Weekly Mishmash: August 22-28
Clash of the Titans (2010) and Repo Men (2010). Two DVD rentals that my spouse picked. As you can see, my spouse likes the special effects flicks. I like ‘em, too, as long as the special effects are supported by a good story and decent enough performances — two things that Clash of the Titans and Repo Men sadly lack. Repo Men is the more promising of the two, with Jude Law laying on the charm as a near-future bounty hunter type whose job entitles him to reclaim artificial organs from people who are unable to pay for them. This film plays on the current health care and financial crises in the same way the far superior Children of Men envisioned a future where George W. Bush-era foreign policy ran amok. On the plus side, the movie benefits from good work from Law, Forest Whitaker and Liev Schreiber. As the film played on, however, it devolves into Matrix-esque chases and fights, ultimately becoming an icky and pointless exercise. The Clash of the Titans remake doesn’t aspire to such bold statements, which can be a great thing if handled the right way. I remember going to see the 1981 original with a bunch of Junior High pals at the local mall-plex and having a blast. With whiz-bang CGI and action scenes galore, the remake appeals to the same popcorn mindset but I found this one strangely hollow and uninviting. Sam Worthington is a bland lead and his military buzzcut distracts to no end, the effects are overwhelming (and in 3D, no less), and the film’s many fight scenes seem to never end. Oh, and it gets worse: the brief appearance of 1981’s mechanical owl is probably the lamest celluloid sop to nostalgia since they brought back the original spaceship design in 1998’s Lost In Space (only to blow it up seconds later).
Celine Dion — The Colour of My Love. Found this for 50 cents in the markdown bin at the local Half Price Books store and it seemed to whisper “buy me” in a vaguely Franco-Canadian accent. The disc was actually well worth the two quarters it cost. On the whole, this 1993 effort is more diverse and likable than Dion’s self-titled 1991 album and not quite as dated/goofy as her English language debut, Unison. Lush ballads predominate, as epitomized by megahit “The Power Of Love,” but I found myself drawn to the lesser known tracks. The fluffy Tara Kemp-ish workout “Misled” hit the dance charts and even the top 40, odd considering I don’t remember it at all. Another beat-heavy track, “Refuse To Dance,” is notable for having Dion’s voice effectively blended in with the instrumentation, creating a moody and disarmingly experimental sojourn in the album’s second half. I also downloaded this album’s non-U.S. “Just Walk Away,” a florid Latin style ballad which fits squarely in Eurovision Song Contest territory. Most of these tracks have the same personnel she always works with. The prolific Diane Warren contributed two of the better tracks, both sweet if overlong, overproduced and vamped up like crazy. “Next Plane Out” is a typical big ballad, but the one I really dig is the Motownish “No Living Without You.” Perhaps I love it so for its similarity to another cheeseball neo-soul record from that period, Charles & Eddie’s “Would I Lie To You.” Hmmm, wonder if I could find a used Charles & Eddie CD at Half Price Books?
God’s Country (1986). Charming, thought provoking documentary on the American heartland by French director Louis Malle. It’s 1979 and Malle focuses his camera on the diverse residents of Glencoe, Minnesota, following farm families, law enforcement, bank employees and jus’ folk as they ramble about their lives and hopes for the future. In the most poignant scenes, he visits a nursing home and impartially films residents sitting glassy eyed in a room while a TV blares away. Things then turn celebratory as the film chronicles a tacky wedding ceremony in which the bride, groom and wedding party go bar hopping along the town’s main thoroughfare. In a bittersweet coda, Malle revisits the town in 1985 as residents come to grips with the disappearing ways of life caused by Reaganomics. This was completely fascinating in a personal way, having reminded this viewer of the times my family took trips to visit relatives in Nebraska. Malle not only knows how to allow his subjects to open up to the camera, he also trains his lens on interesting/quirky details such as an elaborately coiffed woman working at a slaughterhouse. In one scene, he visits a drugstore as the manager proudly shows off his establishment’s “Gay Nineties” decor theme. The place was a total trip, but it also had a personal resonance since my late grandfather once managed a very similar drugstore in a small midwestern town. It made me nostalgic, then somewhat sad as the realization hits that these places have been replaced by Wal-Marts (just as the quiet family farm has been largely co-opted by Monsanto). Sobering and well worth a look.
