99 River Street April 27, 2008
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1950s , add a comment
If film noir had an official sport it would be boxing. Black and white cinematography perfectly captures the sweat and grit of two men pounding their gloved fists into each other’s raw skin. Raging Bull isn’t a film noir, but it accomplishes the visual doom of a fight without the use of color, as does The Set-Up, Robert Wise’s brilliantly lean noir starring Robert Ryan. Boxing threatens to be the subject of Phil Karlson’s 99 River Street, too, but it’s soon shown to be a visual trick. The audience sees a match that turns out to be a television replay being watched by the man getting his eye punched into partial working order. Ernie Driscoll (John Payne) is now driving taxi cabs in New York City and his marriage to Pauline (Peggie Castle) seems ruptured. Things were probably better when Ernie was regularly winning fights, but his new dream of opening a filling station isn’t glamorous enough for Pauline’s taste.
Ernie’s boss and pal Stan (Frank Faylen) suggests a tried and true method of patching things up with Pauline: buy her a big box of chocolates, take her out on the town, mix in a few glasses of brandy, and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. The next thing you know a bouncing baby will pop out and everything will be good as new again. Ernie’s plan never gets off the ground, though. He has the chocolates, but it’s Pauline who surprises him by kissing her lover Victor Rawlins (Brad Dexter) at the flower shop where she works. Ernie is both devastated and livid. He then gets distracted by would-be Broadway actress Linda James (Evelyn Keyes) who confesses she’s killed someone. Ernie means well, but ends up with an arrest warrant for assault and battery. By the time the ex-boxer finds his wife’s dead body in the backseat of his cab, things seem like they could hardly be any worse
Though Payne is a generic noir protagonist, 99 River Street has enough other attributes to merit a closer look. Karlson’s direction is expectedly stellar, and Franz Planer, who would go on to shoot several Audrey Hepburn films, emits some strong noir camera work. There’s a very striking cut to Peggie Castle’s legs, with a mirror visible in the background between her two outstretched limbs and Brad Dexter appearing in the reflection. It’s an exquisite image. Another memorably framed shot comes when Linda, by now tagging along to help Ernie no matter the cost, meets up with Rawlins. Their cigarettes kiss and ash never looked so sensual. The entire scene, played out in a Jersey bar, gives Keyes the chance to fully steal the film.
Her performance is deserving of high praise as one of film noir’s essential female characterizations. Linda is first introduced as seemingly delusional, an actress who’s been in the city three years without a job and thinks she’ll land a lead role in a Broadway play. We next encounter her as a more hysterical figure, but learn this was merely her acting a part. This back story of the character as a struggling actress works perfectly within the film’s plot. Unhappy with letting down her friend Ernie, she remains loyal as a witness to his innocence and gets another opportunity to play a role, this time as a flirtatious barfly. The bedroom eyes she gives Rawlins make for an absolutely breathtaking shift that’s perfectly executed by Keyes. To see the importance of contextual performance in film noir, watch Evelyn Keyes here. She’s exceptional.
Another turn I enjoyed in the film was from Jack Lambert, a character actor who initially comes across as a poor man’s Lee Marvin, but sort of carves out his own B-movie villain niche in the process. He also pops up in Kiss Me Deadly alongside Jack Elam as Paul Stewart’s henchmen. That 99 River Street was obviously a low-budget film with modest expectations is a reality that probably should be taken into consideration, but it doesn’t really burden the picture in any way. Sure you could put Robert Mitchum in the Payne role and have a stronger film, but you’d also lose something. Mitchum would make it his own and distract from the narrative. As it is, the film curves through unpredictable paths and the audience can never be sure how Ernie, with a built-in volatility from his fighting days, will react. Payne’s a stiff, but the fact that his character has been placed in a very noir and desperate situation shouldn’t be overlooked.
