The Unholy Three

Tod Browning remains one of the most intriguing directors of the silent era. Best known for grotesque and bizarre crime dramas and character-driven horror, Browning falls into a delicate middle-ground of silent film directors. His work is definitely distinct, even when it is not terribly interesting. He really achieved his mark with a series of films starring Lon Chaney, who appeared in every conceivable makeup in a variety of grotesque roles. Unlike some of Chaney's other directors, such as Wallace Worsley, Victor Sjostrom and Herbert Brenon, Browning was most interested precisely in that grotesque element, fusing it with popular crime stories.

One of the earliest Chaney-Browning collaborations at MGM, the studio at which both of them worked regularly from 1925 on, is a truly bizarre film about three ex-sideshow performers who hatch an elaborate scheme to steal jewels. Professor Echo (Chaney) is the ventriloquist with a gift for throwing his voice. Harry Earles is Tweedledee, the midget who flies into a fury of violence when he is laughed at for his height (in the opening of the film, we see him kick a small boy in the face). Victor McLaglen is Hercules, the strong man. Together, they form "the unholy three", and set about on their scheme. There is also a bit of romance, between Echo and Rosie O'Grady (Mae Busch), whom Echo becomes extremely protective of partly through concern for the scheme, and partly from jealousy.

The scheme itself is quite elabroate. Echo disguises himself as "Mrs. O'Grady", bird seller, who throws his voice to convince customers that the parrots he sells them can talk. When the customers call back to complain, "Mrs. O'Grady" and her "grandson" (Harry Earles) take a trip out to the house, where they proceed to case the joint before coming back to rob it. Rosie begins a relationship with Hector MacDonald, the young shop assistant working in the bird store, which both threatens their plans and makes Echo jealous.

Things go horribly awry after Earles strangles the child of a wealthy victim in front of the Christmas tree in a rage. Before long, the detectives are on their trail, and things quickly unravel.

Depending on how you look at it, this is either of the strongest of the Browning-Chaney collaborations, or one of the weakest. The film is filled with gimmicks, and contains many memorable bits, most involving Chaney and Earles in their disguises, as well as the "speech balloons" that are used to convey the voices supplied for the parrots by Chaney. On the other hand, the plot itself takes a while to really get going, and lacks the narrative drive of their best collaborations. Part of the problem is that it's a little difficult to become too involved with any of the characters. The crime becomes the centerpiece of the film rather than the characters, which is ultimately all wrong for a film like this. Also like many of the other Browning-Chaney collaborations, it lacks the artistry that makes a film like "He Who Gets Slapped" and "Laugh, Clown, Laugh" so interesting even in their slower spots. Browning's framing of the shots is relatively straightforward, and does little to heighten the potential for interesting cinematography. There are shots, too, which feel as if they last longer than they need to.

It is interesting to compare the 1925 version with its 1930 remake, which is practically a shot by shot remake featuring some of the same cast (Chaney and Earles). That version was directed by Jack Conway, one of MGM's least distinct functionaries, and he seems to be copying Browning's original as a model of style. In some ways, the film actually works better as a talkie. It's certainly shot and edited like a talkie (in a way that, say, "The Unknown" isn't). The plot device of having the ventriloquist throw his voice is clearly better served in sound, but also heightens the absurdity of the whole idea when we actually hear Chaney talking in a "little old lady" voice.

"The Unholy Three" is probably the instrumental film in moving Chaney away from the crime dramas that he most often appeared in earlier in his career ("The Ace of Hearts", the brilliant "The Penalty"), and toward the sideshow gallery of the grotesque that made him an icon.

Foolish Wives

"Foolish Wives" is an exceptional film in so many ways, that it's rather difficult to imagine what audiences must have thought of it upon its intial release in 1922.

Erich von Stroheim can be a difficult figure to discuss. His reputation is so clouded in myth and exaggerated publicity claims that we tend to overlook the delicate artistry he brought to every film he directed. But to speak of his body of work is also problematic, as so much is either lost, or survives in cut-down or fragmented versions that do not reflect his original vision. As it is, only his 1925 version of "The Merry Widow" is the only one of his films not to bear some evidence of studio tinkering (it's also one of his most conventional projects in any case, which explains why it wasn't tinkered with). Looking at "Foolish Wives", for instance, we must remember that it was cut down from a nearly seven hour running time to its current version, which runs about a one and three-quarters hours.

Stroheim takes his time in setting up the premise: Count Karamzin and his "cousins", who are staying in Monte Carlo as "Russian nobility". What's remarkable about the characters Stroheim gives us in this film is that no one is exactly who they seem to be, always motivated by some ulterior motive, usually greed or lust. Karamzin sets his sight on the Helen Hughes, wife of American Andrew J. Hughes, American envoy to Monaco. Her wealthy husband neglects her, as Karamzin is quick to point out, and the two strike up a relationship, much to the concern of Mr. Hughes, who distrusts the Count. The Count is after her money of course, and the entire charade ends with disastrous consequences for Karamzin.

Stroheim does not seem interested in plot, as such, but rather in presenting a highly detailed character study of the deception and relationships between the various players in his story. In particular, the scene where he meets Mrs. Hughes is brilliantly handled through an exhange of glances and gestures, such as the moment that she catches him staring at her while she lounges on a chair. The desperation and pathetic air of the Count's charade is perfectly conveyed through the moment when he pays off a page boy to page him, "the louder, the better", to attract the attention of Mrs. Hughes.

Stroheim himself plays the role of Karamzin, of course, and makes a striking figure with his glistening white uniform, monacle, and cane. He gives the role the perfect amount of self-importance and heightened, mannered dignity. It's easy to forget that Stroheim, in addition to being one of the finest directors of his time, was also an excellent actor. He was, to borrow a term from Jerry Lewis, a "total filmmaker", and his involvement in every aspect of a production ensured a certain amount of creative control and, as the star, would have to remain on the project through completion (indeed, it's significant that the film that he was fired from, "The Merry Go Round", did not feature Stroheim in the cast). He presents us with a protagonist who is almost entirely despicable, yet we can't help but find him an attractive character when compared with the rich but dull Hughes and others like him. Stroheim is clearly working here with a very high attention to character dynamics. In one sequence, he and Mrs. Hughes hole up in a small dwelling during a terrible storm, and there is great tension and frustration as he tries to maintain his composed, ultra-mannered behavior while simultaneously struggling with his attraction to Mrs. Hughes. There is also an excellent point during this sequence in which she becomes distinctly uncomfortable with his behavior, setting up the turn the story will take in the following sequences leading up to the ending.

His cinematic style is incredibly subtle, really on par with Lubitsch in that regard. The compositions, especially the framing of the actors, is striking in its simplicity and effectiveness. There are the brilliantly subtle moments, such as when he uses a mirror to watch Mrs. Hughes undress. There are also moments that are breathtakingly shot, such as the extreme wide shots of sprawling Monte Carlo. Despite the worn print and occasionally patchwork editing, the film displays a distinct if subtle visual style.

Perhaps the most inspired part of the film is Stroheim's choice of Monte Carlo as the location. It is the perfect setting for Karamzin's deceptions. Stroheim presents Monte Carlo (in a hugely expensive set re-created on the Universal backlot) as a sprawling pleasure-ground, where people from all walks of life are brought together and, whether rich or not, share the same dreams of winning big at the casinos, or finding excitement in this bustling entertainment center. His depiction of Monte Carlo and the lure that it presents for the characters is not unlike modern day Atlantic City or Las Vegas, existing in a heightened state of pleasure, excitement, with the chance of bigger things to come out of the experience. Stroheim's intertitles perfectly capture that combination of thrill and chance that the casinos provide, which is really what the core of his story deals with in terms of Karamzin's relationships with the characters around him.