The Merry Widow (1925). Erich von Stroheim’s lush, long epic got a rare broadcast on Turner Classic Movies’ recent day long salute to John Gilbert. Although there were many Gilbert films from that day that piqued my interest, I ended up with this because I’ve always been curious about his Gilbert’s co-star, Mae Murray, and the extravagance of von Stroheim productions are always worth a look. Gilbert plays the prince of a mythical, quasi-European kingdom who is smitten with visiting dancer named Sally O’Hara (Murray). Though the two are in love, his family forbids him to marry a commoner. Extenuating circumstances caused by the prince’s weaselly cousin (Roy D’Arcy) force Sally to end up wedding a creepy old guy with a foot fetish (!) instead. The man drops dead on the wedding night and she becomes… The Merry Widow. This was a suitably overstuffed affair that seemed pretty typical of 1920s cinema — it’s overlong and the acting was too affected (especially from Murray). Despite weird touches like foot fetish man and a couple of blindfolded musicians, the story was too trite to carry such an overstuffed production. As far as von Stroheim epics go, I much prefer Greed but this one has a few things going for it. Gilbert is rather staid and bland, but Murray’s showiness as a performer is a hoot. When she laughs, it’s a lusty toss back of the head and convulsive body shakes. When she cries, she transforms herself into a life-sized wet hankie with puppy dog eyes. It’s method acting squared for our Mae.
Rio Bravo (1959). While I normally wouldn’t be attracted to a late period Western starring John Wayne, this particular one directed by Howard Hawks has such a great critical reputation that I had to check it out. It didn’t disappoint. Wayne plays the sheriff of a small Texan town who is keeping criminal Claude Akins in lockup. Akins’ brother and a bunch of other meanies are terrorizing the town trying to free the man, so Wayne enlists the help of a drunk but talented gunfighter (Dean Martin), an old coot (Walter Brennan) and a cocky teen (Ricky Nelson). This was conceived as Hawks’ answer to High Noon — but instead of wimpy Gary Cooper grovelling for help from the townspeople, here we have four flawed yet commanding men taking on a challenge in an adult, responsible way. Like many Hawks films, there’s also a strong female presence with Angie Dickinson as a traveling performer who has her eye on the Duke. Dickinson seems a bit modern for the part, but she’s alluring as all get out. Martin’s nuanced performance was a big surprise, and I enjoyed his odd duet with Nelson. The film is long, but made in such a casual, appealing way that one doesn’t notice it. I actually think it’s perfectly paced, building up to the exciting climactic gunfight.
Separate Lies (2005). IFC Channel recording. This was an intriguing but strangely unsatisfying domestic drama, written and directed by Julian Fellowes. The film concerns a well-heeled contemporary British couple played by Emily Watson and Tom Wilkinson. An accident in their plush neighborhood kills their housekeeper’s husband, which triggers the unraveling of the marriage when suspicion falls on Watson and her secret lover (Rupert Everett, looking weirdly gaunt). The first thing I noticed about this film is the wonderful acting, which is top-notch. I also enjoyed the precise, photogenic interiors, whether it’s a country estate or Wilkinson’s slick office. The story is serviceable enough at first, then it delves heavily into the leads’ shifting feelings towards each other until it becomes an implausible morass. Fellowes took on a similar tact for his Oscar winning Gosford Park screenplay, using a mystery as a springboard to explore the complex relationships of its characters. That film worked brilliantly, but for some reason this one doesn’t jell and it winds up a well-intentioned, beautifully acted but inert film.