One of the hallmarks of 1950’s film noir, as opposed to most of what came out of the 1940’s, can be found in the evolution of the protagonist into a wrongly accused innocent. It’s the paranoia angle that would especially rise up in the politically-themed films of the 1970’s. Hitchcock loved this motif, using it to good effect in The Wrong Man, I Confess, and the non-noir North by Northwest. It’s also found in The Big Heat, Crime Wave, Nightfall, and Karlson’s Kansas City Confidential, among others. The idea that someone not guilty of a crime would be hunted by law enforcement now seems very much like a movie plot, but it shouldn’t be forgotten that this basic insinuation betrays the ideal that the police are infallible. We know, of course, that they’re not, but we also know that criminals don’t always receive the justice they do in movies. Exploring these themes of vengeance owed and non-guilty protagonists getting framed for crimes they didn’t commit was a favorite of Karlson’s, as well.
In 99 River Street, the director was able to put both to good use. It seems like Ernie might have killed someone if given the chance, but his hands stay clean. He certainly has reason to lash out, and the overall tone feels bleakly pessimistic. By the film’s end, when we learn the title address is actually in Jersey City, desolate blacks cover the night sky of the waterfront and that unmistakable noir mood becomes all-consuming. The happy conclusion betrays the template, but it’s forgivable. Even with Payne’s shortcomings, which admittedly could be seen as strengths allowing the viewer to easily relate to the actor, this is still an important film noir, made by one of the movement’s unsung champions. A DVD release seems like an obvious prospect, but nothing so far. The theatrical print I saw was almost stunning in detail and rich black levels, nearly immaculate from start to finish. It was part of a United Artists’ 90th anniversary retrospective so here’s hoping MGM follows their noir releases of last summer with a fresh set very soon.
Weather Changes Moods April 18, 2008
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films , add a commentA bevy of exciting filmgoing experiences are in store for those in the New York area (which is, in all likelihood, no one else who will be reading this). Feel free to live vicariously and I’ll promise to reciprocate. I’ve just returned from opening night of a gorgeous print of Arthur Penn’s Mickey One, freshly struck by Sony. Penn was on hand to introduce the film, but only commented briefly about the score. That’s understandable, however, because it was being shown as part of the Museum of Modern Art’s extensive series “Jazz Score,” which lasts until September and features movies and shorts that prominently use jazz. I already have DVDs for most of what’s scheduled so far, things like Elevator to the Gallows and Sweet Smell of Success, but I’m especially excited to see a pair of Shirley Clarke films coming in May. Both The Connection (on DVD, but somewhat difficult to find) and The Cool World are showing twice in May. Second Run released Clarke’s Portrait of Jason, and I’d love to see similar attention given to that pair.
Before Mickey One, Penn mentioned that he had brought in Eddie Sauter to do the score, with the idea that Sauter would bring a similar unconventional attitude as Penn was planning for the film. What he said he didn’t know was that Sauter was good friends with Stan Getz, who tagged along to the recording sessions and ended up making an indelible impression on the film through his saxophone improvisations. Certainly the score sticks out in Mickey One, not to rival what Miles Davis did for Elevator to the Gallows, but with an undeniable strength nonetheless. Taking into consideration that this was only Penn’s third feature, after The Left-Handed Gun and The Miracle Worker, it was a blazing leap forward. With Warren Beatty as his star and Godard and Truffaut serving as obvious influences, Mickey One must have looked almost nothing like anything Penn, Beatty, or anyone else was making in America in 1965.
Beatty is the title character, a Detroit nightclub comic who may or may not have several thousand dollars’ worth of gambling debts to the mob. He moves to Chicago where he’s dubbed “Mickey One” and returns to his natural calling of strip clubs and bars before getting a shot at a bigger pond, the Xanadu, where the man calling the shots is a very weird, very gay Hurd Hatfield. Mickey sees his death in everything, with paranoia leaking through his pores, and resists the Xanadu for fear of the mob possibly having found him out. A few audacious cuts and playful edits recall Breathless and other films of the Nouvelle Vague. The black and white cinematography, absolutely a sterling effort from Ghislain Cloquet, whose credits include everything from Night and Fog and Le Feu follet to Au hasard Balthazar and Mouchette, sort of reminded me of the later film Lenny, Bob Fosse’s biopic about Lenny Bruce. There’s a definite Kafka feel to the whole thing, too. That existential question mark about Mickey’s involvement brings to mind The Trial. Overall, a very odd, but exceptionally interesting film that should be on DVD.