The film is very effective in conveying its characters' motivations and plot through as little intertitles as possible. The print that I viewed was issued on VHS in the 1990s by Kino, and was restored by Arthur Lennig in the early 1970s. It shows the signs of being a combination of different prints, but we can be thankful to have the film at all, considering its history of being edited and re-edited. "Foolish Wives" also represents the first time that Stroheim butted heads with Irving Thalberg, then Carl Laemmle's executive assistant at Universal, who would later take control of Stroheim's epic 1924 masterpiece, "Greed", editing it to a more manageable length and attempting to heighten it's "commercial" appeal in the process. Stroheim's outlandish budget on this film and his notorious attention to detail began the tensions between the two men.

As it is, "Foolish Wives" remains one of the most powerful character dramas of its time, featuring a magnificent leading performance by its director, and displaying a subtle visual style that brings the film up to the level of a masterwork of silent cinema.

Hearts of the World

"God help the nation that begins another war of conquest or meddling!" So reads the opening title of this rarely-seen but incredibly powerful war drama produced, written and directed by D.W. Griffith in 1918.

The beauty and power of Griffith's moving 1918 anti-war epic is in his focus on the individuals touched by war. Griffith is not so much interested in telling us a story as such, but rather in conveying great themes and ideas through characters who represent good and evil through their actions toward each other. Here, he focuses on Marie Stephenson (played to perfection by Lillian Gish), a French girl in love with an American, Douglas Gordon Hamilton (Robert Harron), an aspring writer living in France with his parents and three younger brothers. Griffith takes his time setting up peaceful, serene shots of the French village, emphasizing the wide array of people, each with their distinct traits. We also meet the "Little Disturber" (a typically feisty Griffith heroine, played very well by Dorothy Gish), who will later play a very important role in the film's climax. There are charming domestic scenes, not unlike those of the Cameron household in "The Birth of a Nation", which emphasizes the importance of home and family to these characters, the destruction of which later on is portrayed in devastating detail.

Marie meets Douglas in his garden one morning, as she is playing with geese wandering around in the back yard. (We see another one of Griffith's favorite visual touches-the female protagonist playing with animals, usually geese or ducks.) The two become romantically involved, and are engaged to be married when war is declared, just after Douglas has received a letter from a publisher interested in his new manuscript. Douglas enlists in the military, however, (a title describes his decision to defend France as "land good enough to live in is good enough to fight for") and in an absolutely heart-wrenching scene, Marie packs up her clothes, including the wedding gown she never got to wear, putting her dreams away. Griffith's emotional manipulation still works very well, because I confess I found myself moved to tears during this scene. It's so effective because of Gish's complete and utter conviction in playing the role. Watching the film, we don't see an actress playing a part. Gish manages to convince us that she, herself, is making these sacrifices. And Harron's beautifully understated performance is one of the finest from this period. He conveys a sadness in his eyes that reminds me of Laurence Olivier's performance in William Wyler's "Carrie" (another film that left me emotionally devastated). His scenes with the younger brothers, especially the youngest-who worships the ground he walks on-are especially moving and even unsettling, because it conveys so well how, if anything were to happen to Harron during the war, it would tear the family apart.

The remainder of the film is handled in a quite interesting manner. Griffith alternates scenes taken at the front, with scenes of the people back home. He is going after no particular narrative drive here, but rather to heighten the emotional intensity and connection with the characters-as-people by focusing in great detail on their lives. There are some particularly devastating shots of the small town being bombed out, with villagers fleeing in panic, and shots of the geese we saw earlier in the film swimming through a lake which erupts with explosions from shells.

At this point, I have to admit I found the film difficult to handle emotionally. I've never been so moved by the depiction of war on-screen as I was by this film, although there are a few moments in other films that have come close. I decided to keep watching, because at this point I was also reminded of just how compelling and gripping Griffith manages to make every one of these characters, so that you quite literally feel that you want to know what happens to them, for better or worse.

Douglas decides to come in to the town to meet with Marie at the local inn. He makes his way through a German trench, disguising himself as a German soldier, and manages to make his way to town.

Griffith does introduce the film's "heavy", a German named Von Strohm, played to perfection by George Siegmann (who surely played some of the most truly vile and despicable villains of the silent screen). Siegmann is a fine actor who brings a genuine sense of menace to his performances. Here, he sets up shop in a local tavern in the village, in which Marie and the "Little Disturber" are both working. Incidentally, it's interesting to point out that Erich von Stroheim delivers a brief but effective performance as Von Strohm's aide. Just in these very brief scenes, Stroheim infuses his character with a very real villainy that would have perhaps been better suited to the Von Strohm character than Siegmann's broad performance.

Douglas arrives at the inn, which is infested with German soldiers and officers looking for him. The "Little Disturber" detains Von Strohm while Marie and Douglas hole up in one of the deserted rooms at the top of the inn after Marie kills a German officer. Von Strohm eventually locates them and is determined to kill them both himself. Here we begin a typical Griffith climax, with a proverbial "ride to the rescue", here represented by the progressing French and British forces moving in to reclaim the town. Marie and Douglas debate whether or not to take their own lives as they are sure death is coming. The troops arrive just in time, however, and the "Little Disturber" saves the two by throwing a grenade into the gathering of German officers right outside the door. With the town now back under the control of the Allies, Marie and Douglas are married.

His film has an immediacy lacking in many war pictures, which is heightened by a short prologue of behind-the-scenes footage of Griffith visiting the trenches, where he shot second unit footage for the film, newsreel-style. It's difficult to imagine any American filmmaker undertaking such a project today. In the prologue, we see Griffith personally shooting scenes in a trench while shells pass overhead. The picture was clearly made for the war effort, and the ending seems to overlook the fact that, despite the temporary glory of reclaiming the town, the impacts of the war will continue to be felt for many decades. We can forgive it's rather overly-optimistic ending, however, because Griffith has laid out his real message of the brutal and horrific effects of fighting on every day people in the preceding two hours of the film.

The film is not discussed as often as Griffith's other major work from this period, falling between the epic "Intolerance" and the sublime "Broken Blossoms", the film's mix of intimate character drama against an epic background is an interesting approach that only heightens its power to move, even close to a century after it was made. It's message is, of course, timeless.

Griffith was an artist the likes of which the cinema has not quite yet seen again. That is because everyone is still, in one way or another, working in his "shadow", so to speak. The models of filmmaking that he perfected, and the grammar of screen language that he gave us, are still so prevalent that it's impossible to fully divorce "contemporary" filmmaking, as it exists now, from what Griffith was doing in 1918. His vision extended beyond the medium itself, launching a fledgling technology into an art form to stand alongside the other arts. "Hearts of the World", a relatively minor Griffith film, compared to his better-known works, is a testament to that vision.

The copy of "Hearts of the World" that I viewed derived from a Killiam Shows print, available on VHS from Republic Pictures Home Video. This copy contains tinting and a nice piano score by William Perry. The restoration was performed by Karl Malkames. This video edition contains the original newsreel prologue, showing Griffith at work in the trenches and meeting with Prime Minister David Lloyd George. While the video itself is out of print, copies can probably still be located online or through independent outlets.

The Racket

One thing that can be said about the silent films made at the end of the 1920s is that, all too often, they play like talkies without sound. We can look at the earliest silents, even those that were little more than photographed scenes from stage plays, and still feel a certain excitement over the placement of props and actors within the frame. Even by the time directors like Griffith, Dawley, Boggs, and Apfel were working in their prime, film grammar had developed to a point where silent filmmaking was a recognizable artistic style in its own right. By the 1920s, it had reached a level of artistic excellence that some feel the sound film has yet to reach. So why, after the films of Griffith, DeMille, Stroheim, Chaplin, Ingram, Tourneur, and Vidor (just to name a few working in Hollywood), did so many of the later silent films seem less like silents, and more like talkies without sound?