Weekly Mishmash: August 8-14
The Body Snatcher (1945) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943). Have you ever shopped at the retail dumping ground Big Lots!? One of my pleasures of the past year is finding out about their DVD section. We’ve gotten a lot of old movies and TV shows there — cheap! My latest find is this Val Lewton double bill on a single DVD for only three bucks. Re-watching them this week reveals that these are excellent b-movies, atmospheric and amazingly effective for such low budget ventures. All in all, the only fault I could find in both is their casting of bland leading men (James Ellison in Zombie and Russell Wade in Body Snatcher). The Body Snatcher is the better known of the two, thanks to Boris Karloff’s chilling performance as a 19th century corpse wrangler for a doctor (Henry Daniell, also good) who takes his job a wee bit too seriously. Horror icon Bela Lugosi is also in the cast, but he has a nothing role and doesn’t do much with what little screen time he has. Despite the flaws, the film has all the making of a classic chiller. True, some scenes are rather pat and unnecessary, but it does have atmosphere to spare and I was unprepared by the outright creepiness of the climax. I Walked with a Zombie is one of those special films that I have a long history with, having first heard of it via Danny Peary’s first Cult Movies volume from the early ’80s (anybody else own this unsung book?). When finally viewed on American Movie Classics channel, I fell in love. Revisiting it now, the film’s flaws become more apparent but it’s never lost its creepy luster. One of the highlights is Frances Dee’s subtle performance. She strikes the proper mix of curiosity and strength as a nurse who is shipped to a mysterious island to care for a rich man’s wife (who seems gripped by a zombie-like spell executed by the locals). Tom Conway as the husband is pretty good, but the film belongs to Dee and perhaps the seven-foot tall zombie whose presence says a lot for a guy who never utters a word. The photography in this film is magnificent. Jaw-dropping. This was directed by Jacques Tournier, who mined similar atmospheric territory in later stuff like Out of the Past. What Tournier and Lewton did on a limited budget ought to be studied by today’s filmmakers.
Dusty by Lucy O’Brien. For being such a well-regarded singer, there are actually few books written about the life and music of Dusty Springfield. With her biography Dusty, British music journalist Lucy O’Brien does an excellent job of tracking the peaks and valleys of the beehived diva’s incredible career. As a matter of fact, a more appropriate title for this book would also belong to one of Dusty’s albums — See All Her Faces. One of the great contradictions about Dusty is that she never truly reconciled her bejeweled and fabulous image as a white lady who could sing black with her inner Mary Catherine O’Brien, the insecure, secretly lesbian little cockney girl. It’s kind of a recurring theme throughout her career, and it’s to O’Brien’s credit that in addition to intricately covering the recording sessions of her albums that these white/black, gay/straight, image/reality themes are a constant. Even though it’s written in a straightforward style with a few errors, O’Brien writes with great detail, illuminating every phase of Dusty’s career with liberal interview quotes. It’s a nifty biography which covers a lot of stuff I previously knew little of (especially her “lost” years in the mid-’70s when she became a reclusive party gal in L.A.). The book also contains a nice discography collecting all her 1959-99 recordings.
Four Jills in a Jeep (1943). Pleasant WWII fluff, I rented this mostly because it was a late-period vehicle for Kay Francis (whom I find fascinating). This was based on the true story of Francis joining Carole Landis, Mitzi Mayfair and Martha Raye as they entertain troops overseas for the U.S.O. Alas, whatever promise the film has for a realistic portrayal of life on the front is tossed in favor of forgettable numbers starring guest Fox contractees Alice Faye, Betty Grable and Carmen Miranda. As for the main quartet of ladies, it’s a mixed bag. Martha Raye was always an obnoxious delight, even if she was getting somewhat cartoonish at this point (the denture commercials were still decades away). The obscure Mitzi Mayfair was toothy and bland, with a double-jointed dancing shtick that verges on circus sideshow weirdness. Smart, blonde Carole Landis was a surprise, earthy and completely radiant in a timeless way (unfortunately the actress committed suicide in 1948, cruelly cutting short what must have been a promising life). Kay Francis ably plays the group’s den mother with her usual restrained elegance. The scene in which she gets on the floor and scrubs away was the film’s only nod to the hardship these women must have endured. Interestingly, the making-of featurette on this DVD reveals that Francis unsuccessfully flirted with Landis during the ladies’ tour — oh, to be a fly on that wall.
Goldfrapp — Head First. I don’t delve into new music too often, but as soon as I heard the samples of the dreamy ’80s influenced soundscapes on Goldfrapp’s Head First, I had to download the entire thing. It’s seems as if Goldfrapp (whom I’ve heard only sporadically prior to this) is mining parts of the ’80s that might seem cheesy or unhip. The starting point might be the Xanadu soundtrack, both the Olivia Newton John and Electric Light Orchestra sides, perhaps the instrumental break in Air Supply’s “Lost in Love,” too, with bits of Princely funk and experimental synth lines thrown in. Although on paper it sounds like overkill, the album itself is suprisingly consistent and pleasureable with Alison Goldfrapp’s breathy voice at its center. First single “Rocket” is actually one of the weaker tunes, with “Alive” and the gentle title track being the peaks and “I Wanna Life” standing out as the most authentically ‘80 sounding tune (picture something off Steve Winwood’s Arc of a Diver album fronted by Berlin’s Teri Nunn). Metaphorically speaking, this album is akin to witnessing Kim Carnes and Laura Branigan getting it on atop a fluffy cloud with a bunch of drooling Care Bears watching — filthy yet fun!
