Hiển thị các bài đăng có nhãn Literary Adaptation. Hiển thị tất cả bài đăng
Hiển thị các bài đăng có nhãn Literary Adaptation. Hiển thị tất cả bài đăng
Thứ Tư, 29 tháng 7, 2015
THE GARDEN OF THE FINZI-CONTINIS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Haunting De Sica Holocaust Drama in Digital Restoration at TIFF Bell Lightbox Series, "More Than Life Itself"
The Garden of the Finzi-Continis (1970)
Dir. Vittorio De Sica
Starring: Dominique Sanda, Helmut Berger,
Lino Capolicchio, Fabio Testi, Romolo Valli
Review By Greg Klymkiw
The grandly sprawling walled estate of the wealthy, powerful and aristocratic Finzi-Continis family in Ferrara, Italy has always been a world unto itself, but with the rise of Fascism in the 30s, it becomes a hermetically sealed paradise, a refuge from the madness of a country turning topsy turvy with prejudice, hatred and on the brink of world war. The Finzi-Continis are no ordinary family. They're Jewish in a country rapidly embracing virulent Antisemitism, but even amongst the Jews of Ferrara, they've always been set apart, living upon a pedestal of great intellect and seemingly high above those Jews amongst the middle and working class.
As always, though, prejudice and class seem to be the domain of older generations and the youth have always held the highest regard and friendship for each other, so that even when the wealthiest, most aristocratic Jews have been banned from the elite tennis clubs of Ferrara, its youngest, both Jew and Gentile, secret themselves away within the walls of the Finzi-Continis gardens to carry-on their traditions of weekly tennis matches and friendship.
Based on the novel by Ferrara's own Giorgio Bassani, one of Italy's great authors, it made perfect sense that one of Italy's great filmmakers, Vittoria De Sica would craft a movie adaptation of The Garden of the Finzi-Continis. One of De Sica's last films, it was not only honoured with one of a multitude of Academy Awards his work garnered, but was indeed a triumph of the style and sensitivity he'd become known for with such great works as Bicycle Thieves, Shoeshine, The Children Are Watching Us and amongst so many others, the immortal Umberto D.
Bassani was a Jew who managed to survive the Holocaust and continued to teach, write (pseudonymously, of course) and fight the fascist movement as a member of the Italian underground. Many of his books, like this one, dealt with life under Fascism for the Jews of Italy, but thematically, he found himself drawn to the notion of memory and its ability to act as both a balm and a force of great sadness and danger.
This is what De Sica so beautifully captures in this simple love story between childhood lovers, the aristocratic Micol Finzi-Contini (Dominique Sanda) and Giorgio (Lino Capolicchio), the son of Jewish family of the middle class. Though they're love is deep, Micol looks upon Giorgio as a brother-figure and breaks his heart when she takes up with the ruggedly handsome gentile Bruno Malnate (Fabio Testi). For Micol, the memories of childhood should not be tarnished by "romance" and instead she believes she must instead court the sexy socialist who is her opposite in every way, but as such, provides the kind of spark she can't get from her pea-in-the-pod Giorgio.
De Sica places considerable emphasis on the romantic entanglements and yearnings of this triangle, as well as Micol's deep love for her own brother, the sickly Alberto (Helmut Berger). Though every so often, the realities of fascism and Antisemitism creep in (the young intellectuals are terrified they'll not be allowed to graduate from the universities they're enrolled in), the Finzi-Continis. especially Micol, drive themselves deeper within the walls of their estate. Giorgio's father (Romolo Valli) attempts to ease his son's sorrow by suggesting that the Finzi-Continis have always lived in such an elevated station that he never even considered them Jewish.
He's certainly right about the family's elevated station since their garden seems to not only be a physical enclosure from the rest of the world, but that the entire family, especially Micol, live in a garden that exists in their minds. This is, of course one of De Sica's greatest triumphs as a filmmaker. He so indelibly captures a sense of enclosure that we, as an audience are lulled by it as well.
When Fascism in Ferrara explodes, it comes with such a fury and so swiftly that we, as viewers, seem as unprepared for the film's final, devastating minutes as the Finzi-Continis family are. As Jews are rounded up and separated for deportation to the death camps, we can't help but feel a horrendous catch in our throats, especially as Micol and her aged grandmother huddle together in a cramped classroom converted into a waiting room for death. Memory rears both its beautiful and ugly heads as Micol realizes she's in the classroom of her childhood.
Looking out the hazy windows upon the grey, grim world, De Sica fills his soundtrack with "Kel Maleh Rachamim", the Jewish prayer of mercy for the souls of the departed.
And yes, we weep for the departed and their memories of a world that once seemed so innocent, so beautiful.
De Sica was and still is one of the greatest. Even in his last years as an artist, he continued to make us weep for the disenfranchised, the exploited and the hated, but all the while, still managing to infuse us with humanity and with love itself.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars
The digital restoration of The Garden of the Finzi-Continis plays at the TIFF Bell Lightbox. For Tix, times and dates, visit the TIFF website HERE. For those unable to attend this screening, one assumes the restored film will soon be available on Blu-Ray. In the meantime, there is a Sony Pictures Classics DVD out there with a passable transfer until this new one is released more widely.
Nhãn:
1970,
Drama,
Germany,
Greg Klymkiw,
Holocaust,
Italy,
James Quandt,
Literary Adaptation,
TIFF Bell Lightbox,
TIFF Cinematheque,
TIFF Summer in Italy 2015,
Vittorio De Sica
Chủ Nhật, 5 tháng 7, 2015
THE KILLERS (1964) - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Don ("Invasion of the Body Snatchers") Siegel. Gene ("Star Trek") Coons. Ronald Reagan. Lee Marvin. John Cassavetes. Angie Dickinson. Clu Gulager. Criterion Collection. Blu-Ray. 'Nuff Said.
The Killers (1964)
Dir. Don Siegel
Scr. Gene L. Coon
Starring: Lee Marvin, John Cassavetes,
Angie Dickinson, Ronald Reagan, Clu Gulager, Claude Akins, Norman Fell
Review By Greg Klymkiw
"It's not only the money. Maybe we get that and maybe we don't. But I gotta find out what makes a man decide not to run... why, all of a sudden, he'd rather die." - Charlie Storm (Lee Marvin) in Don Siegel's The Killers
Two hit men, the steely Charlie Storm (Lee Marvin) and his young, wisecracking partner Lee (Clu Gulager), pay a visit to their quarry Johnny North (John Cassavetes). He knows they're coming. He waits for the inevitable, and it's brutal beyond belief. His body jerks, flinches and arches in agony with every bullet hit as the killers empty their guns in as many painful and deadly spots imaginable.
The aforementioned represents the opening minutes of the first American film ever made exclusively for television. The picture doesn't get any gentler. Broadcaster NBC was so appalled they refused delivery. It's not surprising. I also neglected to mention that the opening scene is set in an educational rehabilitation centre for the blind and the killers terrorize a sight-challenged secretary to get the location of their quarry, then summarily pistol whip her into unconsciousness. Luckily for Universal Pictures, the movie was released theatrically instead and was a huge hit at the box-office.
Nineteen sixty-four was just on the cusp of the new permissiveness in American cinema - Arthur Penn's Bonnie and Clyde, for example, was just round the corner and helmsman Don Siegel was already no stranger to tough-minded thrills with such genre classics under his belt as Riot in Cell Block 11, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Baby Face Nelson, The Lineup and among many others, Hell is for Heroes. That Siegel would eventually give us Dirty Harry, Charley Varrick, Two Mules for Sister Sara, The Black Windmill, Coogan's Bluff and Escape From Alcatraz should come as no surprise to anyone watching The Killers for the first time.
Like Robert Siodmak's 1946 film noir version of Ernest Hemingway's great short story, Siegel's film builds up a story around the central idea of two hit men and a victim who has no desire to run. Siegel, however, wished to eschew all obvious references to Hemingway and hoped the film would be entitled Johnny North (after the washed-up race car driver turned criminal played by Cassavetes).