"The Racket", unfortunately, suffers from this. The film is one of the titles, produced by Howard Hughes, that has recently been restored and shown on TCM. For that, film historians can be very grateful. The disappointment comes in the fact that, ultimately, it's a very average picture. "The Racket" is by no means a bad film, but it lacks the kind of gripping characters or grand themes that we associate with the best silent films. The characters in a Griffith film, for instance, are always more interesting than the story itself. The themes of love and romance in "Sunrise" are the focus, over it's characters, who are more like stylized "types". But in "The Racket", we have the tough cop, McQuigg (Thomas Meighan), who is both a not-too-sympathetic figure, nor a terribly interesting one. The film's most interesting character is probably the heavy, Nick Scarsi (played quite well by Louis Wolheim), a racketeer with political aspirations that McQuigg is determined to bring to a halt. Relocated to another precinct as a result of their feud, McQuigg becomes determined to bring down Scarsi at any cost. After Scarsi's younger brother is brought in on hit-and-run charges, McQuigg refuses to release him, and all hell breaks loose as Scarsi and McQuigg fight it out. Unfortunately, neither character garners much sympathy from the audience, and the conclusion is somewhat less satisfying as a result.

The problem, of course, is for the viewer-watching this film today-to put themselves in the place of a 1928 moviegoer, who had yet to hear the snarling of Edward G. Robinson or the tough wise-cracking of James Cagney. It proves that gangster pictures were becoming popular before "Little Caesar" in 1930. (Robinson had starred in the stage version, however). There is, too, a certain excitement in watching a real, honest-to-goodness film from the period being depicted. We've become so used to the 20s Chicago scene being depicted through nostalgiac re-creations that it's thrilling to think that this film really was made in 1928. There are some good shots of nightclubs and a street riot between the two rival gangs, but much of the action in the second half takes place in the small police station McQuigg has been re-assigned to.

The film's major technical flaw is that it's shot and edited very much like a talkie (complete with shot/reverse shot editing during all the dialogue scenes). Nearly every point is conveyed entirely through dialogue intertitles, and the plot would be very difficult to follow without them. The reliance on dialogue no doubt stems from it's theatrical origins, being adapted from a play by Barlett Cormack. This is a problem that plagues many of the later silent films I have seen, such as the William Haines films, and even King Vidor's "The Patsy", also from 1928 (it's signficant that he would also make "The Crowd", one of the most cinematic and inventive silents, the same year). This points the way, perhaps, for why audiences were really willing to embrace sound film, even though it meant taking an artistic step backward. Watching the film, one also has the distinct feeling that every scene would play perfectly naturally with synchronized sound. It's hard to imagine what "sound" might accompany some of the more delirious montage sequences in "Sunrise", or the Expressionist camera moves in "The Crowd", but here, we can easily imagine the chatter and clickity-clack of typewriters in the newsroom scenes, the wisecracks of the always-ready reporters, and the sounds of speeding cars and guns.

The direction here is by Lewis Milestone, at the beginning of a very long and varied career. Milestone had first come to attention with "Two Arabian Knights" in 1927, for which he won an Academy Award for "Best Comedy Direction". By the early 30s, he had become best known for his brilliant and moving anti-war drama, "All Quiet on the Western Front", but after that, worked in nearly every style and genre imaginable, directing such films as "Of Mice and Men", "The Red Pony", and "Ocean's Eleven", while still managing to make two more powerful war pictures, "A Walk in the Sun" and "Pork Chop Hill". Here, Milestone's cinematic technique is strangely static; ironic, considering that he's often recognized as one of the primary filmmakers responsible for "moving the camera" again in early talkies. There are just a couple of inventive shots, but the rest of it is shot very conventionally. Milestone would do much better, and in any case, it's quite possible he was working under a tight leash with Hughes at the helm.

As it is, the film is almost more interesting as the prototype for the gangster film as it exploded onscreen in the 1930s, and also as an example of why audiences were willing to accept sound film at the time.

"The Racket" has been restored and re-released by Flicker Alley, with a score by Robert Israel. His score here is up to his usual high standards, capturing well the jazzy late-20s musical styles, and heightening the mood of several tense sequences. The print is crystal clear except for a few sections which contain scratches. The film is not currently available on DVD but has been shown on Turner Classic Movies.

The Winning of Barbara Worth

This film proves how much was lost when the transition from silent to sound film occurred at the end of the 1920s. It tells the story of a rivalry between two men for the love of a girl in a Western town. Abe Lee (Gary Cooper) is the simple but brave son of a local seer, who finds himself in direct rivalry with Holmes (Ronald Colman), the foster-son of Greenfield, a big businessman, for the love of Barbara Worth (Vilma Banky), whose adopted father has promised to an irrigation system for the small Western town. Unfortunately, Greenfield has only profits on his mind, and fires Mr. Worth and his entire team before completion of the system, after they point out that without further reinforcement, it could give way and destroy the town. Holmes, working as Greenfield's assistant, is blamed, but is determined to prove that he knows nothing of Greenfield's business dealings and decides to help Mr. Worth to prove himself. Worse still, Mr. Worth is unable to meet payroll to pay his team, and things turn ugly. Mr. Worth and Abe Lee ride off to try to get the money from a visiting businessman, and are surprised to find their rival, Holmes, already there, and having made a successful plea for the money to lend to Mr. Worth. Holmes then accompanies Lee on his journey back to town to deliver the money. The two rivals are brought together by their love for Barbara and their desire to save the town from disaster. The film contains a spectacular flood sequence which is a tribute to the scale these filmmmakers were working on at the time.

Based on a novel by Harold Bell Wright and adapted by Frances Marion, the film is a tightly written drama that still finds plenty of room for the comic relief so favored by filmmakers at the time, especially John Ford. The supporting characters here offer the same kind of broad comic relief one would find in a Ford Western. King proves himself here to be a true visual stylist, something that was lost in his transition to sound filmmaking in the 1930s. Here, every shot is perfectly composed. The print of this film that is available on DVD is, thankfully, one of the best-looking silent film prints I've ever seen, complete with tinting, which really heightens the effects of these carefully-composed frames.

Remarkably, as we see even in a rather straightforward drama such as this, silent film was truly thought of as a visual art form. By the 1930s, when the values shifted toward films made in the grand literary tradition, such visual artistry became much less common. But in this 1926 film, we can see the care with which King has taken to make sure every shot is splendidly photographed. The film was photographed by George Barnes and Gregg Toland, certainly two of the finest artists of their craft.

What, perhaps, is even more remarkable are the performances. Vilma Banky is quite good as Barbara Worth, and it is a pity to remember that her career would end in just a few years with the coming of sound. The two male leads, however, would find that sound helped launch them into long careers as stars. It's rather difficult to imagine Ronald Colman playing a role like this in a sound film, but here, he's fine, and it's easy to see his more understated acting style which was better suited to the sound film. The real revelation, however, is Gary Cooper, in his first substantial role. Watching him here, it's easy to see why he became a screen legend once audiences were able to hear his voice. This is a role he could have played, say, ten years later without virtually any change. He gives a comparatively natural performance, with an incredibly expressive face. There is one scene, in particular, where he watches Barbara dancing with his rival, Holmes, at a town dance toward the beginning of the film. The change of expression in his face, from joy and affection at watching Barbara, to jealousy while watching Holmes, is the most powerful moment of the film, conveying so much through mere changes of expression in his eyes. His expressive face has always made Cooper especially powerful as an actor, and this can be seen perhaps most of all in one of his very best later roles, that of the sheriff in "High Noon".

As I mentioned earlier, the single most apparent aspect in watching this film is the realization that things changed very, very much just three years later when the transition to sound took place. Watching this film, I would guess that Henry King was one of the finest visual artists of the screen, whose name would be mentioned alongside John Ford, say, or even Josef von Sternberg. With the coming of sound, however, he worked primarily as a contract director at Fox, making films that fit within the aesthetic guidelines of the studio. We see the same thing happen with John Ford in that early sound period, working his way through multiple studio assignments that lack the visual power of his best silent work. I've often felt that King was unfairly overlooked as a filmmaker, especially in regard to his silent work, but even in his sound films as well. When given the chance, he was clearly capable of creating films that displayed the artistic possibilities of the medium as well as just about anyone else from that period. All too often, he found himself working on studio assignments, where that kind of thing wasn't encouraged. Indeed, the greatest change of all between the silent and sound era could be seen as the re-positioning of the director from being a primary creative force in the filmmaking process, to the position of studio craftsman, whose primary task was to film the front office-approved script as closely as possible.