Meanwhile, in celebration of the 40th anniversary of the mayhem of 1968, the Film Society of Lincoln Center is offering up 1968: An International Perspective. With selections from Godard (La Chinoise), Marker (Grin Without a Cat), Oshima (The Man Who Left His Will on Film, aka The Battle of Tokyo or He Died After the War), and Antonioni (Zabriskie Point), among others, this looks to be an exceptional series of rarely shown films not readily available on DVD. I’ve only seen two in that series, WR: Mysteries of the Organism and Medium Cool. I’m afraid I’ll dislike Zabriskie Point, but I’m still anxious to see it. Film Forum also gets in on some ‘68 fever by showing five weeks of Godard’s films from the 1960’s. Not being a huge Godard admirer, I can’t say how often I’ll be partaking, but my sights are set on Made in the U.S.A. and Sympathy for the Devil. My favorite Godard film Vivre sa vie, and one which I do have total admiration for, will play for a full week in a new print, courtesy of Janus Films. Criterion will surely be releasing a comprehensive DVD later in the year.
Possibly the most anticipated program at the local repertory theaters for me personally comes later on when Film Forum will dedicate seven (!) weeks to legendary Japanese actor Tatsuya Nakadai, from June 20 to August 7. Words can barely contain my enthusiasm for such a tribute, which includes a pair of personal appearances by the actor. Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another is one of my favorite films and will be shown in the retrospective, as will everything from Harakiri (with Nakadai present for a Q&A), Yojimbo, High and Low, Kagemusha, Ran, and three weeks of The Human Condition trilogy. The real gems are the things not yet on English-friendly DVD - films like Ichikawa’s I Am a Cat and Odd Obsession, Naruse’s Untamed, Kobayashi’s Black River, and Hideo Gosha’s Onimasa and Goyokin. As much as I hold Toshiro Mifune near and dear, Nakadai may be my favorite Japanese actor so I’m absolutely ecstatic at the possibility of seeing him in person. Kudos to everyone at Film Forum for having the guts to dedicate one of their screens for such a long period of time to Nakadai.
The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes April 7, 2008
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1970s, Billy Wilder , 4 comments
When looking at Billy Wilder’s films as director, there are four that especially stick out in terms of incompatibility with the rest. The Emperor Waltz is a Bing Crosby musical and generally regarded as unsuccessful on most every level. The Spirit of St. Louis, despite being a fine film, puts Wilder in studio-constricted biopic land. Witness for the Prosecution, another excellent movie, has few, if any, of Wilder’s signatures and seems like it could have been made by at least half a dozen other competent directors. Then there’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, Wilder’s 1970 needling of Arthur Conan Doyle’s mythic detective. The film exists only in a version that was drastically shortened from the original intentions of Wilder and his longtime screenwriting partner I.A.L. Diamond, but it still manages to feel like a cohesive, brilliantly executed whole.
There are certainly several of Wilder’s fingerprints in the picture, it’s just that the use of such a well-known character and the Scottish locations, among other things, feels like fresh dust. It’s a perfect marriage of classic Hollywood filmmaking with the newfound freedoms that resulted from an especially creative period in American movies. For some people, the problem may be that it’s not entirely either one of those. The pacing is deliberate and relaxed, yet the first half hour has little to do with the remainder of the film. Holmes and the trusty Dr. Watson may be familiar names ingrained in most of our memories, but the portrayals are hardly consistent with interpretations up to that point. Holmes, in particular, is much more ambiguous and complex, with noncommittal sexual preference, questionable decision making, and an unapologetic dependency on cocaine.
These are attributes parsed from the original stories, to be sure, but they still vary significantly from the consensus of Holmes as an infallible master of deduction. Robert Stephens, whose cocktail of whiskey and sleeping pills during the shoot delayed production for weeks, plays Holmes as prim, proper and arrogant, all attempts to mask the character’s sadness. Colin Blakely’s Watson is just the opposite, convivial and slightly bumbling. Both performances are perfectly used by Wilder, regardless of how they fit in with Conan Doyle’s mythology. As we see in the film, Holmes scolds Watson repeatedly about his extreme glamorization of the detective’s work. Considering these are two of the most famous fictional characters in literary history, it’s undeniable that Wilder and Diamond had a difficult task in bringing their skewed version of Holmes and Watson to the screen. The interesting thing is that the film seems destined to disappoint both those looking for a Sherlock Holmes movie and the ones interested in a typical Billy Wilder effort. And yet The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes is an exceptional film. No wonder it was a commercial disappointment! Who’s supposed to embrace this thing again?
