“My Favorite” Strife December 28, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, General Film, Fritz Lang , 2 commentsEveryone knows that the end of the calendar year has become a time to blink and reflect at the past twelve months, tidily summed up in list format despite the undeniably ridiculous and simplistic process of choosing an arbitrary number of “important” candidates. I’m not complaining though. I actually like these little exercises, whether it’s just a top 10 or even if it involves a full-blown trophy ceremony. I recognize the absurdity and I revel just the same. When the staff at DVD Times put together separate lists for top 10 films and DVDs of the year, I carefully considered my choices and picked what I felt were deserving selections among everything I’ve seen, even if, regrettably, I know there are some things I didn’t manage to view that would probably nudge ahead of things I did include.
Around the same time, I supported the idea that the reviewers at DVD Times should put together individual top 10’s of their all-time favorite films. My thinking was twofold. First, it lets readers associate the reviewer with certain films that mean a lot to that writer. It’s not a situation where noses should be upturned because this person really loves any particular film so much as an opportunity for likeminded readers to possibly give more weight to a review (and therefore seek out or avoid the DVD) based on what specific films the reviewer holds near and dear. Second, it will hopefully serve as an alternative to an upcoming feature on the site. This feature isn’t really a secret, I don’t think, but I probably should refrain from discussing it all the same.
So this left me with the task of compiling a top 10 list. I quickly settled on 8 films. Here’s where the arbitrariness of the number 10 comes in to play. It seems, after considerable thought, that I really have a bedrock list of 8 films that stand head and shoulders above the rest, not 10. Still, I needed 2 more, if for no other reason than to appease the unnamed goddess of neat and tidy listmaking. For better or worse, there are probably half a dozen films or more that could vie for those last couple of slots. I’m reminded of why people claim to hate top 10 lists. In some way, I’m going to be defined by what’s included and what’s omitted (just as I am on the Top 50’s by decade here). Too obscure, too popular, too old, too new. It’s silly, but I don’t like any of those labels. That somehow turns the 10 films into avatars of something more. If you’re only including 1 film per director then automatically that establishes said film as your pick for that filmmaker’s best.
I had a variation of that problem with Martin Scorsese. He’s one of my favorite directors by a wide margin, but I can’t say there’s any one film I think is most deserving. Raging Bull may very well be his best, but it’s not my favorite for many reasons. Goodfellas is another one right up there, and I enjoy it immensely every time I give it a watch, but it’s not top 10 material for me. Neither is Taxi Driver or the less lauded but equally enthralling After Hours. In many ways, Mean Streets is my favorite Scorsese (to be reflected by my 1970s list in a few months), though I hesitate to move it up above some more deserving films. In the end, I can’t put any of these on my list despite my affection for Scorsese. Similar issues arise with Robert Altman and Ernst Lubitsch, two more directors I adore but can’t single out just one of their films as obviously superior. There’s Nashville, but my home state allegiance prevents me from fully loving Altman’s epic. Is Trouble in Paradise better than Design for Living or The Shop Around the Corner ? I don’t know and I really don’t want to decide.
I think I’ve settled on a 9th film and now I’m left scrambling for the final selection. Some of the ones in the mix are The Godfather (too popular and overanalyzed?), In the Mood for Love (too recent and in need of another viewing?), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (damn near perfect, but I put it below several others in my 1940s list and maybe it’s not hardly at this level), The Palm Beach Story (represents Sturges, but possibly a little out of its league in this range also) and Fritz Lang’s M. Leaning in favor of M, I decided to give it a fresh watch.