Some directors, especially those who worked at Paramount, were able to maintain the virtually-complete control that they had in the 20s (Sternberg, Lubitsch, DeMille). Others (Walsh, Hawks, Ford, Wellman, Vidor) found ways to work within the studio system and use the vast resources to their advantage. Henry King seems to have lost his "artistic identity" somewhat in the 30s, rarely doing any work that blatantly stands out from the routine studio assignment (compare what he did with "Jesse James" in 1939, and the distinct difference that Fritz Lang brought to its sequel the following year). This is not to dismiss King as a filmmaker (he was certainly one of the best studio filmmakers of the 30s and 40s), but merely to point out the change in hierarchy that took place. That may be the single biggest loss that the art of film suffered in the transition to sound, and the subtle beaty of a film like "The Winning of Barbara Worth" is a testament to that.

"The Winning of Barbara Worth" has been released on DVD as part of the Gary Cooper "MGM Movie Legends Collection", which features three other titles from Cooper's sound film work. The print quality is excellent, apparently taken from original 35mm elements, and is one of the sharpest transfers I've seen of any silent title. The organ score is a live recording by Gaylord Carter, and after watching so many recently-scored silent films on TCM by young composers with no sense of how to really accompany a film, rather than to work against it, Carter's subtle but effective accompaniment is a breath of fresh air.

Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

"Beyond a Reasonable Doubt" is a film so twisted, so improbable, so bungled in its execution, that it's little wonder it’s the last film its director, Fritz Lang, made before returning to Germany. Dana Andrews' gives a strangely offbeat performance, while the rest of the cast is completely forgettable. The story, written by Douglas Morrow, sounds interesting enough: A writer, under pressure to come up with interesting material before a deadline, takes the suggestion of a wealthy and highly-respected newspaper publisher to frame himself for a murder he didn't commit in order to prove how easy it is to sentence the wrong man to capital punishment. Dana Andrews gives his performance the necessary amount of staid, calm steadfastness and earnestness, willing to go to extreme lengths to get his story. Lang also sets up nicely the tension between the district attorney Thompson, so eager to push for the maximum penalty, and the newspaper publisher, whose anti-capital punishment stance has made him unpopular with Thompson. To complicate matters, Andrews is engaged to the publisher’s daughter, so her reaction is understandably one of shock and disappointment when her fiancé steps up to take the blame for the murder of a stripper. The premise is full of holes-if Andrews and publisher Sidney Blackmer plant the evidence so thoroughly and carefully, why should it be so unreasonable when he's convicted? But this is only the beginning of the complete illogic that ruins this picture, which must rank as one of the worst in the career of its director, Fritz Lang.

The film would appear to be a story of fate, of unplanned intervention preventing the successful triumph of the protagonist. The initial premise could have delivered, but the film fails to live up to its interesting idea and instead inverts on itself through an incredibly inconceivable plot point that, worse than being merely far-fetched and even impossible within the context of the story, actually results in a less satisfying picture.

I cannot reveal the further illogic of the story without giving away the ending, but my initial reaction upon seeing the film was that it represented a moving away from the core of the pessimistic themes of film noir into a territory of standard crime drama. Lang’s best work has always focused on the victimization of a flawed individual; in this case, he offers a variation on that theme which fails to work.

The characterizations are so shallow that it’s little wonder we find it hard to identify, let alone care, about their actions and consequences. Joan Fontaine gives a strangely hollow and, at times, contradictory performance as Andrews’ fiancée, one minute standing steadfastly by his side, and the next being completely willing to accuse of the murder. Sidney Blacker offers one of the only performances in the film that stands out at all, that of the publisher with a strong anti-capital punishment stance. Special mention should go to Philip Bourneuf, who gives the role of Thompson the necessary amount of cold-heartedness, so willing to send a man to death row, only for political gain.

The film contains the appropriate amount of Expressionistic lighting, courtesy of cinematographer William Snyder, but overall lacks the kind of nightmarish, overbearing qualities that can be found in the best crime dramas of the period. Instead, there are many scenes that are lit like a police procedural, as if we’re watching an extended episode of “Dragnet”. These take away from the frenetic and frantic atmosphere that would serve this story best.

The anti-capital punishment angle may seem intriguing, but surprisingly (or perhaps not), Lang fails to take any stance on the subject at all. In fact, far from standing by the initial premise that an innocent man could easily be wrongly convicted and sentenced to death on circumstantial evidence, he rather seems to be saying that regardless of how much evidence or testimony or investigation is available, the guilty man always gets the chair. The illogic in the film is so overbearing, you’ll find yourself wondering what just happened when it finally ends.

At 80 minutes, the film is mercifully short, but I couldn’t help but feel the second half was still dragged out entirely too long. Almost as if there should have been more time spent in setting up the background of the Andrews character. Unfortunately, with a film such as this, it is difficult to discuss the plot in any detail without giving away crucial plot points, but suffice it to say when the true identity of the protagonist is revealed at the end, you’ll find it improbable, to say the least.

It’s interesting to compare the theme of this story with the film that in many ways defined Lang’s style, his 1931 German masterpiece, M. In that film, Lang gave us a character whose thoroughly despicable actions were countered by genuine psychological distress and torment, offering a much more convincing kind of moral gray area in which to judge the character. He would have done well to repeat that idea here. Stylistically, too, M has more in common with the films noir of the 1940s and 50s.

Lang and screenwriter Douglas Morrow have crafted an unlikely story out of an interesting premise which fails to deliver on its potential. Stylistically, Lang has created a film which at times violates its own sense of atmosphere and tone established at other points of the film. Finally, the film is a disappointment at almost every level, failing to engage and maintain concerns for any of its characters, and hitting the audience with an ending so unpredictable you’ll feel as if Lang was simply cheating.

"Thirty Years of the Rockford Files" by Ed Robertson

My review of Ed Robertson's excellent new book, "Thirty Years of the Rockford Files", has been a long time coming, mainly because of my schedule over the last month and the sheer volume of information he includes in this wonderful look into one of the best TV shows of the 1970s.

Anyone familiar with "The Rockford Files" will remember the spirit of fun that James Garner brought to the series, and Robertson's book captures that perfectly. In addition to serving as a history of the TV show, the book also serves as a tribute to its charming, personable star. Garner brought a kind of self-deprecating humor to his performance which is undoubtedly what helped make it so popular.

Robertson takes an episode-by-episode approach to the show's history. His writing style captures the feel of the show as he offers plot synopses and "behind-the-scenes" history of each episode. It's interesting to realize the significant place that "The Rockford Files" holds in TV history. In many ways, it was a one-of-a-kind show. The early 70s in particular brought series like "MacMillan and Wife", "Columbo", and "McCloud", staples of NBC's "Million Dollar Mystery" program. "The Rockford Files" continued somewhat in this vein but added the incomparable Garner into the mix, playing a different kind of role that ushered in a new style of leading man.

Robertson also looks at the surprisingly large number of guest stars who made appearances on the show during its run. The trivia and behind-the-scenes facts are thoroughly researched and make this book a treasure trove for any "Rockford" fan.

This book comes with my highest recommendation, as well as the recommendations of several other long-time "Rockford" fans with whom I shared it.

The Big Sleep

I've come to the realization that Humphrey Bogart is my favorite actor. I know that sounds like an incredible blanket statement. I've often professed my deepest admiration for Laurence Olivier as the supreme artist of screen acting, but Bogart has the "movie star" quality that puts him over into the supreme position in my book.

With this in mind, I finally got to re-watch THE BIG SLEEP (1946) for the first time in probably close to ten years. I recently purchased the Warners DVD of the film, which includes the 1945 pre-release version, with a more solid plotline and less of Bogart and Bacall. I have watched a short documentary on the comparisons between the two versions, but have not yet watched the 1945 version, probably because the mythology of the "1946 version" (the theatrical version that has been in circulation for over 60 years) has created such an impression on me that I'm still not ready to look at the alternate cut.