Siegel was also interested in telling the entire tale through the perspective of the killers; a wise choice which veteran writer Gene L. Coon handled magnificently. Coon was a prolific TV scribe, and in fact, was the actual creative brains behind so much of what made the original Star Trek series so immortal - in particular the clever banter, humour and his creative input on some of the most immortal episodes like "Space Seed", "The City of the Edge of Forever" and "The Doomsday Machine".
Coon's dialogue in The Killers is exceptional. Though the film has even less to do with Hemingway than Siodmak's version, the words Coon has spitting out of the mouths of all the characters are clearly inspired by Papa's terse word smithing. As well, the sense of doom which pervades Siegel's film is directly linked to Coon's obvious love for the original short story. The entire backdrop of the car racing circuit was an especially brilliant touch as it adds the sense of daredevil bravado to the character of the doomed Johnny, but also provides a perfect world to attract the film's femme fatale Sheila Farr (Angie "Hubba Hubba" Dickinson) to the hapless hero.
Siegel handles the entire film with his trademark economy and viciously hilarious aplomb. He even makes grand use of the rapid TV shooting schedule to create a tremendous look to both the interior and exterior locations. Veteran TV cinematographer Richard L. Rawlings (Sea Hunt, Gilligan's Island) flooded most of the interiors with light to capture the garish colours of 60s decor and for the exteriors, he superbly harnessed the dazzling California sunshine (doubling as Miami) to wash the film in a strangely harsh glow. Even the dank basements and grungy chop-shops where the criminals plan their heist, are only occasionally pooled with high contrast and, more often than not, are imbued with a flat, even lighting to accentuate the grunge of the settings. The compositions are full of Siegel's sparing, but effective use of canted angles.
The cast, personally selected and approved by Siegel, deliver immortal performances - everyone from the "romantic" leads down to the scuzzy supporting lowlife. One of the more astounding performance comes from eventual Governor of California and President of the United States of America, Ronald Reagan. As the scumbag criminal mastermind-turned-property-developer, Reagan played the only villain of his entire movie career. (This was also his last feature film as an actor.) He oozes evil, but not in any Snidely Whiplash moustache-twirling manner, but rather in his coolness. It's impossible to forget his chilly delivery of the line "I approve of larceny; homicide is against my principles" (knowing he doesn't really mean the latter) and it's inconceivable one could ever clear one's memory banks of Reagan's creepy smile right before he belts Angie Dickinson in the face for "disobeying" him.
The other standouts, of course, are the two hit men; Clu Gulager (whom most will remember as Burt the sleazy warehouse proprietor in Return of the Living Dead) comes across like a handsome Dan Duryea with an oddball "Der Bingle" tone to his deliveries of the acidic lines he's given and Lee Marvin as the laconic, but obsessed hit man gives as great a performance as he's ever given. Marvin's meanness mounts steadily as the film progresses and he's got one of the great moments in movie history when a potential victim attempts a bit of sweet talk to avoid being hit and Marvin half-growls-half-whines, "Lady, I don't have the time.".
And so he does not. If there's one thing which ultimately drives The Killers it's the overwhelmingly haunting sense that time is running out for everyone in the world of the film. The sands keep trickling and only stop once every conceivable body lies dead - as a doornail, of course.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: *****
The Killers (1964) is available on a great Criterion Collection Blu-Ray. In addition to including Robert Siodmak's 1946 classic film noir adaptation with Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner. The Blu-Ray is loaded with great stuff including a new high-definition digital restoration, with uncompressed monaural soundtracks, a wonderful 2002 on-camera interview with Clu Gulager reminiscing about the 64 version, readings from Don Siegel's autobiography, Tarkovsky’s short 1956 student-film adaptation of Hemingway’s story, a terrific 2002 interview with Stuart Kaminsky, the Screen Directors’ Playhouse radio adaptation from 1949 starring Burt Lancaster and Shelley Winters plus, ever-so delectably, a 2002 audio recording of actor Stacy Keach reading Hemingway’s "The Killers".
Order directly from the links below and contribute to the ongoing maintenance of The Film Corner.
In Canada, order HERE
In USA, order HERE
In UK, order HERE
Thứ Hai, 11 tháng 5, 2015
THE BAD SEED - Review By Greg Klymkiw - The Original Nasty Little Girl Who KILLS
The Bad Seed (1956)
dir. Mervyn LeRoy
Starring: Patty McCormack, Nancy Kelly, Henry Jones,
Eileen Heckart, Evelyn Varden, William Hopper, Gage Clarke, Joan Croydon
Review By Greg Klymkiw
"I thought I'd seen some mean little gals in my time, but you're the meanest." - Henry Jones as Leroy in THE BAD SEED
The Bad Seed has yielded a cornucopia of depraved little buggers who've sliced and diced their way through a variety of thrillers and horror films with all the requisite aplomb required to deliver maximum visceral impact.
Few will forget the shot of little Michael Myers in John Carpenter's Halloween, in the leafy suburban innocence of Haddonfield, Illinois, grasping a butcher knife, staring with the eyes of a shark and splattered with the fresh blood of his nubile teenage sister who was previously lolling about in post-coital bliss.
Damien, the pubescent Antichrist from Richard Donner's The Omen remains one of the more memorable killer children in movie history - especially the magnificent moment when he pedals furiously on his tricycle and knocks his pregnant Mom off her plant-watering perch and sends her crashing to the floor from the balcony.
Then there's my personal favourite of all kids-who-kill pictures, Alfred Sole's criminally neglected 70s thriller Alice Sweet Alice, which features some of the most repulsive killings imaginable and for most of the film's running time, we're convinced the killer is sexy tweener Paula E. Sheppard. Etched upon our minds will always be this lovely young miss, the most sickening smile plastered upon her face as she grabs a kitten by its neck and strangles it in front of its owner, the disgustingly corpulent, unwashed Mr. Alphonso, adorned in piss-and-shit-stained pants as he screams at her in his whining falsetto, "You little bitch! You killed my cat!"
The cinematic matriarch of this delightful genre is, without question, smarmy little Rhoda in Mervyn LeRoy's still-astounding film adaptation of William March's bestselling novel and Maxwell Anderson's hit play The Bad Seed.
When Daddy, Col. Penmark (William Hopper, "Paul Drake" from Perry Mason), departs for an extended business trip to Washington, we're immediately introduced to his beautiful, love-starved wife Christine (Nancy Kelly) and their insanely precious daughter Rhoda (the unforgettable Patty McCormack), adorned in a frilly white frock, tap-dancing delightfully into everyone's hearts, her blonde pigtails bobbing, her smiles ever-so warm, her language precise and formal and greeting all who enter the home with a curtsy.
Rhoda is the perfect child for the perfect All-American family.
Wrapping her arms around Daddy, she chirps: "What will you give me for a basket of kisses?"
Daddy responds, as he clearly does every time she asks: "Why, I'll give you a basket of hugs!"
Rhoda is perfection incarnate.
She's also spoiled, jealous and a sociopath.
With Dad out of town, Christine begins to notice a few oddities in Rhoda's behaviour (odder than usual). Her daughter expresses the most vitriolic banter about a schoolmate, little Claude Daigle who has won the penmanship medal at the exclusive private school she attends. Rhoda is convinced she deserved the medal and obsessively natters on about how Claude was singled out for favouritism - pure and simple.
There might be some truth to this.
Rhoda is almost insufferably aware of her perfection and Claude is an adorable young lad from a "lower-class" family who have sacrificed and scrimped to get their boy into a good school.
At a school picnic, the unthinkable happens. Claude drowns. Foul play isn't suspected, but there are some very odd crescent-shaped marks on his face. We eventually learn these quarter moons are identical to the steel plates affixed to the soles of Rhoda's tap shoes. As the tale progresses, Rhoda engages in behaviour that becomes ever-more nasty and self-centred. Christine discovers a few surprises in Rhoda's room and also learns how she herself was an adopted child - that her own birth mother was, in fact, a notorious serial killer.
Uh-oh!
Is Christine's own flesh and blood afflicted with the bad seed?
Was that previous accidental death in the town they used to live in, all that accidental? Was little Claude Daigle murdered? Who tossed lit matches into the basement storm shelter, locked it and listened to the blood curdling screams as the suspicious caretaker (Henry Jones) burned to a crisp?
