energy before another tireless week of performing. Jerry has to waste precious free time out of his weekend dealing with Rupert, who wants Jerry to drop what he's doing and listen to his tape, to which Jerry snaps, "I have a life" -- a life he has worked very hard to build for himself, and the kind of life Rupert feels entitled to just by wanting it.

Indeed, that is perhaps the ultimate tragedy of Rupert Pupkin. As his climactic standup act shows, he is not without some talent. But he is unwilling to work hard to achieve his goals. He is more interested in talking about being a comedian than ever actually going out and being one. Like so many wannabes, he waits on the sidelines for that "perfect opportunity" that may never come, rather than taking the bold first steps toward his goal, because he knows it can never live up to the results about which he he has fantasized many times. As Jerry tells Rupert during their first meeting, the comic timing and interplay that appears so natural and relaxed on his show is the result of years and years of hard work and practice, and that the old axiom happens to be true -- you have to start at the bottom. Similarly, Jerry's producer helpfully tells Rupert after listening to his tape that he has potential and should hone his act for a while on the nightclub circuit, where he can develop and perfect his material, before auditioning to appear on network TV. All sound advice, but not the easy answer Rupert is looking for. 

Of course, in Rupert's case, he eventually does get the "perfect opportunity" he's been waiting for -- when he and Masha resort to kidnapping Jerry and holding him for ransom in exchange for a coveted guest shot on the show -- but by that point, it is clear that Rupert can no longer see the division between real life and fantasy, and indeed, by the end of the film, neither can the audience. Rupert's act is, surprisingly, not awful, and -- we are told -- that after serving a short stint in prison, during which time he has honed his comic material, he writes a best-selling book about his escapades (about to be turned into a major motion picture), and enjoys the fame and adulation he has always craved. Scorsese leaves us wondering how much, if any, of this is true. It doesn't matter. Either way, Rupert's success -- whether entirely the result of his delusional imagination or the result of a sated public willing to applaud anything put in front of it on television -- is an empty one.

Two Weeks in Another Town (1962)

Vincente Minnelli's follow-up to his 1952 Hollywood insider tale THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL is a stylish, colorful melodrama that dissects the poisonous and mercenary underbelly of the film business, set against the glamorous, jet-setting world of early '60s Rome. Jack Andrus (Kirk Douglas) is a self-destructive Hollywood star whose bad behavior has practically destroyed his career and alienated everyone around him. He is summoned to Rome by Kruger (Edward G. Robinson), a director and mentor with whom Jack had once been close but eventually had a falling out. With their association rekindled, Jack believes he is to star in Kruger's new film, but learns that instead he will be helping to oversee the dubbing process. The production is plagued by problems, including a tight-fisted producer who doesn't care if the film is any good or not since he gets paid either way, and a wild and unpredictable young star (George Hamilton) whose erratic behavior threatens to bring the production to a halt. Amid the chaos, Jack falls back into his own bad behavior -- drinking, womanizing, and fighting with those close to him. However, Jack has a rude awakening when Kruger suffers a heart attack, but he sees a chance for redemption by taking the reins and bringing his old mentor's film to fruition -- an act of dedication and commitment that nearly ends with tragic consequences.

Whereas Minnelli's earlier film was set in the final days of the old Hollywood studio system, TWO WEEKS IN ANOTHER TOWN confronts the changes that had taken place in the industry over the intervening decade. Kruger's battles with his producer, for example, indicate the problems of independent financing, and the often unreasonable demands that come along with it. Even the technical process of filmmaking has become fraught with challenges resulting from the language barrier, from the difficulties in communicating with the Italian cinematographer, down to the long-drawn, laborious dubbing process necessitated by the multi-national cast. There is a wry comment on the differences between Hollywood and Italian attitudes toward filmmaking when Jack, stuck for an idea on how to photograph a scene, asks for a suggestion from the cinematographer, who replies that Jack is the first American director to ever ask him for his opinion.

In depicting the decadence and debauchery of the international jet-set in Rome, Minnelli wisely does not try to undercut its glamor and appeal, instead allowing the viewers to become seduced by it themselves, which makes the exposition of the ugliness, cruelty and superficiality beneath the surface all the more effective. It's a stunningly photographed film, too, lensed by Milton Krasner with bright, vibrant, at times almost hallucinatory colors that perfectly express the delirious, fantastic atmosphere of that milieu.

When Minnelli made THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL in 1952, the studio system -- a system headed by ruthless, practical men with extravagant visions -- had already started to crumble. A decade later, that system is in its death throes, straddling a new world in which the act of making the film seems to be secondary to the extravagance that continues long after the cameras have stopped rolling. Art, Minnelli seems to be saying, has no place in this world.

365 Nights in Hollywood (1934)

A rather weak, meandering story about a washed-up director, reduced to working at a rip-off acting school, and his new pupil, a young hopeful newly arrived in Hollywood. They get their opportunity to work on a new film together, which turns out to be an investment scam cooked up by the crooked acting school manager to swindle a young rube of his inheritance money. The show must go on, however, and all is set right in the end.