THE BIG SLEEP is not a great film. Bogart had the good fortune of being cast in three truly great American films made in the 1940s-THE MALTESE FALCON, CASABLANCA, and THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE. These profound films make up the iconic image we have of Bogart today. THE BIG SLEEP, however, is a very good film. It was based on the novel (one of my favorite detective books) written by Raymond Chandler, who concocted a story so dense, impenetrable, and downright complicated that even the author himself professed not to know what was going on in it. Indeed (and I don't think this is a plot spoiler) the mystery itself is never solved in the film, very unusual for a detective story. It moves with none of the slickness of "The Kennel Murder Case" (possibly the best 'whodunnit' film made in Hollywood), but still manages to keep suspense throughout the proceedings, because Marlowe (Bogart) seems to exist in a world in which no one can be trusted, and everyone has the potential to turn on him at the drop of a hat.

The plot is fairly straightforward-Private eye Philip Marlowe is brought in by elderly millionaire Sternwood to find his chauffeur's killer. After that point, things get pretty disjointed, and trying to follow the development of the plot after that point is simply pointless, except to say that Marlowe soon finds himself involved with Sternwood's daughter (Bacall), and things get heated up from there.

The film is so much fun, there's really no need to dwell on its plot. It's all about style and performance here, and that's where the film scores a knockout. Bogart looks great in every shot-his suits and fedora are particularly nice (I would love to get that suit for myself).

THE BIG SLEEP delivers a fun mystery and great performances done in brilliant Hollywood style, directed by Howard Hawks.

Los Olvidados

Now here is an interesting film.

It's not often I get so hooked on a film after one viewing, but this was certainly the case with Luis Bunuel's excellent study of poverty and crime among the youth in post-war Mexico City.

I can't think of another film that is so overwhelmed by genuine poverty and terrible conditions, with the possible exception of some of the Italian neorealist films on which this film was patterned. But whereas, say, DeSica's BICYCLE THIEVES contains a ray of optimism and even redemption (backed by a beautiful score), Bunuel's films is relentlessly bleak, terrifying and depressing.

There are scenes of shocking violence which back the themes of the story well. It is essentially about a poor Mexican boy, Pedro, who becomes an accomplice to a murder when a teenage gangmember he used to know, called Jaibo, breaks out of juvenile hall and returns to his town to wreak havoc. The boy is blackmailed by Jaibo, who abuses him and weilds frightening power over the poor boy until he finally cracks.

The cinematography is strangely beautiful, yet never loses sight of its gritty purpose. The cast is uniformly excellent.

This film stands out in Bunuel's body of work as an example of heightened realism, although surrealistic stylings turn up in the dream sequences.

Having seen the majority of Bunuel's work, certainly all of his critically acclaimed works, I feel that LOS OLVIDADOS stands out as his finest achievements.

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".

"Nanook of the North" (1922)

For those very few filmgoers who are unfamiliar with it, "Nanook" tells the story of an Eskimo and his family as they struggle for survival in the frozen tundra. It is very much a "documentary" in that it documents the day-to-day life and process of survival, including the building of an igloo and a seal hunt.
But it is in these more "spectacular" scenes that the film earned its detractors. Take for example the interior shots of the igloo. Due to the intensity of the heat generated by lighting equipment necessary in 1922, the shots had to be faked using a "set", half an igloo with one side completely open for natural light to allow for filming, not unlike the open-air stages that permeated Hollywood in the early silent days. The seal hunt, too, is not entirely truthful-in fact, an already-dead seal is substituted for a live one in order to allow Nanook more freedom in his "performance" of spearing the seal and dragging it to the surface of the ice. In addition, the film presents the Eskimos performing rather ancient hunting and survival rituals, not exactly as advanced as genuine Inuit culture of 1920.

Flaherty's film remains the seminal, landmark film in the documentary genre. Flaherty himself was later denounced after facts regarding the fictionalization of certain scenes in "Nanook" came to light. Eventually stripped of his credibility among documentarians, film historians continued to appreciate his sophisticated use of location photography, which often produced beautiful and poetic results. By the end of his life, in 1951, Flaherty found renewed appreciation for his work by less harsh critics who found high praise for the humanism apparent in all his work, and the enthographic dedication with which Flaherty took time to learn about the cultures he was documenting. His final film, "Louisiana Story" (1948)-a tale of oil drillers in rural Louisiana-combined a narrative with documentary techniques, and for many years was frequently cited as one of the ten great films in the history of the medium.

Perhaps no other filmmaker has seen his reputation plummet more than Flaherty; once one of world cinema's most respected and highly praised artists on the level of Chaplin, Eisenstein, DeSica, etc., he is now a name in the footnotes of film history texts. Sadly, his work is in danger of neglect to the point of extinction from the cultural consciousness. The annual Flaherty Seminars keep his spirit of humanism in documentary film alive, however. Perhaps Flaherty's work will enjoy a renewed appreciation as more and more serious study toward documentary films comes into being.

A Face in the Crowd (1957)

Elia Kazan, I should state, is not one of my favorite directors. That is to say, his films do not draw me to them because of his name alone. Nothing about his style, or his technique, or even his common themes, draw me to his work consistently. Because Kazan's style is so strong, I find it hard to be indifferent to his work the way I would with an ordinary, pedestrian filmmaker. With Kazan, one could say you either love him or hate him.

Without wishing to sound uncommitted, I would say there are certain Kazan films I admire for what they are. His adaptation of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" is a nice adaptation of the book, which I enjoy. "A Streetcar Named Desire" is a fine filming of that Tennessee Williams play, and introduced the Method acting of Marlon Brando. "Baby Doll" is as bizarre a film as you're likely to see. And my personal favorite of Kazan's films is the wonderfully atmospheric "On the Waterfront", which I admit I love for purely personal reasons-my grandfather worked in the docks of Baltimore City in the same type of environment at the time the film was made, and it is strongly reminscent of the descriptions he gave of the days and nights working on the waterfront.

To my list of Kazan films that I enjoyed, I can now add the most recent film I have watched, "A Face in the Crowd", one of those indictments of mass media (especially television) that was so popular in the 1950s. With it's no-holds-barred approach to expose style filmmaking, "A Face in the Crowd" tells the story of Lonesome Rhodes (Andy Griffith, in a career-defining performance), an ex-con and guitar picker who finds himself a huge superstar overnight thanks to some appearances on local radio and television. As his fame increases, he hurts those around him and sinks into a decay of booze, drugs and sex.

The casting of this film is quite interesting. Andy Griffith portrays the disgusting, crude Rhodes, and Patricia Neal is the woman who loves him. We have the screen debut of Lee Remick as Griffith's teenage bride, and Walter Matthau in an early role as the introspective TV producer. That fine silent film director Marshall Neilan even turns up in a supporting role as a Senator who takes Griffith under his wing. It is interesting to see Griffith in this brilliant performance before he became typecast as Andy of Mayberry and Matlock. He proves himself one of the finest actors of his generation, along with Marlon Brando, James Dean, Montgomery Clift and Ernest Borgnine.

The film moves at a good pace, bridged by fades, and really paints a believable image of Griffith's rise to fame within the story. Too often, "rise to fame" sequences are handled with a montage of screaming fans and newspaper headlines, but this film does an excellent job of making it believable and interesting. Griffith's character becomes a beloved teddy bear persona, but holds his many adoring fans beneath contempt (this proves to be his downfall). The film is rather unclear about who precisely is at fault here-on the one hand, the media is blamed as a corrupting influence, but at the same time, the adoring fans are seen as being somewhat stupid, easily-led sheep.