Not much of this is presented as all that mysterious. We know pretty early on that all is not right with Rhoda and soon, her Mom knows it too. What we get is not so much a thriller, but a delicious melodrama. And who better to deliver the goods than the brilliant Mervyn LeRoy? Retaining much of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the play and its original Broadway cast, he lets the actors emote as if they were on stage and renders many of their key moments in closeup so that the melodrama is heightened further.
LeRoy, of course, delivered the goods on some truly great melodramas from his old studio days: the grand amnesia romance Random Harvest, the weepy orphanage tale Blossoms in the Dust and one of the finest tear-jerkers about the effect of war upon the women who are left behind in his great remake of Waterloo Bridge. He also presided over the nobility of Margaret O'Brien suffering in Little Women, the grand melodrama of Christians being led into the lions' den in Quo Vadis and, lest we forget, Edward G. Robinson croaking out his final words in Little Caesar, "Is this the end of Rico?"
With The Bad Seed, LeRoy acquits himself magnificently. There are a few tiny clunky moments, but they're easily forgiven. When the movie is working at the peak of its power, it has few equals. The subplot involving Claude's alcoholic mother is especially heart wrenching. Played by the brilliant Eileen Heckart, her handful of appearances in the film are accompanied by one of the most astonishing pieces of music from Alex North's score. (I highly recommend the soundtrack album - in particular, the piece referred to which is titled "No More Children".) Heckart's performance is bigger than big - she suffers and stumbles through her scenes with all the passion required AND a mordant wit. One of the movie's great lines is when the booze-soaked Heckart matter-of-factly quips, "It's a pleasure to stay drunk when your little boy's been killed."
Henry Jones as the demented, half-witted borderline pedophile caretaker is also a high point of the picture. Jones oozes creepiness and slime with such abandon, that he might well have rendered one of the greatest on-screen villains of all time. He recognizes the evil in Rhoda because he feels it within himself. It's implied that he might have even sexually assaulted Rhoda, so his death, while shocking, also feels strangely justifiable.
The movie's pace, at first deliberately slow, gradually amps itself up to a shattering climax and a very weird conclusion - tacked on by the Hays Code so that Rhoda doesn't get away with murder. Strangely enough, this censor-initiated coda seems even more horrific than what was there to begin with.
The Bad Seed is completely and utterly over-the-top. Some have suggested it's a product of the time it was made. I'd dispute this vigorously. The movie is a melodrama, and as such, is GREAT melodrama.
At one point, Eileen Heckart remarks: "Children can be nasty, don't you think?"
Indeed they can. And nasty children deliver first-rate entertainment value.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½
The Bad Seed is available on Blu-Ray from Warner Home Entertainment. It's a great transfer and includes a terrific commentary track from Patty McCormack.
Thứ Tư, 11 tháng 3, 2015
THIEVES LIKE US - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Altman Dirty 30s Crime Classic on Kino-Lorber
Thieves Like Us (1974)
Dir. Robert Altman
Starring: Keith Carradine, Shelley Duvall, John Schuck, Bert Remsen,
Louise Fletcher, Tom Skerritt, Ann Latham, John Roper, Al Scott, Pam Warner
Review By Greg Klymkiw
Bowie, Chicamaw and T-Dub rob banks. There's nothing especially romantic, heroic or even mean-spiritedly psychotic about them. They're a mismatched trio, yet their very differences are what bind them as friends and colleagues. Set against the backdrop of the dirtiest days of the depression in Mississippi, much of their time is spent hanging out together; first in hiding after breaking out of prison, then lying low between bank heists.
Played respectively by Keith Carradine, John Schuck and Bert Remsen in Robert Altman's extraordinary Thieves Like Us, these men have doom written all over them. Chicamaw is good humoured enough, but his thirst for booze is unquenchable and under the influence, he's a mean drunk. Even when sober, he's a killer deep down and won't hesitate to blow anyone away who threatens his freedom to dally with dames, suck back the sauce and rob banks. T-Dub is the eldest of the trio and supposedly the brains, but he's a braggart and a simpleton with a weakness for platinum blondes.
Bowie has the most to lose. He's the youngest and most susceptible to falling in with the wrong crowd. It's what landed him a life sentence in the first place. With the potential to leave a life of crime behind him, he makes the only real choice he can. He keeps robbing banks. He doesn't really know what else to do anyway. Holdups are the only thing he's ever really known and he's also deeply loyal to his partners in crime.
There's a spot of hope for him though, when Bowie meets Keechie (Shelley Duval), a woman who loves him and will soon bear his child. We want them to find happiness together, but as a couple, they too have doom written all over them.
It's the depression, after all. We hear FDR going on at length on the radio about the "New Deal" and new beginnings for America, but we know it's all a smokescreen. Doom hangs over everyone, like the thick, heavy Mississippi humidity.
Thieves Like Us has always been my favourite Robert Altman picture from the 70s. It doesn't have the cool attitude of The Long Goodbye, nor the grimy grace and poeticism of McCabe and Mrs. Miller, nor the sardonic wit of M*A*S*H, nor the epic tragedy of Nashville and is thankfully bereft of Quintet's Essex the Seal Hunter. If anything, it comes closer to the kind of muted slice of life exemplified by the great California Split.
What I love most about the picture is Altman's attention to the monotony between bank jobs: the hanging around, the card games, the cold bottles of Coke and cigarettes Bowie shares with Keechie. The stick-ups themselves are not charged with the kind of mad kinetic drive of Arthur Penn's Bonnie and Clyde or the pulpy nastiness of John Milius's Dillinger, but they're so low key that they feel like a genuine profession. One of the guys drives, the other two do the stealing. For the most part, the robberies are without incident. In fact, they seem so laissez-faire that once things turn desperate and ugly, the violence is grim. It seems to explode when you least expect it and it's shocking - not in a Peckinpah orgy of violence, but seemingly as matter of fact as the robberies themselves.
The final robbery staged in the film is brilliantly covered by Altman. The cameras are perched above the action, taking advantage of the high ceilings and allowing the superb, almost matter-of-fact manner in which the men go about their business. It's a God shot so fraught with the kind of tension which spells impending disaster. If tension can feel heartbreaking, Altman has somehow managed to do it.
Altman was blessed with securing cinematographer Jean Boffety, who brought a hazy, grainy realism to the film. The daytime exteriors are, for lack of a better word, ugly: cloudy skies, endless mist, lots of rain, muddy roads, greenery to be sure, but always feeling like it's dripping with humidity. The night exteriors are pitch black, extremely contrasty between the big old Mississippi skies of dark grey and occasional flashes of light from a lone closed filling station or sleepy small town street lights or the occasional headlamps of another car. And when we find ourselves with the characters in the drab interiors, Boffety's lighting captures a kind of shabby, somber beauty.
One of the things about the movie that I absolutely love to death is the lack of a traditional score. In many scenes, radios are on constantly - kind of the way people keep televisions on these days. Of course, what we hear are the haunting tunes of the 30s, but best of all, old radio shows like "Crime Busters". In fact, much of this soundtrack is used less as source music, but in fact, becomes the score itself.
Altman takes us to a place that feels long ago and far away and yet, it also feels sadly familiar in a contemporary world where 99% of the population is becoming more poor and desperate. Along with his co-screenwriters Joan Tewkesbury and Calder Willingham, he manages to retain the flavour of Edward Anderson's great novel on which the film is based, but what's even more extraordinary is how Anderson's punchy, yet unadorned straightforward prose jumps off the page and is captured, at least in spirit, through Altman's haunting mise-en-scene.
The relationship between Bowie and Keechie, especially within this context, does have a kind of vapid, almost desolate sense of romance: the inevitability of two young people finding each other in a place with no escape, falling into each other's arms because no other choices exist, is the only romance life can offer. Keechie is a good hearted soul, but she's plain, unmotivated and uneducated. Bowie might well be a handsome young fella, but he's only motivated to steal and his idea of scintillating repartee is when he asks Keechie what the state animal of Mississippi is and upon her answering with a guess, Bowie takes a swig of his Coke and quips, "It's a squashed dog in the road!"