M was Lang’s penultimate film in Germany, sandwiched between Woman in the Moon (Frau im Mond) and The Testament of Dr. Mabuse, and his first experiment with sound. He’d flee for America three years later, in 1934. Watching M with a reasonably extensive knowledge of Lang’s career before and after, the film seems like a culmination of the themes explored over and over in the director’s filmography. Guilt, paranoia, hypocrisy, the criminal process, social change, and the evolution of a turbulent society. Those things are all here, well explored and without easy answers. A master filmmaker like Lang was able to repeatedly turn to these issues, either individually or collectively, with enormous success and without becoming dull or repetitive. It’s easy to see everything from Spione and Fury to Beyond a Reasonable Doubt and The Big Heat in M, but it’s the 1931 film that brings it all together and mesmerizes you in the process.
Lang uses technical tricks, including but not limited to some of the best utilization of sound in film history, and a great performance from Peter Lorre to tell the story of a compulsive child murderer unable to stop or be caught while committing heinous and disgusting acts of violence. Lang doesn’t want his audience to merely focus on Lorre’s pedophile though. The investigation process, told mostly through Otto Wernicke’s Det. Karl Lohmann, is the backbone of the picture. Lang seemed fascinated by procedural sagas and here he uses Lohmann as a fat cat alternative to Lorre’s Beckert even though the murderer is identified and caught by more sinister forces. Those forces have lynch mob written across their angry faces and his first American film, Fury, seems to clarify how Lang felt about those out of control vigilantes.
But here, in M, the private citizens are the ones who almost bring Beckert to “justice” and give the film’s final 20 minutes an incredibly foreboding energy that nearly sputters out in the last few frames. I think the ending asks the audience an uncomfortable question of what exactly we want to happen to Beckert. Are we rooting for the mob to take justice into their own hands and completely subvert due process, or are we hoping for the eventual police intervention? Do viewers require resolution, regardless of how lawless, or can we accept that the legal system will distribute justice? Michael Haneke would be proud.
Ultimately, the power of Lang’s film won me over and cemented its position. I’m not sure it’s really one of my favorite top 10 films ever made, but it’s a nearly flawless movie and Lang is one my very favorite directors. I love The Big Heat and Scarlet Street, but M seems somehow more perfect and absolutely essential. It’s a remarkably modern film that has aged as well as anything put on celluloid and it laid a significant portion of the foundation for the crime film, my favorite genre. I’d never assign importance of a movie based solely on its influence and I think M probably works as well now as it did decades ago. In deciding my list, it comes down to the thought of hating the idea that someone could only watch one Fritz Lang film, but knowing that M would be the choice in such an unlikely and unfortunate situation.
The Shop Around the Corner December 20, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1940s, Ernst Lubitsch , 3 comments
The Shop Around the Corner is a 1940 film directed by Ernst Lubitsch and adapted for the screen by Samson Raphaelson. James Stewart stars as a sales clerk in a small Budapest shop and top-billed Margaret Sullavan plays a newly hired shop girl in the same quaint little store. The plot point that usually grabs the most attention is that the two co-workers fall in love with each other anonymously while also clashing at work, but this isn’t entirely revealed until over halfway through the picture. The famous remake from a few years ago starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, You’ve Got Mail, neglected the other, precisely crafted details that make the movie so wonderful and instead focused almost solely on the unlikely romance between two people who outwardly loathe each other.
I can remember Hanks commenting in interviews promoting his version that he couldn’t figure out why the Lubitsch film is set in Budapest with characters mostly forgoing accents despite their Hungarian names. Raphaelson was a New Yorker through and through, but Lubitsch was, of course, from neighboring Germany. He had a knack, along with his torch-carrying protege Billy Wilder, for turning eastern European plays and stories into slightly Hollywoodized film product that retained a sophisticated sweetness without melting into sickly sugar. This is what happened with The Shop Around the Corner, which was based on the play “Illatszertar,” or “Parfumerie” written by Miklós László, a Hungarian playwright who, like Lubitsch, relocated to the United States. Obviously, Raphaelson and Lubitsch could have moved the events to New York City or somewhere similar, but why?