Road to Utopia (1946). Having never seen a Hope/Crosby/Lamour movie, I jumped at the chance to DVR one when Turner Classic Movies played a marathon of “Road” movies during their Summer Under the Stars Bob Hope tribute. Since Utopia seems to be the best regarded of the series, I picked this wintry adventure. Hope and Bing Crosby play 1890s vaudevillians who come into possession of a valuable map and inevitably get caught up with saloon belle Dorothy Lamour in the Alaskan gold rush. Having (unfairly) written off both Hope and Crosby as impossibly smug actors, I was surprised at how appealing they both are here. The duo’s comfort with each other, and the impressive way they deliver their rapid-fire zingers contribute mightily to this film’s fun. There’s actually a lot of progressive stuff going on with a parade of sight gags, fourth wall breaking and self-referential humor (including Robert Benchley as the narrator who occasionally pops into the frame to opine on the proceedings). I also enjoyed the songs by Jimmy Van Heusen and Johnny Burke. The duo must have banged out something like “Personality” in a single afternoon, but the tune’s cleverness (and Lamour’s fetching performance) are a true delight:
We’re Not Married (1952). Inconsequential comedy in which several couples find out that their marriages by a frazzled old Justice of the Peace (Victor Moore) were not completely legit. The less said about this, the better, but at least the film had a glimmer of hope in the opening segment with Ginger Rogers and Fred Allen as a pair who fraudulently play a happily married couple on a radio program. The two host a cheery breakfast program which is actually nothing but gratuitous product placements, a concept which sounds promising but ends up somewhat flat and dull in execution. Come to think of it, I had a similar reaction to the rest of the film, in which several promising actors (Marilyn Monroe, Eve Arden and Paul Douglas among them) are basically wasted.
Elegy for Chris Dedrick
I head today that Chris Dedrick, main creative force behind influential “sunshine pop” band The Free Design, died after battling cancer. That’s too sad. I hope he’s in a better place now. No one could write about kites, bubbles, umbrellas and pure unfettered joy like Dedrick.
Weekly Mishmash: August 1-7
The Art of the Steal (2009). Clearly biased but nevertheless enthralling documentary tracking one of the most valuable art collections on earth. The film’s first half details Albert Barnes, a Pennsylvania doctor who made a fortune developing an infant eye drop solution, and his efforts to accumulate an impressive collection of Post-Impressionist and early Modern art. The class-averse, philanthropic Barnes set up his collection as an educational resource for art students, and it stayed that way until Barnes unexpectedly died in the ’50s. Barnes’ will specified that the collection stay intact and preserved in the same building with the paintings arranged in a quirky yet beautiful, Salon-style manner on the walls. In the years that follow, the struggle between good intentions and exploitation magnify as the art’s value balloons. By the time the collection falls into the hands of a small black college in 1988, the kind of people Barnes despised (society types and politicians) are circling like vultures; what follows is a power play that would do Gordon Gekko proud. An interesting if not too balanced watch, this proves with depressing finality that money and power trumps art and education every time. It was interesting, however, that I could see both sides of the coin and with all the kerfuffle nobody emerges as a true villain (except perhaps the conservative Philadelphia newspaper magnate who ironically specified in his will that his own art collection stay intact).
The Face of Another (1966). Talky, visually arresting Japanese thriller about a man (Tatsuya Nakadai) who is given a chance to wear a lifelike mask to disguise his horribly disfigured face. This plot device is a springboard for director Hiroshi Teshigahara to explore levels of psychological and personal control, somehow encompassing the subplot of a young woman who is similarly disfigured (as a result of an atom bomb blast, we infer). Although the film is slow paced and obtuse, the odd art direction and wild settings (including a somewhat tasteless German-themed watering hole) kept me intrigued. Teshigahara, who also helmed the better-regarded Woman in the Dunes, throws around every sort of cinematic trick here, making this a slapdash but agreeably weird and atmospheric affair. Actor Nakadai is perfectly chilling in a role that comes off as Dr. Frankenstein and his own monster rolled into one. Honestly, much of the film’s symbolism went past me, but the meaning of many of the images are nicely pointed out in the video essay included as an extra on Criterion’s DVD.