Somehow, all the film's characters are little more than refuse - roadkill abandoned by a life and country infused with despair. It's a story of the forgotten ones. Those who merely existed and had no other choice but to survive in whatever way they could.
When Altman leaves us with the image of Keechie in a train station, patting her belly which contains Bowie's child, she announces in a voice that seems stripped of all emotion and she says of Bowie, "He didn't deserve to have no baby named after him."
Through our tears, we almost believe her.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars
Thieves Like Us is available on Kino-Lorber Blu-Ray and features a fine commentary by the late Robert Altman. The film looks gorgeous on Blu-Ray. The source has a bit of a battered feel to it, but the transfer impeccably captures cinematographer Boffety's genius in ways it hasn't looked since it was first screened on 35mm.
***NOTE*** The other film adaptation of Anderson's novel is Nicholas Ray's They Live By Night (made in 1947, but not released until 1950). It's a very different approach, but just as great as Altman's.
Thứ Sáu, 31 tháng 10, 2014
THE INNOCENTS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Henry James Classic on Criterion BluRay
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| The perfect marriage of literature & cinema |
Dir. Jack Clayton
Starring: Deborah Kerr, Peter Wyngarde,
Megs Jenkins, Martin Stephens, Pamela Franklin, Michael Redgrave
Review By Greg Klymkiw
There are few pieces of literature in the English language which can come close to the icky dread achieved by Henry James in his novella "The Turn of the Screw" and even fewer still that dare match its almost nectarous levels of creepy, languorous and bone-chillingly odious delights. It's writing that sticks to the roof of your mouth and short of attempting to dig the thick ooze from your maw, you're more often tempted to let it slide stealthily to the pit of your gut until it makes its abominable presence known within your intestines and sits there, like an immobile blob of mucky goo, never to be fully expunged, but just waiting for you to partake of its abominations again and again and yet again until all hope of it ever leaving you is hope worth abandoning. James hooks you for a lifetime and you never shake yourself free of his prose until you're good and dead. Even then, one suspects it will follow you to whatever place your soul ends up in.
That's just the way it is with "The Turn of the Screw" and one of the most phenomenal achievements in all of cinema is how astoundingly producer-director Jack Clayton was able to replicate James's literary power in his film version The Innocents, yet do so in ways that only cinema is capable of. Clayton, of course, surrounded himself with only the finest collaborators to pull this off including a screenplay adaptation by Truman Capote and William Archibald, astonishing cinematography by Freddie Francis, a haunting Georges Auric score and Jim Clark's first-rate cutting.
There's also that to-die-for cast. The gorgeous Deborah Kerr leads the charge. Her icy beauty is pinched and coiled within her indelible performance as Miss Giddens, the repressed, small-town preacher's daughter who takes her first step away from home to be governess to the creepy Miles (Martin Stephens) and innocent Flora (Pamela Franklin), the respective nephew and niece of the confirmed playboy bachelor Uncle (Michael Redgrave) who leaves his "inherited" charges socked away in his sprawling, isolated, lonely country estate managed by the kindly housekeeper Mrs. Grose (Megs Jenkins). What should be idyllic (though in fairness, creepy rural mansions can never really be idyllic), soon gives way to unspeakable horrors in a house so pernicious that each revelation of the evil and perversion coursing through the estate's very soul grips us as obsessively as it does Miss Giddens. The previous governess, you see, the prim but comely Miss Jessel (Clytie Jessop), fell hard for the coarse, brutish groundsman Peter Quint (Peter Wyngarde) and their relationship was not only one driven by sadomasochistic abuse, but Giddens discovers that the children were privy to it, if not even victims of it.
And yes, Giddens see ghosts. Quint and Miss Jessel died most tragically on the grounds of the estate and worse yet, Giddens fears that their ghosts are attempting to possess the innocents, the children, in order to keep their sick, venal, sordid sexual relationship alive in the bodies of the brother and sister she's been sworn to protect.
The very idea that children, siblings no less, could be compelled to offer up their bodies and souls to a continuance of sadomasochism is the stuff of both great literature and cinema.
The novella is written primarily in the first person by Miss Giddens and her "voice" is captured quite remarkably in the trademark Henry James ultra-long sentences, replete with endless parenthetical connectors and interjections. The prose yanks you this way and that way and yet, you're never less than compelled to plough through the eerie, horrifying, mounting and ever-perverse delirium of the text. There are, of course, given its first-person, subtle signposts suggesting that Giddens's narration might not always be reliable, and that there might not even be ghosts at all, but that she's simply going quite mad from repression, longing and isolation. And yet, in spite of this, we always believe that what she's seeing, she believes.
Though one suspects Clayton's mise-en-scene would have always employed the approach he eventually took, it was finally enhanced by the happy accident of distributor 20th Century Fox insisting the film be shot in their patented ultra-widescreen format Cinemascope. This at first annoyed Clayton, but as he soon resigned himself to this format, he and Freddie Francis concocted a brilliant approach which is as faithful to James's prose style as any film adaptation of a literary source could be. Objects and figures are placed at extreme ends of the frame, movements are subtle, yet pointed, and the outer edges of the frame are always treated with distorted anamorphic effects and filtering to create the sense that you're in a world that exists exclusively within the domain of this wretched house, one which is haunted by sick, loathsome spirits.
The other astounding thing is how Clayton scares the Bejesus out of you - not by shock cuts, but by both the languorous, gorgeously composed camera movements, but better yet by the appearance of the ghosts. They appear in the frame almost naturally, sometimes in broad daylight. (James used his prose to create light and often, it's these very segments that are scariest). The POV of the ghosts is almost always via Giddens, but there's one astounding appearance of the vile Quint at a window where we see him before Giddens does. I can assure you, you'll fill your drawers when this occurs. As well, Clayton makes judicious use of dissolves which act, not just transitionally and in terms of delineating time and space, but to also add an essence of the creepy crawly whilst also capturing the very heart and soul of Henry James.
At approximately 125 words, here's a sample of James's creepy prose style in ONE SENTENCE. Note the twists and turns, the parenthetical asides and connectors, all of which are so similar to Clayton's visual style:
But it was a comfort that there could be no uneasiness in a connection with anything so beatific as the radiant image of my little girl, the vision of whose angelic beauty had probably more than anything else to do with the restlessness that, before morning, made me several times rise and wander about my room to take in the whole picture and prospect; to watch, from my open window, the faint summer dawn, to look at such portions of the rest of the house as I could catch, and to listen, while, in the fading dusk, the first birds began to twitter, for the possible recurrence of a sound or two, less natural and not without, but within, that I had fancied I heard.
These very images and sentiments, if not literally captured by Clayton, are spiritually captured by the manner of how things are placed in the frame and how he and Francis manipulate our gaze to where they want us to go. The aforementioned passage is also important as it presents visual touchstones and feelings that should be infused with beauty and caring, but also creepily hint that things with Miss Giddens and/or the house itself are not quite right. Clayton through his miss-en-scene does the same thing, not with words, of course, but through his lens. Like some miracle, Clayton furthermore can capture Giddens's "restlessness" and infuse it with both face-vslue feeling, but something just a touch off.
At a mere 65-words, here's a sentence from James, using Giddens's "voice" wherein we're privy to one of her nocturnal wanderings. The very length and structure of the sentence, glides with a somnambulistic ease and yet, replicates feelings and actions within Giddens that induce us to feel what she feels:
Tormented, in the hall, with difficulties and obstacles, I remember sinking down at the foot of the staircase – suddenly collapsing there on the lowest step and then, with a revulsion, recalling that it was exactly where more than a month before, in the darkness of night and just so bowed with evil things I had seen the specter of the most horrible of women.
That Clayton replicates this very thing cinematically is beyond simple skill as a filmmaker, but is, rather, the work of an artist who himself is so possessed with James (and by extension, James's creation Miss Giddens) that his own directorial touches, whilst remaining wholly cinematic, are as Jamesian as they are his own.
The Innocents is filmmaking at its finest and it's a film that creates images and feelings that are as haunting for you as they are for the characters in the film and even more miraculously, as haunting as they were in written form in a work, so ahead of its time, yet also of its time. The repression of the very ethos of Victorian culture and literature is unabashedly created by Jack Clayton in his film to deliver a movie that will not only terrify the living wits out of you, but stick to your craw and haunt you - at least until you see the film again, and again, and yet, again.