Any alterations to the setting might have worked, but, more likely, would have affected the entire atmosphere of the story. The small, incredibly charming store depicted in the film doesn’t feel American at all. The hustle and bustle of metropolitan capitalism feels a world away from The Shop Around the Corner. Cigarette boxes that play “Winter Wonderland” just wouldn’t have had the same effect. Plus, it’s nice to have a Christmas movie that’s in English but retains some of the more European aspects of the holiday.
One thing in the film that struck me on a recent viewing was the incredible differences in how Christmas is now versus how it’s depicted here. Some of these are obvious and expected, but the fascinating and mildly depressing truth is that most aren’t. The shop workers are nice, customer-oriented and ready to help. I’m assuming this was fairly accurate for the time and place and I’m not surprised, but it’s definitely not consistent with my experiences. More interesting is the contrast between how the characters approach the holiday and their expectations and the lack of stress they show. Somewhere in these last 67 years, it seems that Christmas has become one of the most stressful times of the year. Here, it’s a happy time of relief and excitement that isn’t preceded by months of worrying about what to buy or the impending credit card bills.
Cultural and generational changes I’ll accept, but there’s more. Sullavan’s Klara is fretting a little over whether to buy her soon-to-be fiance that she’s never met a cigarette box or a wallet - humble gifts that represent her love without having to compensate by purchasing more and more things he doesn’t need. Now we buy cars and expensive gadgets and various other things we were fine without before we knew neighbor Bob and celebrity spokesperson Jim had one. Essentially, it’s materialism and consumerism that have combined to completely alter the landscape of what Christmas is and what giving gifts must entail. Try giving someone a cigarette (or candy) box that plays “Ochi Tchornya” instead of a GPS this year and watch the reaction. Your kids don’t get iPods, they get imported pigskin wallets. One’s practical and useful, the other is a toy that distances us from society.
Speaking of distancing, the gap created by Alfred and Klara, the two characters Stewart and Sullavan play, is remarkably touching. The film begins when Klara enters the store and Alfred helps her like he would any other customer. He finds out she’s not looking for a cigarette box, but, instead, a job. The very practical store owner Mr. Matuschek (played by the great Frank Morgan, aka the Wizard of Oz) doesn’t have any positions available, but sees Klara is a skilled salesgirl and reluctantly hires her. Lubitsch and Raphaelson insert little digs between Alfred and Klara, all the while slowly building up the mystery pen pal letters Alfred has told his friend and co-worker Vadas about. It’s a shining example of economic filmmaking and storytelling, where a film that’s ostensibly a romantic comedy neglects romance for the majority of the movie and peppers the comedy just perfectly. Lubitsch’s movies are so often described as those dreaded romantic comedies, but they resemble almost nothing in other films of this genre. They’re light and serious, funny and poignant, and genuinely, but quietly romantic.
The duality explored in Klara and Alfred’s relationship is perhaps the film’s strongest aspect. That these same two people could believably love each other without realizing it and simultaneously dislike, even have contempt for the other is remarkable, but absolutely true of how love often works, I think. Their outward interactions, the public face each shows, cause disregard and antipathy while their private, often innermost thoughts and feelings build a deep bond of affection and trust. This is love in a nutshell, right? No one is the same behind the closed doors of their mind as they are in the more vulnerable arena of the daily outside world. When we meet someone and develop a lasting love, isn’t it almost always because we learn and adore who the person really is, the one they show only us, and not who the rest of the world gets to see. Klara and Alfred exposed themselves in their letters and found each other through the mind instead of the eyes. Beautiful. And that moment when Klara realizes that Alfred is her box 237 must be one of the most fulfilling and romantic scenes ever in film, completely and honestly earned by Raphaelson and Lubitsch.
The complex real-life relationship between Sullavan and Stewart adds another fascinating layer to the film. The two had met while Stewart was at Princeton and he joined a stock company that included Sullavan. He was apparently smitten immediately, but she was becoming established as an actress and he was a shy, gangly college student. Things became a bit more complicated when Stewart’s good friend Henry Fonda, also in the same acting company, married Sullavan while she was making a name for herself on Broadway. She went to Hollywood and divorced Fonda, who ended up rooming with Stewart in New York. By the time Stewart made his way out west, Sullavan had become a known leading lady and had married and divorced director William Wyler before settling down with Leland Hayward, who became Stewart’s agent. They would make four movies together total and most all accounts indicate that Stewart carried an unrequited torch for Sullavan throughout.