Of interest mainly for a very early starring turn by Alice Faye, who strongly resembles Jean Harlow here with her platinum blonde hair. Her performance is a bit reserved and awkward during the dramatic scenes, but in her musical numbers there are glimpses of the playful charm and personality that would make her one of the biggest stars of the decade on the Fox lot. James Dunn as the director turns in a characteristically pleasant if over-eager performance. Though the script brings them together in the end, Dunn and Faye are given little opportunity to establish much romantic chemistry throughout the film, leaving the ending feeling rushed and underdeveloped.

George Marshall -- normally a competent, reliable craftsman with a talent for comedy -- seems unsure and hesitant in his direction here, particularly in the handling of the slapstick scenes, which feel under-rehearsed and awkwardly staged. These problems are not helped by the loose, sprawling script which moves from scene to scene with little rhyme or reason. The film only really comes to life during the musical numbers, with their Art Deco sets and inventive effects. It's an interesting time capsule of early '30s Hollywood, but beyond that there's little to recommend it.

Rembrandt (1936)

An exquisitely directed and photographed historical biopic about the celebrated Dutch painter, REMBRANDT reunited Charles Laughton and director Alexander Korda after the success of their previous collaboration, THE PRIVATE LIFE OF HENRY VIII (1933). Like that film, REMBRANDT is less concerned with being a highly-detailed biography of the man, instead capturing the spirit and conveying the essence of the artist and his work. Its depiction of its subject is more introspective, less bawdy than HENRY VIII, with Laughton's contemplative performance conveying a quiet intensity. By depicting key moments in Rembrandt's life, his public and private triumphs and tragedies, Korda crafts an evocative portrait of a man driven by his need to create, even when that need has left him penniless and destitute.

The screenplay -- by Carl Zuckmayer and June Head -- follows Rembrandt's personal and creative struggles that begin when he expresses his contempt for the wealthy patrons who have commissioned him to paint a group portrait. This is followed shortly by the death of his wife, which leaves him emotionally shattered. As his debts mount, and his relationship with his new lover, Geertje, falls apart, Rembrandt retreats into his art.  His only support in the house comes from his youngest son, Titus, who dreams of being a great artist like his father. However, both Rembrandt and Geertje admonish him from pursuing this dream, pointing to Rembrandt's own failures as evidence of the fruitlessness of an artistic career.

There is a poignant irony to the sequence in which Rembrandt hires a beggar off the street to pose as a king for his latest painting, a session which is interrupted by Geertje's shrill insistence that Rembrandt go to the Prince to apply for a grant to subsidize his lifestyle. Rembrandt and the beggar go to the palace gates, whereupon the unfortunate man teaches the proud artist the most effective methods of begging for coins. When Rembrandt finally secures a coin for himself, he gives it away to another unfortunate soul.

A transformative moment occurs when Rembrandt, in need of some time away from the city and from his family, goes to stay at his father's mill in his hometown, where he is confronted with the fact that he no longer belongs there. He visits a tavern, and his advances to an attractive young local girl are met with hostility by the other men, who resent Rembrandt's returning to town after having abandoned them years earlier, and accuse him of an unwarranted sense of superiority.

Following this incident, Rembrandt struggles with carrying heavy bags of grain to the top of his father's mill. When he becomes short-winded after making it only halfway up the stairs, his father and brother look upon him with disdain, and he realizes it is time for him to return to Amsterdam. The artist is an eternal outsider, out of place in the life he has made for himself, and unable to return to the one he left behind.

The experience marks a turning point in Rembrandt's life. Upon returning to Amsterdam, he strikes up a romance with the new maid, Hendrickje (Elsa Lanchester, in a brilliant performance), who expresses an interest in Rembrandt's art, and he comes to see her as a kindred spirit. When he announces his plans to marry Hendrickje, it sends Geertje into a fit of rage, bringing charges against the poor woman that lead to her being excommunicated from the church. Still, Hendrickje is a loyal and supportive lover, quick-witted and courageous, and it is with her that Rembrandt finds true happiness.

Happiness is fleeting however, and before their marriage is to be finalized, events take a tragic turn when Hendrickje dies from illness, and with her dies Rembrandt's hopes for the future. We last see the great artist as a greying, broken down old man, wandering the streets in search of food. He is taken to an inn by a group of young aristocrats out for a good time, who view him as little more than a funny old man, and treat him to food and drink in exchange for amusing them with his stories. However, when they realize who their guest is, they are hushed with awe. Given a small subsidy to help pay for food, Rembrandt immediately takes the money to a local merchant, where he spends it on a new set of paints, so that he can continue to indulge his need to create -- his greatest source of satisfaction and personal fulfillment.

Artistically, REMBRANDT succeeds as one of Alexander Korda's finest productions, certainly one of the best that he personally directed. There is imaginative lighting and camera movement by the great cinematographer Georges Perinal, and brother Vincent Korda's set designs create a strong sense of period detail and atmosphere. As with Alexander Korda's other historical films, its greatest strength lies in its ability to evoke the humanity behind an iconic figure.