And trust me, the movie never ceases to creep you out.
Never! No matter how many times you see it.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars
The Innocents is available from The Criterion Collection on Blu-Ray and DVD. The anamorphic monochrome images have not looked this good since I first saw a 35mm print on a big screen and the gorgeously designed and mixed sound which was applied via the delectably monaural track affixed literally to its prints via optical in the late, great and lamented analogue process. Both of these elements are handled with utmost respect to the original approach via the high definition digital process of an all-new 4K digital restoration, with the uncompressed monaural soundtrack. The extra features are absolutely first-rate and this might well be one of the best, if not THE best home entertainment product generated this year. We get a fine wide introduction and remarkable commentary track by the noted cultural historian Christopher Frayling, an unbelievably wonderful interview with cinematographer John Bailey about director of photography Freddie Francis and the look of the film which, I'm happy to say (and by virtue of all the things Bailey points out), corroborate my own belief that the miss-en-scene is as faithful to Henry James as any film has a right to be faithful to its literary source without being literary, but wholly cinematic. An additional added feature includes 2006 interviews with Freddie Francis himself, editor Jim Clark and script supervisor Pamela Mann Francis - all of whom provide just the kind of insight into the making of the film that delivers pure, practical as well as artistic knowledge that will appeal to both film lovers and filmmakers. You'll also find the requisite trailer and sumptuous accompanying booklet.
Nhãn:
*****,
1961,
Black and White,
Blu-Ray,
Criterion Collection,
Dual Format Edition,
DVD,
Freddie Francis,
Ghosts,
Greg Klymkiw,
Henry James,
Horror,
Jack Clayton,
Literary Adaptation,
UK
Thứ Tư, 10 tháng 9, 2014
THE SOUND AND THE FURY (TIFF 2014 - TIFF SPECIAL PRESENTATION) - Review By Greg Klymkiw
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| James Franco delivers the "full retard" and Scott Haze is sheer, utter evil incarnate. Just another day o' good old finger lickin' yummy Southern Gothic 4 U 2 enjoy! |
The Sound and the Fury (2014)
Dir. James Franco
Scr. Matt Rager
Starring: James Franco, Scott Haze, Jacob Loeb, Tim Blake Nelson, Joey King, Ahna O’Reilly, Loretta Devine, Janet Gretzky
Review By Greg Klymkiw
Last year, James Franco plunged his lead actor Scott Haze into the unenviable position of having to go ‘full retard’ as a psychotic half-wit in Child of God, the genuinely great film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s shocking potboiler. The real impediment to Oscar glory here was not just going ‘full retard’, but the fact that Haze took a crap on screen, wiped his poopy-butt with a stick, spied on young lovers boinking whilst jerking off, slaughtering a host of honey-pies, having sex with their corpses and then donning their finery before launching into a killing rampage in drag as he goes head-to-head against a whole passel of lawmen.
Here we are, one year later, and Franco hands the brilliant Haze the role of Jason Compson, easily one of the most reprehensible figures in American literature. Haze is probably thanking Franco for this one, though, since Franco reserves the ‘full retard’ challenge all to his lonesome. Playing Jason’s tetched in the head little brother Benjy, Franco sports enormous buck-toothed prosthetics, plenty of eyeball rolling, grunting and drooling. Franco goes further on the ‘full retard’ front than any actor in film history.
This is Franco’s second stab at William Faulkner in so many years, and it mucho-outdoes his shot at As I Lay Dying. Faulkner – to my mind – is a thoroughly unsuitable literary source for film adaptation. God knows many have tried and failed miserably, but Franco just keeps on giving the gift that keeps on giving. He plucks what he loves about the book and splatters it Jackson Pollock-like on the screen. This is probably the best thing to do cinematically with Faulkner's rich, stream-of-consciousness prose. Screenwriter Matt Rager delivers a grotesque blueprint that plunges Faulkner into the same lollapalooza inbred territory as Anthony Mann's overlooked masterpiece of Erskine Caldwell's God's Little Acre and Elia Kazan's madcap Baby Doll.
And good goddamn, I accept this with open arms.
Here’s my bias. I love James Franco as a director. He spits in the face of everything and everybody, does what he damn well pleases and makes movies like nobody else in contemporary America. He celebrates what he's into and does it in such a go-for-broke manner, that it's hard not to respect the finished product.
Here he tackles the meandering tale of the once-rich-and-powerful Compson family dynasty of the Deep South and infuses it with the most delectably over-the-top melodrama imaginable. He divides his film into three chapters, primarily focusing upon the Compson brothers: simpleton Benjy, scumbag Jason and the doomed Quentin (Jacob Leob). In the mix we’ve got ‘fallen’ sister Caddy (Ahna O’Reilly), her ‘bastard’ child Miss Quentin (Joey King), loyal housekeeper Dilsey (Loretta Divine) and even hockey star Wayne Gretzky’s wife, Janet Jones, as the deluded Compson matriarch.
It's the family that snipes at each other, loses most of their legacy together and pretty much helplessly rue the day foul Jason took the patriarchal role. For his part, he steals, lies, vents, abuses and bullies his way through his pathetic, dwindling life.
And what of Benjy, our ‘full retard’? Well shucks, he’s a mite jealous when his beloved sister starts a-rollin’ in the hay with eager male suitors, so he begins a-stalkin’ some local gals and does somethin’ he shouldn’t ougtha be doin’.
This is pure, delicious Southern Gothic at its most insane. It even indulges in some delightful Terence Malick Tree of Life shenanigans, which play like parody of the highest order. Some might believe Faulkner would be spinning in his grave over this one, but I doubt it. I think even he might have had himself as rip-roaring a good time as I did.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4-Stars
The Sound and the Fury is a Special Presentation at TIFF 2014.
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER. BUY IT HERE FOR SOMEONE YOU LOVE!
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Thứ Ba, 9 tháng 9, 2014
THE REACH - TIFF 2014 - Review By Greg Klymkiw
The Reach (2014)
Dir. Jean-Baptiste Léonetti
Starring: Michael Douglas, Jeremy Irvine, Ronny Cox
Review By Greg Klymkiw
The Reach offers up happy corroboration that filmmaker Jean-Baptiste Léonetti’s astonishing dystopian science fiction masterpiece Carré Blanc was no first feature fluke. Léonetti is the real thing and he can direct rings round most contemporary genre helmers. Instead of all the tin-eyed boneheads who keep directing any number of visually challenged studio abominations, Léonetti has ‘go-to guy’ written all over him.
Based on Deathwatch, a hugely popular boys’ adventure novel written by the prolific author Robb White (who also toiled as William Castle’s screenwriter on such exploitation delights as The House on Haunted Hill, 13 Ghosts, The Tingler, Macabre and Homicidal), it was competently adapted by Stephen Susco. Updating the late 60s setting of the book, the script invests it with the right amount of macho existentialism, ultra-violence, hilariously nasty black humour and up-to-the-minute social commentary involving the haves and have-nots of the world.
I have to admit, however, that I originally went into the picture knowing only that it was Léonetti’s sophomore feature starring Michael Douglas, and it was only while watching the movie that I realized its literary pedigree. That it was based on one of many White books I read as a kid (and still proudly own some 40-plus years later) turned out to be extra layers of icing on this very rich cake. (Pathetically, I even remembered seeing the fine ABC Movie of the Week entitled Savages, which starred Andy Griffith and Sam Bottoms in the lead roles.)
This stirring mano a mano variant on The Most Dangerous Game faithfully sticks to the original main characters of White’s book, and for good reason – you can’t beat a winning formula. Madec (Douglas) is a disgustingly rich cell-phone-tied dealmaker who hires the impoverished Ben (hunky Jeremy Irvine of War Horse fame) to be his guide in the deadly Mojave Desert so he can bag a new hunting trophy (he boasts having many), the rare bighorn sheep. The two men are clearly oil and water, but their time together eventually yields a father-son-like bond. Alas, Madec accidentally shoots something he shouldn’t. When it’s clear Ben won’t go for a whopping bribe, the sportsman in Madec sends Ben into the desert so he can hunt him down, but also gives the lad a fighting chance. Ben proves to be a formidable adversary. This fuels Madec even further.