Michael Clayton December 1, 2007
Posted by clydefro in : Modern Films, 2000s , 3 comments
Admittedly, this is not a traditional review at all. I saw Michael Clayton a couple of weeks ago, in a small theater on an otherwise uninteresting day. I was anxious to watch it, based on positive reviews, George Clooney’s usual dramatic competence, and writer/director Tony Gilroy’s impressive screenwriting work on the Bourne films. It didn’t blow me away though. Far from flashy or calling attention to itself, Gilroy’s directorial debut plays like a highly competent legal thriller. Yet, it sneaks up on you. I’ve seen nearly every lawyer-related movie I know of, but this was a refreshingly different approach. No courtrooms, no cases really. Clooney’s Michael Clayton character is a lawyer in name and title only. He describes himself as a janitor, someone who fixes the problems of the rich.
This is apt, too. The character is incredibly weary, worn like a reliable pair of pants bought years ago. The story is told in a present-flashback-present mode that too often feels gimmicky, but completely works here. We don’t see what Clayton was or did before the events in the film, but Clooney’s performance and Gilroy’s contribution tell us absolutely everything. It’s stunning how accomplished and effortlessly the backstories stand out here. Anything we need to know about what Michael Clayton has done previously is completely contained within Clooney. The diversionary false lead we’re given, where Clayton visits a wealthy hit-and-run proponent in the middle of the night, works incredibly well the second time around. In fact, it’s difficult to think of another movie where the before-and-after device is used to better effect.
The most surprising thing here isn’t that the movie works, it’s that it really sticks as an affecting, memorable look at corporate malfeasance. I’ve been trying to catch up and voraciously watch the “big” fall movies and few, if any, have made an impact like Michael Clayton. It’s absolutely solid movie-making, on par with the best of the genre films Hollywood put out in the 1970s. Yet, because it is so enmeshed in conventional storytelling and limited ambition, I think it’s easy to overlook the film initially. There’s little that stands out while you’re watching the movie. Frequently, I’ll find myself completely enthralled in a film’s plot, dying to know what’s going to happen, only to end up shedding any lasting memory of it hours later. By total contrast, Gilroy’s film has burrowed its way inside my head while others have long since fallen by the wayside.
A huge part of this is due to the ending (I won’t spoil it, don’t worry). I don’t think there’s been a more fitting finale all year. I’m generally not great with endings. I don’t always remember them and, unless they pull the rug out from under the rest of the movie, I often fail to place any additional emphasis on the last few minutes than what I’d been watching the previous couple of hours. Michael Clayton is different somehow. So completely satisfying, so mysteriously uncertain, it’s nearly perfect. Not only does the film’s plot circle around to an entirely appropriate finish, but the final shots are likewise without flaw. As the credits roll, the images remain mesmerizing. Clooney is magnetic. I feel like Gilroy may have lifted this particular idea from something else, but I don’t know what it was and I’m not sure it would have worked as well anyway. If he didn’t, then I’m even more impressed.
The Clayton character is far from admirable and refreshingly without total redemption, but he’s the best we’ve got and that’ll have to do. I’m just so happy that a studio movie like this could be made today, where everything is murky and no one’s perfect. If my reactions are based on heart and gut more than other, more sophisticated senses then so be it. I think this is one of the best films in recent memory and it’s possibly the only movie this year where my opinion has elevated as time has passed instead of falling into the ether. Anyone watching the film should stay for the entirety of the main credits and fix their eyes on Clooney’s performance to see one of the best examples of nonverbal acting this year. Up to this point in his career, it’s the actor’s signature role.