People who enjoy quality filmmaking, for starters. That initial half hour, when Holmes and Watson are mysteriously summoned to a Russian performance of Swan Lake so that the star can request the detective’s paternal seed, is so good that you wonder why other films don’t frequently employ episodic structures. Of course, that was Wilder’s intention, to present a series of four episodes, all of which were filmed and ready to go. A story about a Belgian woman dropped on the doorstep of Holmes and Watson, leading the trio to Scotland and an apparent encounter with the Loch Ness Monster, comprises the remaining hour and a half while the other two portions were cut. In terms of holy grails of lost footage, as much as I’d like to see Orson Welles’ more complete version of The Magnificent Ambersons, I think I’d be equally anxious to see the full version of Wilder’s film. It’s a huge credit to Wilder’s ability as a director that even with the severe edits he was able to produce something as brilliant as the existing cut is here.
After Gabrielle Valladon (played by the lovely Genevieve Page) is deposited at Holmes’ Baker Street address, Wilder does well to produce a subversion of the famous character’s well-documented skills, veiled in a pretty good mystery. At some point, it seems natural to try and understand why Wilder and Diamond would bother in making a fairly difficult film with Holmes as the center. The best explanation I can come up with would be the desire to portray Holmes as a man wrongly described, whose actual attributes are far more humanlike than what’s shown in the stories. It’s the burden of brilliance, but also the inconvenience of not being as intelligent as your superhuman reputation. There are several chuckles, but the film certainly isn’t a comedy so I don’t think that was ever the aim, to place Holmes in a simple and slightly comic series of situations. It would seem more that the idea was for a repositioning of the Holmes character as a man unable to deal with his basic loneliness and alienation, soothed only by pompous one-upping of his sidekick Watson and frequent drug use.
The Holmes here is ultimately a failure at the hands of technology, bested by his brother Mycroft, who, in turn, suffers a major miscalculation of his own. So is it the dissolving of myths that Wilder is interested in? Is this his Liberty Valance? Yeah, I sort of think so. Though he was only 64 at the film’s release, and would churn out four more pictures afterwards, Wilder created his definitive “old man” movie here. The call-backs to a more classic style even than in his previous few efforts and the patience of experience he displays are both important elements to bridging the old with the new. Even when Wilder was younger, he didn’t normally employ the classical and calculated sense of purpose seen here. The structure is considered and nearly perfect. This is part of why it’s so incredible to think that the film was initially envisioned as much longer. The existing version feels appropriate as it is, only marred, in my opinion, a little by the first part of the Loch Ness Monster bit.
When Sherlock Holmes fails to really do much of anything right, despite his predictably shortsighted detective work, it’s at the expense of volumes of lionizing literature. The film thus works as a warning against the perils of smug overconfidence. For Holmes, the sticky truth isn’t that he’s a failure (something he seems to be fighting against throughout), but that a promising opportunity for romance has been squandered. It’s a slow realization, but by the end it’s obvious that he’s in movie love with the not-really Belgian Gabrielle/Ilse. The sexuality aspect here is interesting because Wilder and Diamond put it at the forefront for the viewer. Holmes’ reluctance to declare his heterosexuality to Watson early on seems to be due to one of three reasons: 1.) He’s being coy; 2.) He’s unsure himself as to his current feelings; or 3.) He’s so desexualized as to make it seemingly irrelevant. I think any of these three explanations work perfectly fine. With any of them, Holmes makes it obvious that he’s not actively searching for female companionship, making the presence of Gabrielle/Ilse a difficult situation.
The forced push at the end, when Holmes seems to realize his feelings for her just when she’s no longer attainable, serves as another reminder of how empty his life is. Watson and his silly stories are just about all the character has going for him. Then when it looks like the audience will be treated to the usual ending wrapped in sentimentality, Wilder continues the film and, in so doing, removes any trace of happiness. Watson is little more than a hyper-intelligent canine with a medical bag and Holmes the junkie can only shoot up and pass out (off-screen, of course). In essence, this is Wilder’s most daring film since Ace in the Hole, and it appeals to generally no one outside the director’s most devoted followers. He was able to completely demystify a legendary character with a huge following, using a fully sincere approach, while also putting together a deceptive genre story that proves quite entertaining. The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes is destined to remain largely unappreciated because it has few of the attributes Wilder is most known for, but it’s nevertheless an atypical slice of brilliance from the director.