Léonetti keeps the suspense taut, the action blistering and his exquisite eye for placing man against imposing backdrops has not at all wavered since Carré Blanc. His delightfully grim sense of humour is also set to overdrive, especially since Michael Douglas is remarkably game to chew the scenery and spit out one nasty line after the other. The only place Léonetti is let down by Susco’s otherwise fine script is during the climactic moments, which feel like a perverse bargain basement Fatal Attraction.
Given Michael Douglas’s involvement in that film, this could have been a cool borderline post-modernist touch, but the action is rendered far too straight up and oddly, and one can feel Léonetti not quite at ease. You can’t blame him. He’s handed gold, then when it counts the most, his producer (Douglas) and screenwriter toss him a smelly bighorn sheep turd. Luckily for us, we don’t have to smell it for too long and its aroma doesn’t overpower the rest of the film’s smells of victory.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ Three-and-a-half Stars
The Reach is an official selection of the Toronto International Film Festival 2014 (TIFF 2014). For further information please visit the TIFF website HERE.
Dir. Jean-Baptiste Léonetti
Starring: Michael Douglas, Jeremy Irvine, Ronny Cox
Review By Greg Klymkiw
The Reach offers up happy corroboration that filmmaker Jean-Baptiste Léonetti’s astonishing dystopian science fiction masterpiece Carré Blanc was no first feature fluke. Léonetti is the real thing and he can direct rings round most contemporary genre helmers. Instead of all the tin-eyed boneheads who keep directing any number of visually challenged studio abominations, Léonetti has ‘go-to guy’ written all over him.
Based on Deathwatch, a hugely popular boys’ adventure novel written by the prolific author Robb White (who also toiled as William Castle’s screenwriter on such exploitation delights as The House on Haunted Hill, 13 Ghosts, The Tingler, Macabre and Homicidal), it was competently adapted by Stephen Susco. Updating the late 60s setting of the book, the script invests it with the right amount of macho existentialism, ultra-violence, hilariously nasty black humour and up-to-the-minute social commentary involving the haves and have-nots of the world.
I have to admit, however, that I originally went into the picture knowing only that it was Léonetti’s sophomore feature starring Michael Douglas, and it was only while watching the movie that I realized its literary pedigree. That it was based on one of many White books I read as a kid (and still proudly own some 40-plus years later) turned out to be extra layers of icing on this very rich cake. (Pathetically, I even remembered seeing the fine ABC Movie of the Week entitled Savages, which starred Andy Griffith and Sam Bottoms in the lead roles.)
This stirring mano a mano variant on The Most Dangerous Game faithfully sticks to the original main characters of White’s book, and for good reason – you can’t beat a winning formula. Madec (Douglas) is a disgustingly rich cell-phone-tied dealmaker who hires the impoverished Ben (hunky Jeremy Irvine of War Horse fame) to be his guide in the deadly Mojave Desert so he can bag a new hunting trophy (he boasts having many), the rare bighorn sheep. The two men are clearly oil and water, but their time together eventually yields a father-son-like bond. Alas, Madec accidentally shoots something he shouldn’t. When it’s clear Ben won’t go for a whopping bribe, the sportsman in Madec sends Ben into the desert so he can hunt him down, but also gives the lad a fighting chance. Ben proves to be a formidable adversary. This fuels Madec even further.
Léonetti keeps the suspense taut, the action blistering and his exquisite eye for placing man against imposing backdrops has not at all wavered since Carré Blanc. His delightfully grim sense of humour is also set to overdrive, especially since Michael Douglas is remarkably game to chew the scenery and spit out one nasty line after the other. The only place Léonetti is let down by Susco’s otherwise fine script is during the climactic moments, which feel like a perverse bargain basement Fatal Attraction.
Given Michael Douglas’s involvement in that film, this could have been a cool borderline post-modernist touch, but the action is rendered far too straight up and oddly, and one can feel Léonetti not quite at ease. You can’t blame him. He’s handed gold, then when it counts the most, his producer (Douglas) and screenwriter toss him a smelly bighorn sheep turd. Luckily for us, we don’t have to smell it for too long and its aroma doesn’t overpower the rest of the film’s smells of victory.
THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ Three-and-a-half Stars
The Reach is an official selection of the Toronto International Film Festival 2014 (TIFF 2014). For further information please visit the TIFF website HERE.
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER.
AMAZON.CA
AMAZON.COM
AMAZON.UK
Nhãn:
***1/2,
2014,
Action,
Adventure,
Greg Klymkiw,
Jean-Baptiste Léonetti,
Literary Adaptation,
Suspense,
Thriller,
TIFF 2014,
Toronto International Film Festival 2014,
VVS Films
Thứ Năm, 29 tháng 5, 2014
FILTH - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Alcoholic-drug addled-brutal-corrupt-cop trifle fails at being filthy enough.
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| "Och, look at me. Being a Scottish cop, I'm a naughty boy with the lassies." |
Dir. Jon S. Baird
Starring: James McAvoy, Eddie Marsan, Jim Broadbent
Review By Greg Klymkiw
Bruce Robertson (James McAvoy) is an Edinburgh detective bucking for a promotion and he'll do anything to get it, resorting to underhanded manipulation, gossip and outright lying. This won't be much of a stretch for him. He's such a bad boy, you see. Estranged from his lovely wife and little girl, he's an all-out violent thug, corrupt to the max, addicted to booze, drugs and sex, plus he's suitably hard boiled and rumpled to give everyone the feeling he's unorthodox, but effective. Well, he is unorthodox, but his effectiveness is going to be put to the test, but not before the film indulges us in plenty of naughtiness as well as his drug-addled hallucinations.
He's delightfully repugnant and James McAvoy plays him to the hilt, but the movie, being a bit of a lame duck, doesn't have the courage of its wanna-be Bad Lieutenant convictions. I haven't read the 1998 Irvine (Trainspotting) Welsh novel the film is based on, but surely he must have seen Abel Ferrara's 1992 descent into madness - so grotesquely etched by the brilliant Harvey Keitel - and decided he could outdo it on the mean streets of Edinburgh. This is certainly what Filth feels like, but as a movie, it's a mess.
Constantly pulling its punches, Robertson's nastiness is only intermittently funny and the movie is pitched to be over-the-top, but Baird doesn't quite have the style or vulgarity to pull it off successfully. God knows, I love watching scumbags do their thing, but after about half an hour, it started to become tiresome and in its last third it races to connect a whole mess of dots to show us why Robertson deserves redemption.
Oh, poor naughty policeman, he had a rotten childhood and a sonofabitch for a Daddy and he - really, really - no, I mean really wanted to be a good hubby and daddy, but he's had so much suffering that his only choice was to be a pig, but you know, he could change.
Ugh!
I'd have much preferred him to be an out and out slime bucket without the pathetic whining about his past and crying over the blood under the bridge of a marriage he himself flushed down the toilet. The whole film just feels false, especially a series of unfortunate fantasy sequences with Jim Broadbent ham-boning as a psychiatrist in a realm of psychedelia. In fact, most of the fantasy stuff seems half-baked.
In addition to McAvoy, who truly does work overtime here, it would be remiss not to mention Eddie Marsan. He comes close to stealing scenes as Robertson's cuckolded nebbish buddy from the Masons meetings our cop attends. For Marsan to come close to stealing scenes from McAvoy is truly worth a few hat-doffs. And there is, in all fairness to the film, a pretty funny sequence where the two go carousing in Germany.
Ultimately, it's a movie that wants to have its urinal cake and eat it too, though once it bites into the piss pot deodorizer, it coughs it up. Filth is finally the bad cop movie equivalent of a blow job involving the spitting rather than the swallowing of the motherlode. It's simply no dirty fun at all.
Filth is available on Premium iTunes and cable VOD across Canada and opens Theatrically May 30 via VSC at the following venues: Toronto – Carlton Cinema, Vancouver – Rio Theatre, Saskatoon – Roxy Theatre, Victoria – The Vic.