As always in my reviews, I don't want to harp on the story. I encourage viewers to seek the film out and watch it for themselves. I tend to focus on the film in the context of the "bigger picture", as it were. "A Face in the Crowd" reminded me, in a roundabout way, of "Sweet Smell of Success", another 1957 picture that demonized the power and corruption of the media. In the 1950s, there was clearly a sort of paranoia about the power of the media, and part of that may have been due to the increasing competition between the film and television mediums. I'm reminded of the scene in Douglas Sirk's "All that Heaven Allows" in which Jane Wyman, in an effort to emphasize her character's lonliness and sense of isolation, is presented with a brand new TV set as a present. In another prophetic moment in "A Face in the Crowd", Griffith develops a "reaction machine" consisting of playback options of canned laughter, applause, etc. This immediately calls to mind the scene in "Annie Hall" were Woody Allen admonishes Tony Roberts for using such a machine to bump up the laughs on his sitcom.

"A Face in the Crowd" holds up quite well today. It may very well be required viewing for anyone studying popular presentations of American media, along with such films as "Network", "All the President's Men", "Sweet Smell of Success", "His Girl Friday", and "Ace in the Hole".

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.

Hands Up (1926)

With all the work of the major silent comedians so readily available, it's easy to forget about the other, less-known clowns whose work isn't as easy to find. Raymond Griffith falls under this category, because so much of his work is lost, and what does survive isn't that easy to see.

What struck me immediately was the endless parade of sight gags in the film. The opening scene with Abraham Lincoln meeting with his cabinet set up a serious tone that is delightfully contrasted in the very next scene, when Ray Griffith rides up to visit General Lee. The sight gags begin immediately, and in this scene reminded me of similar battlefield gags in DUCK SOUP (shells flying through the window, etc). Thankfully, the rest of the film kept up the ingenuity and clever gags found in this scene.Griffith himself is a very fun performer to watch. His characterization of the unruffled gentleman in the silk hat played very well against the overall zaniness of the film. I would really enjoy seeing more of his work. Mack Swain, always great, turned in a memorable supporting appearance here.

The length of the film is perfect for a comedy. It's one thing that pre-WWII comedies had as a major advantage-that they could end after 60 or 70 minutes and not have to hang on a lot of exposition and plot wrap-up for the mandatory 90 minute-plus running time of today.

The Naked City (1948)

Finally saw this film after reading much about it, and I have to admit I was rather disappointed in it. I heard that it was based on a photo spread by Weegee detailing New York crime scene photos, and that it was shot entirely on location in the streets and apartments of New York. For some reason, I have also heard this film frequently touted as one of the best film noirs, though I couldn't see anything in it that resembled any of the characteristics of noir.

My biggest disappointment was that it opened with that terrible narration (by the producer, no less) that the better filmmakers were already trying to avoid at that point. It's that smarmy, cutesy narration that ruins the atmosphere. I would have found a Sterling Hayden-type voice much more appropriate if narration were needed at all, which I'm not actually sure it was-it appeared at times that the narration was only used to further the story when the filmmakers had to shoot without sound because of the locations (mostly the exteriors).

Barry Fitzgerald (whom I love) was good but seemed entirely out of place. He would have seemed much more "at home" in a studio-bound Hollywood film, in which his slightly exaggerated performance would have felt much more natural. As it is, he comes across as giving far too much a "performance" when the gritty setting seems to call for a more naturalistic performance. The rest of the cast is okay, not particularly memorable, although some of the performances (especially the housekeeper of the murder victim, who bursts into tears every five minutes) seem entirely over-the-top, and again, at odds with the film's more naturalistic settings. There's also an annoying tendency to insert cute and comical relief bits that add nothing to the film and only seem unnatural and forced, further killing the effect that the film was supposedly striving for.

I've read that Stanley Kubrick worked as a still photographer on this film, and I can't help but think what he could have done with the material (I've enjoyed his "Killer's Kiss" and "The Killing" very much).I wouldn't be so critical except that the film went out of its way to be something different but was so ordinary in every aspect other than its use of locations that it hardly seemed worth it. I would be very interested to know why this film is frequently cited as an example of film noir (it's a crime drama, yes, but really more along the lines of a "Dragnet"-style police instructional). I see that Criterion is releasing the film soon, and in their notes call it a benchmark of film noir too. Dassin's "Night and the City" (a genuine noir) is far superior, in my opinion.

Harry Langdon: The Fourth Genius?

I think if the criteria included success in feature films, it's reasonable that Langdon was given the position he was. I think he did reach the same level of brilliance as Chaplin/Lloyd/Keaton but only for a very brief time. He did not sustain himself the way they did. In other words, he had the comic strength but not the endurance. But I really feel that it was his success in features, however brief, that afforded him this "fourth clown" spot in critical evaluations. Ray Griffith is another comedian who worked well in features, but I would argue not as successfully as Langdon, plus a lot of his work is missing so it's hard to have a complete picture. W.C. Fields also made some very good features, but it's hard to judge since so much is lost. What survives is very funny and clever, but for me at least, doesn't approach the sublime brilliance of the Chaplin/Keaton/Lloyd films that Langdon managed to reach. Based on this criteria alone, I don't think Langdon is being overrated but I would argue that there's something to be said for sustaining brilliance in the craft over an entire decade or more the way Chaplin, Keaton and Lloyd were able to.That being said, if feature films did not enter into the equation, there are a number of other comedians who worked exclusively, or at least primarily, in shorts, who did sustain themselves much better. If you take short films into the equation, it's a whole different situation. Arbuckle, of course, was one of the very best-a comic talent on par with the best of them. While he did make some features, these seem to be more in the genteel tradition, although I did enjoy LEAP YEAR quite a lot. His numerous short films from 1913-onwards are simply amazing (thanks to the recent releases of his Comique films, I am convinced he could have made some feature films that would have even topped Keaton in the breathtaking "How did they do that?" department). Charley Chase is another brilliant comic master, and thanks to the increased availability of the Laurel and Hardy silents, we can see how completely they mastered and matured artistically in the silent medium. Max Linder is another clown, brilliantly creative both in front of and behind the camera, who consistently sustained himself and grew artistically over a long period of time.

Harry Langdon: The Tragic Clown

In discussing the hierarchy of the silent clowns, there is a tendency to keep referring back to a sort of holy trinity of clowns that critics have set in stone as the cream of the cinematic crop: Charles Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Harold Lloyd.

Interestingly, one clown whose name has been disappearing from such God-like status in recent years is Harry Langdon, perhaps the most misunderstood of the major silent clowns. He slowed comedy down, making it more deliberate and subtle, just as Chaplin did in 1915 when he left Keystone studios to pursue his own brand of humor at Essanay. Langdon's work is considerably slower paced and more deliberate than that of even Chaplin, Keaton or Lloyd. Langdon (1884-1944) at one time rivalled Chaplin both critically and commercially, yet two years later was virtually forgotten and being wasted in B-grade short subjects. Why is this?

To answer what went wrong with Langdon's career, we would need to go back to about 1924, when Langdon, already a vaudeville veteran of more than twenty years, accepted an offer to make motion picture short comedies for producer Mack Sennett. Sennett, or someone on his staff, had seen Langdon's act, and even had it filmed so that the writers could re-watch it and get a good feel for the type of comedy that they'd be writing for Langdon. The three men most closely associated with Langdon's film career are Harry Edwards, Arthur Ripley, and a young gag man named Frank Capra.

Whether or not Capra was with the writing team from the beginning has become a point of debate. Capra, in his later years, claimed not only to have been instrumental in Langdon's success as a filmmaker, but also claimed to have created Langdon's character. We now know, thanks to photographs of Langdon's stage show, that the character Langdon played, the "Baby", was already fairly well-established in his early vaudeville days. Capra also expressed a sort of backhanded concern for Langdon in later interviews, frequently referring to the comedian as pitiful, sad, and pathetic.