Wilder himself apparently disagreed. In Cameron Crowe’s book Conversations with Wilder, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes is characterized by its creator as basically a great film ruined by later editing after the director went off to another country (shades of Ambersons). Wilder retained final cut in his contract, but a terrible test screening and a supposedly misplaced negative resulted in the trimmed version, topping out at 125 minutes, being what hit theaters. Other reports seem to indicate Wilder was agreeable with the existing edit. Regardless, upon release it promptly sank, just like Ace in the Hole. Wilder had gone four years since the release of his last film, The Fortune Cookie, and it’s not surprising that audiences mostly stayed away from this one. The financially successful films of 1970 were either epic spectacles like Aiport and Patton or then-daring expressions of a new generation like M*A*S*H and Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. Ironically, despite the freedom afforded Wilder that probably would have been unimaginable a decade or two earlier, his audience was no longer interested.
The saga of the film’s different incarnations is well documented on the R1 DVD, which ported over several of the laserdisc extras. A new 15-minute interview (from 2003) with Christopher Lee, who plays Mycroft Holmes, doesn’t shed a lot of light on the various cuts, but it does give Lee the chance to single out Wilder as the best director he’s ever worked with, and it also lets the actor reminisce on his own turns playing Sherlock Holmes. The film’s editor Ernest Walter, the man referred to by Wilder in Crowe’s book, goes into great detail about what was cut and so forth in a half-hour interview from the mid-nineties that was originally on the laserdisc. Then, you can see for yourself much of what was removed. A prologue with Colin Blakely as Watson’s modern-day grandson would have further set up the idea that these four episodes derived from material deemed too private to be published in Holmes’ lifetime. This particular portion is told on the DVD from still photos and script excerpts, but the viewer definitely gets a good feeling of how it might have turned out.
The crude reconstruction continues with one of the excised sequences, a lengthy story involving an upside down room. It has audio, but only photographs instead of video. I think this would have been an exceptionally strong portion of the film had it remained because it reinforces the idea that Watson cares deeply for Holmes and that the detective is sort of miserably entwined in his own intelligence. The next scene removed was a brief flashback where Holmes and Gabrielle/Ilsa are just about to go to sleep on the train. The scene was intended as a means for explaining some of Holmes’ reluctance to become romantically involved, stemming from an incident with a schoolboy crush who turned out to be a prostitute. This too would have fit perfectly within the film and improved the existing scene without bogging it down.
The final episode not in the finished film exists on the DVD in letterboxed video, but is missing the audio. The dialogue from the script has been inserted as subtitles. The scene is very funny and concerns Watson putting on Holmes’ hat (literally) and trying to solve a murder. In relation to the rest of the film, it seems to fit the least of the cut portions. If the movie had been made today, this little bit could have worked perfectly as a DVD-only extra or even a short intended to run before the film. All total, there’s over an hour of extra material here, all of which was shot and excluded from the final cut. The inclusion of this footage on the DVD is really something to be thankful for, but the hope that somehow Wilder’s full version could be restored still nags.
The Sniper April 3, 2008
Posted by clydefro in : Classic Films, 1950s , 4 comments
You know you’re in for a bit of “social enlightenment” when a prologue comes up even before the studio logo. In the case of The Sniper, Edward Dmytryk’s 1952 return from the Hollywood blacklist, the viewer is promised a “man whose enemy was womankind.” In several ways, this is a novel approach. Here we have a movie about a man who was sent away to prison for violently going after a woman with a baseball bat, placed in the psych ward, and paroled despite still being under psychological care. The film’s point of view could easily have been that Edward Miller (played by Arthur Franz) was a product of either his own insanity or, alternatively, society’s. Even the idea that an unstable criminal might have a reason for his madness is unusual for movies of this era, when the bad guys are often portrayed as shadowy black hats without the need for analysis. We accept villains simply because they do unseemly things the same way we recognize cops because they carry a badge and retain a serious demeanor at all times.