Heidi (1937). Beloved children’s classic rejiggered as high style Shirley Temple vehicle. Since I read Johanna Spyri’s Heidi earlier this year, it’s interesting to note how many liberties the filmmakers took. The book is a love letter to the Swiss countryside and the pious simplicity of its people, as epitomized by the cheery title character; Heidi the film is Hollywood adventure with what was a minor chapter in the book (in which Heidi stays with a rich family) taking up the bulk of the second half. The movie plays fast and loose as a literary adaptation, and Temple is a bit too cloying for this part, but it was entertaining nonetheless. I could even accept the oddly shoehorned musical number in which Temple plays a clog wearing Dutch girl and bewigged French royalty. Shirley and her dimples dominate here, but special mention should be made of actress Mary Nash, who plays Heidi’s evil governess. Temple and Nash were also memorably teamed in The Little Princess, a slightly better literary adaptation from a few years later.
The Monkees — More of the Monkees. My second helping of Monkeemania from eMusic. This second album contains the group’s biggest hit, the utterly fabulous “I’m A Believer,” which ultimately made it the biggest selling LP of 1967. Musically it’s something of a grab bag, with a haphazard array of gritty garage rock, novelty numbers and Brill Building pop vying for attention. Although many Monkees fans don’t favor the more commercial, bubblegum sounding music heard here, I kinda dig it. It’s fascinating to hear what Neil Diamond, Carole King, Gerry Goffin, Jeff Barry et al were coming up with at this point as the Girl Group and Doo Wop/R&B genres were falling to the wayside. Although I’ve read that Michael Nesmith, Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork weren’t too happy with their lack of input on this album, it sure doesn’t show amongst the LP’s generally upbeat if scattered tracks. The album contains the rocking “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone” and “Mary, Mary,” the horrid “Your Auntie Grizelda,” and Jones’ “The Day We Fall In Love,” a piece of mush that only Marcia Brady could possibly love. An interesting snapshot of 1967 pop; I supplemented this album with “Apples, Peaches, Bananas and Pears,” a bubblegumeriffic track that the band recorded at the time but didn’t see fit to release until the ’80s.
Silent Running (1972). Crunchy granola sci-fi with a conservationist message! This is an intriguing bit of pre-Star Wars, post-2001 cerebral sci fi, a film that attempts the excitement of the former and the cerebral tone of the latter without quite accomplishing either. The tale of a transport ship full of rare plants and animals being hijacked from returning to a battle-scarred Earth by environmentalist Bruce Dern is still relevant today. This despite it being told in a completely dated way with quaint special effects and a few earnest Joan Baez songs on the soundtrack. The film ultimately rides on Dern’s thin shoulders; I found him his usually flaky self at the beginning, but he grew on me as the film progressed and in the end I was touched by his plight. Poor Dewey.
Unfaithfully Yours (1948). Personal experience with the films of Preston Sturges tells me his stuff is either brilliant or crappy; Unfaithfully Yours is one of the crappy ones. The film follows short-tempered, jealous conductor Rex Harrison as he becomes aware that a detective trailed his beautiful wife (Linda Darnell) who may be having an affair. Rehearsing with his orchestra, Harrison becomes consumed by several “what if” scenarios, each one more outlandish than the last. While some of the dialogue had the sparkle of earlier Sturges films, I absolutely hated the main character. The screechy Harrison (whom I never really enjoyed) does zero to make this man relatable or sympathetic. The film reaches an absolute low point with an interminable slapstick sequence in which Harrison tries (and fails) to execute one of his schemes. For a supposed light comedy, this film contains many uncomfortably bleak scenes — including one in which Harrison attempts to get Darnell and her alleged lover to join him in a round of Russian Roulette. Yuck. For peak Sturges, stick with Sullivan’s Travels or The Palm Beach Story.