Thứ Tư, 12 tháng 3, 2014
VANYA ON 42nd STREET - Review By Greg Klymkiw - One of the Greatest, if not THE greatest of Chekhov Film Adaptations Ever Made on Criterion Blu-Ray
Vanya on 42nd Street (1994) ****
dir. Louis Malle
Starring: Wallace Shawn, Julianne Moore, Brooke Smith, Larry Pine, Andre Gregory
Review By Greg Klymkiw
"When we come to die, we'll die submissively. Beyond the grave we will testify that we've suffered, that we've wept that we've known bitterness. And God will take pity on us and we will live a life of radiant joy and beauty and we'll look back on this life of our unhappiness with tenderness and we'll smile. And in that new life we shall rest, we shall rest to the songs of the angels in a firmament arrayed in jewels and we'll look down and we'll see evil, all the evil in the world and all our sufferings bathed in a perfect mercy and our lives grown sweet as a caress." - Sonya's final monologue in David Mamet's adaptation of Anton Chekhov's play Uncle Vanya.
If your idea of a good time is not watching two hours of wasted lives, think again. When those same wasted lives come to the collective realization - almost like a series of epiphanies - of just how much they've failed to fulfill their dreams and/or promise, you'll have been rewarded with a journey that will have enriched your very being.
Vanya on 42nd Street is raw in its emotion and approach. Watching Louis Malle's film of the David Mamet adaptation of the great play "Uncle Vanya" is one of the best ways to experience Anton Chekhov on film.
The final product represents the culmination of Andre Gregory's grand theatrical experiment of taking some of New York's greatest actors and rehearsing Vanya for two years with no intention of ever staging it. Gregory, (the Andre of Malle's My Dinner With Andre) had a dream - to create an ideal opportunity for great actors to intimately dive into the depths of Chekhov's multi-layered work - to get to know the text so deeply that the journey's end would, in fact, never end. The goal was to infuse these actors with Chekhov's genius and, at the same time, for very select audiences - usually in the living rooms of friends' apartments - to experience, from Gregory's vantage point, both the journey of the actors and that of Chekhov's characters.
Malle attended one of these legendary living room performances and immediately decided a film version that captured both Gregory's vision and the truly astounding interpretations of Mamet's adaptation of Chekhov's work was in order. With Malle's unique eye as a cinematic storyteller - blending both his documentary background with his deft and delicate touch for drama, Malle framed a performance of the play as a run-through with the actors - in their street clothes and in the environs of a crumbling old theatre on 42nd Street in New York.
At first, we're quite aware of this conceit, but as the magic of Chekhov overtakes us, it's impossible not to be drawn in by the brilliance of the original play, Mamet's adaptation (more of an edit, or polish - to strip out a few formal tropes of theatre from Chekhov's period), a gorgeously composed, though unobtrusive camera and last, but not least, a cast that includes actors who seem like they were born to evoke Chekhov's universal themes and language.
Vanya (Wallace Shawn, the writer of Malle's My Dinner With Andre and who played the "My" of the title) is the brother-in-law of Serebryakov (George Gaynes), a stuffy academic who acquired an old country estate by marrying his first wife (Vanya's late sister) and has now, left his widowhood behind to marry the unmistakably beautiful Yelena (Julianne Moore). With his niece Sonya (Brooke Smith), Vanya manages the estate and the business affairs of his late sister's blusteringly pretentious husband. The family receives visits from Astrov (Larry Pine), a physician constantly called to tend to Serebryakov's ailments - most of which are of the psychosomatic variety.
Vanya and Yelena are greatly suited to each other in every respect - save for the fact that she finds him physically repulsive. Astrov, along with Vanya, is madly in love with Yelena. She's physically attracted to him, but they clearly do not share the intellect and humour she enjoys with Vanya. Then there's Sonya - who is madly in love with Astrov, who barely notices she's there - hanging on his every move, word and gesture. Serebryakov loves Yelena, but fears he is too old for her. Yelena, clearly has no love for Serebryakov, but she is intent to stay faithful to him.
These roiling passions - all unrequited - come to a head when Serebryakov decides he wishes to sell the estate and move to Finland. This would displace the whole family and housekeeping staff. Vanya is finally, after years of subservience and servitude, forced into action.
Wallace Shawn is a perfect Vanya - a funny, charming, yet occasionally sad-sack nebbish. His lovely performance elicits an equal number of laughs and tears. Julianne Moore is utterly radiant as the object of everyone's affection and Larry Pine as the physician who abandons everything for a love that will never be, is a perfect skewed-reverse-image of Shawn's Vanya. The revelation is the sad, funny and yes, beautiful Charlotte Moore as Sonya - her character creeps about in the background, yet when she exudes a force before unimagined, it instills the overwhelmingly expressive feeling that, "Of course! Her actions and words make total sense!" Moore deliver's Sonya's final speech from the play with such gentle, persuasive force that I can't imagine anyone watching it dry-eyed.
Vanya on 42nd Street is an extraordinary experience. Malle's career was one in which he delivered many great films. This one in particular made me and his numerous admirers wait with baited breath for his next work. Sadly it never came. It was his last film before he died of lymphoma one year after making the picture.
I can't think of a more perfect swan song.
"Vanya on 42nd Street" is currently available on a gorgeous new Blu-Ray from the Criterion Collection. In addition to the stunning new transfer, it is accompanied by modest, but at the same time, extremely informative and revealing extra features.
Thứ Hai, 24 tháng 2, 2014
TARAS BULBA (2009) - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Sub-Par Russian Version of classic Ukrainian tale of revolt is little more than a pallid made-for-tv-miniseries-styled slab of propaganda that might stir the loins of Putin-lovers-and-apologists, but it doesn’t come close to mining the stirring potential of Gogol's great story.
Taras Bulba (2009) **
dir. Wolodymyr Bortko
Starring: Bohdan Stupka, Ihor Petrenko, Vladimir Vdovichenkov, Magdalena Mielcarz, Sergei Dryden
Review By By Greg Klymkiw
In light of the recent events in Ukraine, it seems appropriate to turn our attention to one of the more egregious displays of cinematic propaganda I have seen in a long time. The charge of disinformation is, for once, not levelled against Hollywood, but Russia. This is not the Russia of the butcher Joseph Stalin, but that of contemporary Russia, a country rife with the sad, evil remnants of Stalin in the guise of its leader Vladimir Putin who, in his previous career was a nasty little KGB spy who specialized in rooting out those who opposed the supposed glories of Communism and prior to that, when he, as a teacher and academic, disgracefully used his position to carry out surveillance on students.
The film on view is Taras Bulba, a relatively recent and expensive (by Russian standards) screen adaptation of the legendary Ukrainian writer Nikolai Gogol’s great novella of the same name and a film that chooses to use Gogol’s pro-Russian version as its base rather than his original manuscript. Gogol bowed to the will of Czarist Russia and delivered a revised product more in keeping with the country’s own version of Manifest Destiny throughout Eastern Europe.
Propaganda in the cinema is nothing new. In fact, many knee-jerkers will look for any excuse to trash Hollywood for this very thing. Since its very beginnings, a common charge against Uncle Sam’s cinema has been the preponderance of propagandistic elements to extol the virtues of truth, glory and the capitalistic American way in terms of cultural/political superiority and to defend the country’s constant need to engage in warfare. One cannot disagree with this common assertion; however, America ALONE has not propagated the myths of their “superiority” using the most powerful medium of artistic expression – the cinema.
The most common example of this would be the vicious work of Nazi Germany’s Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, who utilized cinema to spread anti-Semitism with The Eternal Jew, a foul “documentary” that goes so far as to trace and equate the spread of Judaism with that of rats and the spread of the Black Plague. Of course, no mention of Nazi propaganda would be complete without referring to the work of the brilliant Leni Riefenstahl – a truly great artist who delivered one of the most stunning, yet reviled works of the 20th century, her stirring document of the Nuremburg Rallies, The Triumph of the Will.