Capra's claims have become the stuff of intense, heated debate among film scholars. Capra of course went on to become one of America's finest and most personal filmmakers, directing such masterpieces as IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT (1934), MR. DEEDS GOES TO TOWN (1936), MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939), and IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE (1946). From this lofty perch, it was easy to make these rather extravagant claims about his instrumental role in the career of Harry Langdon. But a look at how their relationship ended provides insight not only into the reasoning behind Capra's attitude toward Langdon, but also why Langdon's career came to a dead halt just a year after his peak of popularity.

In 1926, Langdon was signed by First National to appear in feature films. Leaving Mack Sennett's studio, he brought his gag men (Edwards, Ripley and Capra) with him. The first feature, TRAMP TRAMP TRAMP, was a resounding success, and seemed to establish Langdon in the highest ranks of screen comics. His popularity was almost unequaled at this point. The next feature, released in early 1927, was THE STRONG MAN, which did even better than TRAMP TRAMP TRAMP. THE STRONG MAN, which historian Kevin Brownlow considers the finest silent comedy ever made, is a fine showcase for Langdon's talents. It also happens to be the feature film directorial debut of Frank Capra. Capra remained at the helm for LONG PANTS, Langdon's next film. But while making THREE'S A CROWD, Capra was fired by Langdon. Capra later claimed that Langdon had "gone Hollywood" and began to think of himself as a virtuoso genius like Chaplin, whom the critics frequently compared him to. Langdon, it seems, fired his director and writing staff in a burst of creative egomania.

The truth behind this is open to debate. Capra's later comments about Langdon may very well have been nothing more than sour grapes over getting canned by the comedian. While it's true that Langdon perhaps overestimated his own virtuosity as filmmaker and actor, Capra's claims remain suspect. This is not to dismiss Capra's contributions. Any comic filmmaker of the 1920s would have agreed that it was a team effort that got these films made with the level of quality they maintained, and indeed, Langdon's career did downturn very quickly after Capra's departure.

This debate turns into a sort of chicken-or-the-egg rhetoric. What can be seen, though, is that as Langdon's career spiraled downward, Capra's took off.

After two more features in 1928, Langdon's star burned out. He appeared in some talkie shorts for Hal Roach before spiralling off into low budget fare unworthy of his talent. Capra, directing a series of action pictures and dramas, at the same time set himself up as America's premier director of social comedies championing the little guy. Capra's training as a gag man served him well, and he continued to show flourishes of his silent comedy background throughout his career.

Langdon, unfortunately, had few memorable jobs left. Career highpoints included a supporting role in the Al Jolson musical HALLELUJAH I'M A BUM (1933), and a co-starring role opposite Oliver Hardy in ZENOBIA (1939). Aside from a string of two-reelers for Columbia's short subject division, Langdon did some gag writing for Laurel and Hardy before dying, rather sad and broken, in 1944.

Langdon's legacy was championed by James Agee, who profiled Langdon in his excellent Life magazine essay, "Comedy's Greatest Era" (1949). Langdon enjoyed a fair amount of exposure in the Robert Youngson compilations of the 1960s, and was written about with great love and respect in Walter Kerr's book, "The Silent Clowns" which, for better or worse, has become a sort of bible for comedy aficionados.

As the work of other silent comedians becomes available, especially that of Roscoe Arbuckle, Charley Chase, Max Linder, to say nothing of the silent Laurel and Hardy shorts, Langdon has seen his reputation wane somewhat. While critics initially praised his pantomime ability, the evidence shows there were a number of other comedians who equalled him in ability. Langdon, perhaps, will always be remembered as the "Baby" character, and his films offer delights for those willing to watch them in context.

Chaplin (1992)

I pulled out my old video of this and watched it again last night. Unfortunately, it seems like every time I watch it, I like it less and less.

What I can't understand is, what went wrong? The talent, both in front of and behind the camera, was top notch. For the subject of the film, they had one of the most interesting lives of the 20th century, based on two books, including the autobiography, as well as perhaps the definitive biography of the man.Yet for some reason, the film overall is rather dull, excrutiatingly so at times. A major part of this was the decision to portray Chaplin in such a consistently morose and brooding mood throughout the entire film. What about the Chaplin we see in the home movies, clowning around at Pickfair, pulling faces for the camera, doing impromptu bits of business? We see none of this side of Chaplin in the film. In fact, aside from the Karno sketch and the debut film at Keystone, we actually see Chaplin do very little comic business at all. In fact, the film only seems to bring up his films when there is some sort of social commentary connected with it.

Robert Downey Jr.'s portrayal of Chaplin is nothing less than brilliant. His ability to mimic Chaplin's mannerisms without seeming like a mere impersonator are quite good. The rest of the cast is equally good, but the problems seem to lie more in how certain characters were written. J. Edgar Hoover, for instance, as played by Kevin Dunn, seems at times to have come right out of the Ford Sterling school for over-the-top villainy.There also seems to be an inordinate amount of time spent on Chaplin's love life. While this undoubtedly deserves considerable attention in telling his life story, I felt there were just a few too many long scenes that went nowhere.Given how much of Chaplin's amazing life story they decided to ignore completely, its surprising how the film moves just too quickly much of the time in order to establish any depth. Too many of the characters come across as one-dimensional, due to the script.The film starts off quite promisingly, with a good re-creation of the English music halls and the South London that Chaplin grew up in. However, even in these early scenes, there is an example of a technique used in this film that bothered me to no end: the decision to portray some very serious moments in Chaplin's life in the manner of a silent comedy.The first scene I notice this in is during young Charlie's attempted escape from the London workhouse. As two lines of officials come charging down two seperate hallways that converge, Charlie ducks behind a wall, causing the two groups to collide like the Keystone Cops. The workhouse scenes could have been very effective ways of conveying the immense difficulties that shaped Chaplin for the rest of his life; instead, we get this scene that is reminiscent of his later work in slapstick. This technique comes up again later in the film.

Chaplin's first love, Hetty Kelly, is portrayed well, but again, more depth should have been given to it, as this was a crucial moment in Chaplin's life that in many ways seemed to influence his relationships, some of which got him in to a great deal of trouble.The Karno scenes are good; Downey does an admirable job recreating the "Mumming Birds"-type sketch. From these scenes, the film shifts to America, with some breathtaking vistas of the American West.

We catch up with Chaplin in Butte, Montana. Now, here is a part of the film which has always bothered me. It makes it look as though this is the first time Chaplin has seen a motion picture. Surely, he would have encountered them sooner than 1913, especially since movies became a fairly regular part of music hall (and vaudeville) bills in the early years of the century. In fact, it's quite likely that Chaplin encountered the work of Max Linder some time earlier than 1913, certainly. At any rate, this scene is given an extra dose of absurdity by having none other than Stan Laurel just happen to come at that moment with a telegram inviting Charlie to Hollywood to make movies. This scene is straight out of the corniest 1940s biopics. This scene also contains my biggest pet peeve of screen biographies, when a character (in this case, Stan Laurel) is introduced who is well known to the audience but not to the other characters in the film (the recent version of THE ALAMO was filled with this).

The Keystone scenes are my favorite of the film. There is some reasonably good re-creations of what Keystone must have been like. The silent-comedy technique presents itself again in the scene where Chaplin puts together his costume for the first time. There is also a bit of special effects in which the old Chaplin character romanticizes a bit about the tramp character "calling" to him. This silly bit is really unnecessary, and contains some rather outdated special effects (the "glowing" derby, for instance) that serve no purpose other than to be cute.Now, the Keystone segment also presents the biggest outrage in the film: the presentation of Mabel Normand as a loud mouth bimbo who "actually thinks she can direct". This scene is plain insulting to this brilliant comedienne, and a real disservice to her memory. Let's not forget that she was a talented performer and director, and far from being out to get Chaplin, she actually was one of his biggest supporters at the studio. The whole presentation of the character is just so wrong it defies description. I'm sure she and Chaplin clashed creatively, but then again, two unique and brilliant talents working together often do. The line given to Mack Sennett, "She actually thinks she can direct", is an insult. There is also an annoying little error-the cameraman at Keystone is referred to as "Rollie" (as in Totheroh). Surely they could have at least bothered to bring Chaplin's most prolific and valuable collaborator in to the story in at least the right time period (more should have been made of Totheroh's collaboration throughout Chaplin's career in general, really).