The much more humanistic path taken by Dmytryk’s film, trying to understand what causes men like Miller to inflict pain on others, is a tricky one, especially when dealing with someone who’s shown killing pretty brunettes in cold blood. Though not elaborated on, the culprit of Miller’s irrational violence towards women is implied to be his mother. A handful of years before the screen’s most famous mother complex, in Psycho, a man is shown indiscriminately shooting women from afar because he’s apparently trying to repeatedly murder the one who gave birth to him. The audience witnesses a test run when Wilson aims his rifle from above, steadies a female neighbor in his sight, and pulls the trigger, resulting in an empty click. In the first of many hints of sympathy, the man copes with his psychosis by struggling for help. His prison shrink isn’t available so he intentionally burns his hand on the apartment stove.
By the time Miller actually does claim someone’s life, his reaction veers significantly from remorse. A friendly customer of the killer’s dry cleaning delivery job, played by the always welcome Marie Windsor, is coldly shot outside the club where she plays piano, her head breaking the glass that encloses an advertisement with her own picture on it. The images are bold, abrupt, and startling. The killer’s answer is to have a drink at a bar. He’s happier now than at any other point in the film, acting as though some pressurized force has finally been unleashed. The second killing is even more striking and follows soon after. A woman at the same bar writes her address on a coaster, but soon rebuffs him upon sensing his instability. She then goes home, fixes herself a drink and stands behind an uncovered window. She too is shot in the head, as an efficient bullet leaves behind shattered glass. As we’ve seen and read about serial killers in the decades since, Wilson is the type who begs to be caught, and even writes a letter to the police anonymously seeking capture.
At this point, about midway in, the film shifts from a character study about a mentally ill serial killer to a rather conventional, sometimes preachy police procedural. Most surprising is that the headlining actor playing the main detective is none other than political wingnut Adolphe Menjou, one of the loudest voices of the HUAC-supporting Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals. Showing his true stripes were dotted with green instead of faux red, white, and blue, Menjou here takes top billing in a movie directed by a man who was an admitted Communist for a brief period of time, and who had just recently been released from serving four and a half months of prison time for refusing to cooperate with the Congressional witch hunt. Values. Of course, Dmytryk by this time had groveled away his reputation (RIP Jules) and helped legitimize the whole sordid mess, so he was apparently “cured.” The involvement of message man Stanley Kramer as producer adds even more to the intrigue.
Reportedly shot, er, filmed in a remarkably quick amount of time (just 18 days according to this excellent article), The Sniper may have given Menjou a swift paycheck and top billing, but his character is underwritten and the true lead performance is from Franz as the troubled killer. Menjou’s most effective scene comes when a young punk is mistaken for the sniper and brought into the police station. The kid puts on a tough act, but Menjou gives him a good slap and he starts bawling. Is this the best way to handle those who have trouble coping with their problems? Give the whiners a swift kick in the pants so they’ll swallow their complaints? The crybaby is annoying, but the film still seems inconsistent. Miller can’t find anyone to save him from himself, yet he’s portrayed with incredible humanity given the circumstances. Menjou’s character slaps the potential junior sniper into place, but the entire movie bathes the actual killer in a warm glow of empathy.
Whether a result of intentionally ambiguous filmmaking or simply a sloppy narrative, The Sniper leaves quite a few blanks unfilled. Instead of seeming bothersome, it gives the film a tautness commonly found in such low-budget, quickly-shot films of the time. Proponents of the movie could easily argue that it urges the viewer to look deeper inside the killer’s mind and not be content to expect an explanatory flashback of the character’s various traumas. A criminal psychologist played by Richard Kiley preaches about the mentality of men like Miller, sketching out the makings of what we now know as profiling, and, though it can’t help but be slightly tedious, the scene is also fascinating because the methodology has proven true time and again. The Sniper was a decade or more ahead of its time, but it nevertheless resembles an early, truncated version of some of the finer serial killer films of the past two decades. The main difference, and the reason the film is still interesting, comes from the decision to spend well over half the runtime with the killer in a mostly non-judgmental tone, including a consistent, but still unexpected final scene that emphasizes him as a man more than a monster.