Strangely, the work of Russian propagandists has not seen the same kind of vitriolic bile heaped upon it and yet, Sergei Eisenstein, (surely as brilliant a filmmaker as Leni Riefenstahl) was happy enough to wear extremely comfortable knee-pads as he knelt before the dictatorial powers of Russia to continually afford him the opportunities to make movies. Eisenstein delivered one film after another that not only propagated the myth of Communism and the notion of Russian superiority, but eventually even extolled the virtues of an even bigger butcher than Hitler, Joseph Stalin. (For more on this, see my review of the Kino DVD release of Battleship Potemkin by visiting HERE.)
This new version of Taras Bulba received a substantial portion of its financing from the Russian Ministry of Culture and while it may bear the trademarks of typical old-Soviet-style propaganda, it is hardly a work that bears the hallmarks of superior filmmaking. At least Eisenstein, Riefenstahl and any number of American directors who generated similar propaganda (Steven Spielberg with Saving Private Ryan is a good example) are great artists who created landmarks of cinema that expanded the boundaries of the medium. The mediocre, though clearly competent television director Wolodymyr Bortko (who prefers the Russian transliteration “Vladimir” in spite of his Ukrainian heritage) serves up some sumptuous production value, elicits some fine performances and seasons his celluloid broth of borscht with all the clichés of epic cinema, but none of the depth one might find in the work of masters of the elephantine genre like David Lean. Bortko’s screenplay adaptation unimaginatively catalogues, almost by rote, the events of Gogol’s Russified version of the novella, but somehow manages to completely miss the spirit of the original writing.
Telling the classical tale of a Cossack Chief, Taras Bulba (majestically portrayed by the great Ukrainian actor Bohdan Stupka) who sends his beloved sons Andriy (Ihor Petrenko) and Ostap (Vladimir Vdovichenkov) to the Polish-ruled university in Ukraine’s capitol city Kyiv to not only get a well rounded education, but to acquaint them with the “enemy”. He eventually takes his sons to the legendary Cossack “Sich” (fortress) of Zaporozhia to train them in the skill of Cossack barbarism.
Bulba’s hatred for Poland flares even more intensely when he learns that his farm has been destroyed and his wife is murdered by the Poles. He manages to get the Cossack nation to march against Poland and soon the Ukrainians are wreaking havoc and decimating their Polish rulers. Things come to a head when Bulba and the Cossacks attack the Ukrainian city of Dubno which is under Polish rule. Unbeknownst to our title character, when Bulba’s most beloved son Andriy was at school in Kyiv, he fell in love with Elzhbeta (the eye-poppingly stunning Magdalena Mielcarz) a member of Polish royalty. As bad luck would have it, her father is now the governor of Dubno and Andriy realizes that he is laying siege to the city of his beloved. Love, it would seem, becomes the ultimate enemy as Andriy betrays his country and father to be with her.
It’s a great story! One of its biggest fans was Ernest Hemingway who proclaimed its genius whenever he could. Too bad, then, that this film version is so by-the-numbers. That said, even a mediocre rendering such as this one is no match for the power of Gogol’s literary prowess and for this we are dealt some tender mercies. Finally though, the movie is a bit of a slog – plodding along its way, but without any of the spark of the original writer. In fact, the tone of the movie is resolutely dour. This is no surprise since screenwriter-director Bortko has chosen to amplify the Russified version of the novella. Without that glorious spark of Gogol’s wonderful sense of boys’ adventure and his delightfully, deliciously and resolutely Ukrainian sense of humour (so beautifully captured in J. Lee Thompson's 1964 Hollywood version), the movie has all the spark of a funeral dirge.
By over-emphasizing the Russification of the original text what we have is a brutal glorification of Russian superiority. This grotesque mockery of a story that, in actuality is a rousing depiction of Ukraine’s never-ending fight for freedom from subjugation leaves us with a very foul taste in our mouths. We are handed one ultra-violent set piece after another – all in the service of boosting Russia’s own notion of might as right. By appropriating this very Ukrainian story by one of its great writers and turning it into grotesque Russian propaganda to try and suggest that the Cossacks and in turn, the Ukrainians, consider themselves little more than barbarians doing the bidding of those who would subjugate, exploit and even perpetrate genocide against them (as Stalin did) is thoroughly reprehensible.
Historically, even the occasional guarded loyalty the Zaporozhian Cossacks paid to the Russian Empire was betrayed by both Czar Peter I and Catherine the Great, the former forcing them to scatter or face death, the latter ordering a full-on genocide of the Zaporozhian Sich. None of this would have been lost on Gogol - especially with his first, but suppressed edition of the novel and even within the Russified version, this healthy distrust of the Empire boils just below the novel's surface.
Bortko’s mediocrity as a director reaches its nadir, however, in his lame handling of the fighting, action and battle scenes which is, in a word, dull. With fabulous locations, thousands of extras and impeccable production and costume design, he cannot direct action. His shooting style is cudgel-like, but it never has the thrilling and freewheeling quality the action needs. Bortko appears to have everything that money can buy – everything that is, except the genuinely distinctive artistic voice that would allow him to rise above his own mediocrity.
I do reiterate, though, that such propagandistic shenanigans would ultimately not be as problematic if this was actually a good movie, but it isn’t. Saddled with a clumsy flashback structure, a lazy use of prose narration from the novel and a dull television-mini-series mise-en-scene, Taras Bulba might stir the loins of Putin-lovers-and-apologists, but it doesn’t come close to mining the stirring potential of the story.
Let’s not forget that Gogol came from Cossack stock and that he was inspired by the very moving Ukrainian nationalist “dumy” (folk ballads) of the Cossacks themselves. Also, one of Hohol/Gogol’s chief literary inspirations was the great Scottish writer Sir Walter Scott and that “Taras Bulba” was conceived as a Ukrainian version of those swashbuckling tales of Scottish Highlanders battling their British oppressors/occupiers (especially notable in "Rob Roy"). A cool historical footnote is that Cossacks themselves might have had some roots in Scotland at a much earlier historical juncture. Another interesting correlation between Scott and Gogol is that both portrayed strong, sympathetic Jewish characters in their respective swashbucklers - Scott created Rebecca in "Ivanhoe" and Gogol gave us Yankel in "Taras Bulba". (The latter character seems to fit the fact that Catherine the Great effected a genocide upon the Ukrainian Cossacks whose administrative power was actually presided over by Ukrainian-Jews - all the record-keeping discovered in archeological digs at the Sich was found to be written in Hebrew.)
Not surprisingly, the best film version of Taras Bulba is the fabulous aforementioned J. Lee Thompson epic from Hollywood in the 1960s. It captures the derring-do, the humour and the stirring, romantic nationalism of the story by adhering the book’s Ukrainian roots as opposed to Bortko’s ill-conceived attempt to please Vladimir Putin. The American treatment of the character of Andriy, the son who betrays father and country is far closer, I think to the spirit of what Gogol intended. Ihor Petrenko’s portrayal of Andriy is so dull and serious. It especially lacks the boyish charm that Tony Curtis with his swarthy Hungarian-Jewish looks and magnificent sense of humour brought to the role.
The other idiotic attempt to Russify this story is how Bortko has commissioned a musical score so lacking in any spirit whatsoever. At least in the Hollywood version, legendary composer Franz Waxman based his entire score on traditional Ukrainian music and delivered a score that was cited by even Bernard Herrman as one of the great scores of all time. (For my full review of the Hollywood version, feel free to visit HERE.)
In fairness to Bortko, however, his screenplay, unlike the Hollywood version restores the odd symbiotic friendship from Gogol’s novella between Bulba and the Jewish money lender Yankel (yielding a stellar performance by Sergei Dryden) and, most importantly, he includes the whole aftermath involving the capture, torture and execution of Ostap at the hands of the Poles and Bulba’s revenge and final noble sacrifice. These are all stirring story beats and while I am grateful for their inclusion, I am less grateful that they are present almost solely to provide Russian propaganda.
This version of Taras Bulba no doubt has poor Gogol spinning in his grave. I’m sure he never would have imagined that so many generations later his work would be bastardized as a piece of propaganda for the country that even now seeks to consume his Motherland whole and tries continually to repress its spirit, culture, language and people.
Worse yet, that it should be a version that reeks of Made-for-TV miniseries mediocrity.
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