Lulu’s Back in Town
I’m going for an all-’60s month on eMusic, with Lulu’s To Sir With Love the latest acquisition. This brief (32 minutes) album was given punchy production and arrangements by, respectively, Mickie Most and future Led Zepplener John Paul Jones. Lulu has a throaty voice with the kind of carefully enunciated phrasing that seems better suited to musical theater than peppy ’60s music (witness the LP’s goofy closer, “You And I”). Despite that, she’s adorable and the album is a good showcase for her versatility. Everybody knows the beautiful title cut, of course, but there are a few other tracks worth noting, including the jumpy Neil Diamond-penned “The Boat That I Row” and “Best Of Both Worlds,” a plush ballad in the Dusty Springfield mold. Honestly, the thought of somebody else covering stuff like “Day Tripper” and “To Love Somebody” fills me with dread, but Lulu (along with those brassy arrangements) manages to make them her own. This album also contains the oft-sampled “Love Loves To Love Love” and “Take Me In Your Arms and Love Me,” a cover of a somewhat obscure Gladys Knight & The Pips tune. Merely a notch better than the typical album of 1967, perhaps, but real cute all the same — Lulu knows how to bring the groovy.
Weekly Mishmash: July 18-24
The Circus Queen Murder (1933). I gave this Columbia ‘B’ a shot when it received an unusual prime time showing on a recent Turner Classic Movies night devoted to circus movies. Dapper Adolphe Menjou stars as Thatcher Colt, big city detective who takes a vacation in upstate New York. He and his secretary (the strangely alluring Ruthelma Stevens) are there to relax, but instead they find themselves involved in the shady dealings of a traveling circus with quarreling lovers, and a mysterious tribe of cannibals, and (you guessed it) murder. This is an efficiently made, very watchable little flick somewhat spoiled by the lack of mystery throughout. The murder happens too late in the film, and since the killer’s identity is plainly telegraphed early on there isn’t much suspense, either. Despite that, I enjoyed watching this not only for the cast (apparently this was one of two Thatcher Colt/Adolphe Menjou flicks), but for the many similarities between this and Freaks. Although this film is lighthearted mystery and Freaks is terrifying horror, it appears as if Greta Nissen’s trapeze artist is patterned after Olga Baclanova’s character in the earlier film. The filmmakers also included a group of vaguely creepy cannibals which call to mind the assorted Freaks freaks. Coincidence or not, the circus backdrop is vividly portrayed and adds some much needed depth to the film.
In Search of the Castaways (1962). Another week, another live action Disney adventure! In Search of the Castaways stars winsome Hayley Mills as a pre-teen who comes across a bottled message sent by her father, a shipping merchant previously thought to be killed at sea. Teaming with her brother, a ship’s captain and his son, and the French fisherman (Maurice Chevalier) who found the bottle, she goes on a journey that takes the troupe through snowy mountains, flash floods, volcanoes and a menacing band of cannibals (two cannibal movies in one week!). Fun in its own way but it does rank as one of the lesser Disney live action flicks, with scenes that stretch the notions of credibility and provoke the image of Jules Verne spinning in his grave. If the idea of watching people maneuver a giant boulder down a snowy canyon like some sort of king-sized toboggan strikes your fancy, this is the flick for you.
Inception (2010). Christopher and I took a day off on Friday to do a double feature at the local cracker box cinema; the trippy Inception was one of them. You oughta know by now it’s about Leo DiCaprio and pals invading another man’s dreams in an Oceans 11 meets Mission: Impossible type scenario. I thought it was a fun way to spend two and a half hours. I found myself lost in the film and admiring (if not exactly being wowed by) Christopher Nolan’s knack for audience-friendly yet cerebral entertainment; a very similar reaction that befell Nolan’s The Dark Knight. The story gets very dense at times, introducing characters whose function I couldn’t figure out (Ken Watanabe?). Although the four dream states never tripped me up, I have to admit to being disappointed that they all have a similar “action movie set piece” look that doesn’t bear any semblance to any dream I’ve ever had. The special effects are very cool, however. Just be prepared for many scenes of people drinking, rain-soaked, underwater, etc. — this is a film that seems specifically engineered for strategically placed bathroom breaks.