From here, I lose all interest in the film. Some major points I have issue with are the virtual dismissal of the Lita Grey divorce trial, which visibly aged Chaplin and was perhaps one of the first major public episodes that changed peoples' opinion of him. In the presentation of the Mildred Harris affair, the "Salt Lake City" episode, which was perhaps one of the worst experiences of Chaplin's creative and personal life, is presented as a silly, sped-up silent comedy replete with slapping and comic policeman, straight out of "Fractured Flickers" or the old Pete Smith "Goofy Movies".Chaplin's increasingly morose attitude just becomes depressing. For a guy who remained brilliantly funny through many trying times and public scandals, he is portrayed as increasingly gloomy and bitter. There should have also been mention made of Chaplin's wonderful family, who obviously kept him very young in spirit into old age. The pictures of the old Chaplin, in his 80s, cavorting with his children and wife on the lawn of their mansion in Switzerland, are some of the most serene moments I have ever seen. The film totally glosses over this.

It would have been nice to portray the fact that Chaplin's life wasn't all scandal and public outcry all the time. Even his brother Syd, one of his most loyal and trustworthy supporters, is presented as someone mean spirited towards Charlie, exploding on him during planning THE GREAT DICTATOR. In fact, Syd was a huge supporter, and it seems that, at least regarding THE GREAT DICTATOR, Chaplin was surrounded by a loyal crew who knew they were making something controversial.There were a lot of other triumphs in Chaplin's life that the film manages to ignore as well. At least the film ends with his return to the Academy Awards.Overall, the film has a lot of faults mainly as a result of the script. It feels rushed, one dimensional, incomplete, and often aimless. Perhaps one day Chaplin's life will receive a screen biography treatment that does his remarkable life story better service.

Clean (2004)

As part of the Charles Theatre's Cinema Sundays program, I attended a screening of the new Olivier Assayas film CLEAN, starring Maggie Cheung and Nick Nolte. What follows is my review of the film.

I went in to see CLEAN not knowing anything about the film. In fact, I had only heard the title of the film a mere ten minutes before it began. If ever I have sat down to watch a film with absolutely no pre-conceived notions, this was it.

The film is a look into a woman, played by Cheung, who is struggling with a heroin addiction and attempting to launch a singing career. After her lover dies of an overdose, she sets about trying to straighten her life out and re-unite with her son, living with his grandparents in Vancouver.

The film weaves in and out between the different incidents in Cheung's life on the path to recovery. I did not find the depiction of addiction to be "harrowing", in the same way that films such as THE LOST WEEKEND depict it. Instead, it was simply matter-of-fact, filled with small touches to help the audience sympathize with the main character.

In the Q & A following the screening, it was commented on that many audiences have responded to the film feeling that Cheung's performance is the best thing about it. That may or may not be true; director Assayas keeps the pace moving with fluid cinematography and, on a number of occasions, Godardian jump-cuts. (Assayas, a former editor with Cahiers du Cinema, was obviously heavily influenced by Godard.) Aside from Nolte, in an interesting role as Cheung's father-in-law, the secondary cast is not given much to do, and their characters do not feel developed fully.

There is also a David Cronenberg-like objectivity with which Assayas paints his characters. He shows their faults as well as their strengths, and this works particularly well in the scenes later in the film, which could have bordered on schmaltzy but are kept quite effective by their matter-of-factness.

The film benefits from location work; San Francisco is glimpsed briefly in the film's final shot, and Canada is used effectively in the early sections, but the best locations, London and Paris, are used for the majority of the film.

Overall, I would rate this film **1/2 out of ****; it felt like an average film, with an excellent lead performance, that left me somewhat detached from its center and secondary characters.

Abel Gance's NAPOLEON

Few films in the history of the medium have trumpeted the technical innovations of the art form in quite the same way Abel Gance's NAPOLEON did.

NAPOLEON could quite possibly qualify as the single most innovative motion picture ever made, in that it put on display a number of techniques that had not really been seen before, or at least, not used within the context of a narrative feature film. Yet, the film is not merely a technical demonstration a la THIS IS CINERAMA, nor is it a film that is only remembered today for having introduced some new process, such as THE JAZZ SINGER or BECKY SHARP.

Rather, NAPOLEON is one of the great human epics of all time. It is a controversial film, to be sure. Many resent Gance's deification of the Little Emperor who conquered much of Europe in an attempt to create a centralized French culture. Regardless of one's political views, I maintain that the film must be viewed objectively, and in doing so, will increase one's appreciation of the masterpiece that it is.

Few epics before or since have had such a strong central figure. Napoleon is portrayed by Albert Dieudonne, who seems to be channeling an intensity in his performance that sweeps the audience away in his passion and fervor. Dieudonne is not terribly well known for any other film performances, so in a sense, he really immortalized himself as Napoleon in this film. Certainly, it is one of the most impressive, career-defining performances an actor has ever delivered.

In his introduction to the cast and crew before filming commenced, Gance called for complete devotion and commitment to the project, even suggesting that they keep in mind the very drive that their ancestors had in bringing about the Revolution and applying it to the making of the film.

The film itself begins with Napleon's boyhood at the Brienne school, where he displays military strategy at an early age in a large scale snowball fight. Napoleon is shown as an intense youth, devoted to his studies, and to his homeland, the island of Corsica. The film continues with his political victory in Corsica over Pozzo Di Borgo, and his military victory in the Battle of Toulon. Rising tensions lead to the triumphant Italian Campaign of 1796, where the film ends. In the currently available US version, running three hours and fifty-four minutes, the story moves briskly and with an epic scale that never backs down.

Among the technical innovations referred to earlier are a rapid-cutting editing style, unlike anything seen before or since, in which images last only for a frame at a time; a split screen that breaks off into a number of different cubes; a camera mounted on horseback to photograph an exciting point of view shot for the chase across the marshes; a camera mounted on a pendulum, swinging dizzyingly over the hectic and chaotic National Convention; and finally, the famous "Triptych" technique used during the Italian Campaign sequence, a widescreen process predating Cinerama by about 25 years, and with multiple images on each of the three screens.

NAPOLEON was a very difficult film to see for a long time. Gance himself re-cut the film a number of times, including a 1934 version that is said to have been the first film to use a stereophonic soundtrack (actually, it was more an approximation of stereo-there was a mono track that was controlled through different speakers to create a dynamic effect), as well as a 1971 version that would be his final film. The original 1927 version ran close to 7 hours-about 6 of which have so far been restored by British historian Kevin Brownlow.

Brownlow's restoration project began in the 1960s, and by 1979, he had put together a comprehensible version running close to four hours. At the premiere, Brownlow telephoned Gance in his hotel room to let him listen to the thunderous applause of the audience. American distribution rights were handled by Francis Ford Coppola, who insisted on letting his father write the score (replacing the Brownlow-commissioned Carl Davis score, that is still used for European showings). Perhaps more crudely, Coppola insisted the film be cut to just under four hours to prevent having to pay overtime to musicians hired to play the score at live performances. The "Coppola" version is still the only one available in the US, despite Brownlow's current restoration running more than two hours longer.

Much has been said about the re-vitalization effect the NAPOLEON re-release had on silent film. It is hard to say whether it was NAPOLEON or the advent of video cassettes around the same time that really led to the massive re-interest in silent films, but regardless, NAPOLEON's place in cinematic history became a certainty with its restoration and new presentation.

Gance lived just long enough to see massive re-appreciation for his most famous and personal achievement. At the time of his death, he was working on a film on the life of Christopher Columbus, that was never completed.

Gance made many other films (LA ROUE and LUCREZA BORGA among them), of course. But with the possible exception of Jean Vigo, it is rather difficult to think of another filmmaker whose career rests so solidly, and whose reputation is ranked as highly, as Abel Gance, deservedly so, on the basis of a single film.