The Paris Sisters — Sing Everything Under the Sun!!!. The Paris Sisters were a girl trio best known for the moony 1961 hit “I Love How You Love Me.” Despite its having four flop singles, their 1967 LP Sing Everything Under the Sun!!! was considered a sought-after cult item for Girl Group collectors until it finally got a CD reissue in the mid-2000s; I got to check it out on eMusic. This short, sweet gem of an album is a good showcase for the sultry voice of Priscilla Paris (who also wrote four of its ten tracks). Producers Jack Nitzsche and Jimmy Bowen built a consistent sound for the album that lies halfway between Phil Spector and easygoing mid-’60s “beach” music, a mood that sometimes detours in a nicely atmospheric direction (a dirge-like take on “It’s My Party,” for example) which likely influenced David Lynch and Julee Cruise some 20 years later. Priscilla Paris has an interesting, somewhat sleepy sounding voice, but the true highlight of this album comes when she pulls out an unexpectedly emotional performance on “See That Boy.” In just under 2-1/2 minutes, here is the epitome of why I dig obscure ’60s music. I’m positive that in an alternate universe somewhere it’s a huge, huge hit.
They Drive By Night (1940). Re-watched this after adding the DVD to my efforts to collect the films of Joyce Compton. Joyce appears briefly in the film’s second half as the ditsy girlfriend of one of the film’s supporting characters; in my totally biased opinion she holds her own opposite George Raft, Ann Sheridan and Humphrey Bogart. Actually, the first (non-Joyce) half of this film is the kind of cracklin’ working class drama that Warner Bros. did impeccably during this time. It follows truckers Raft and Bogart as they deal with punishing hours and low pay hauling produce on all-night drives, with Sheridan adding a salty cynicism as a waitress whom Raft takes a shine to. It’s such a cool, supremely exciting movie (even the normally cardboard Raft does a great job), that it’s a bit of a disappointment when the film shifts gears to shrill murder melodrama with a hysterically overacting Ida Lupino. That plot development is still interesting in a campy way, but it detracts from what would have otherwise been a perfect, gritty film. Although I normally adore Ida Lupino (see The Hard Way or The Man I Love), she’s too much here; it’s hard to believe that critics of the day heaped praise on her performance.
A Town Called Panic (2009) and Toy Story 3 (2010). Animated films which both deal, directly or not, with our relationship with toys and play objects. A Town Called Panic is an inventive, generally successful French-Belgian stop motion film that weaves a wacky story out of cheap plastic playthings a la army men, farm sets, and cowboys and indians. The cowboy and indian in this instance are two boys who live in a house under the parentage of a stern horse. Although I won’t go into the plot details, it involves an underwater city, a giant mechanical penguin, and lots of weirdly mismatched farm animals. The absurdist humor throughout actually reflects the way real children play with toys, independent of what they were made for (I don’t know about you, but I certainly didn’t use army men to do army battles). This film is too long by a good half hour, but I found it totally charming and bizarre in ways that market-tested Hollywood flicks could never touch. Hollywood flicks excepting those from the mighty Pixar, which brings me to Toy Story 3. What a fabulous way to close out the tale of Andy, Woody, Buzz and the rest of the gang! This film was much more emotionally resonant — and darker — than I ever expected. I appreciated the level of detail that they put in every scene, and the additional characters were so wonderful it almost made me forget the regrettable absence of Bo Peep and that penguin squeaky toy. Probably the most poignant addition is the creep inducing lazy-eyed baby, a character that is set up as a villain but somehow ends up being more sympathetic than the nominal leads. I think it’s because the baby is presented as a realistic child with adorable cooing sounds and infantile reactions, giving the viewer the uncomfortable notion that abandoned baby doll = real abandoned baby. Speaking of which, the film’s climax goes to intense, emotional places even previous Pixar efforts like Up didn’t venture. The much spoken-of final scene was a beautifully done and affecting bit of closure, even though it failed to bring a single tear in me (just raised a lump in my throat) — probably since it went on too long. Yeah, I’m a scrooge. Despite that minor disappointment, this gets a solid ‘A’.
Weekly Mishmash: July 11-17
A Colt Is My Passport (1967). Part of Criterion Eclipse’s acclaimed “Nikkatsu Noir,” a DVD set exploring director Takashi Nomura’s low budget action thrillers from the ’60s. A Colt Is My Passport stars the reliable, chipmunk cheeked actor Jo Shishido as a hit man who kills a mob boss. With his partner, the man hides out in a sleepy shipping port in order to make a hasty escape. Stung by the tragedy, the son of the victim comes to Shishido’s boss and makes a cash offer to have the man killed. With men coming after him, Shishido then plots an elaborate revenge. All told, not the greatest or most original story, but there are enough interesting elements to recommend it. First off is the strange score, seemingly inspired by spaghetti Westerns and Herb Alpert-ish American pop music. In the beginning there are a lot of cool camera angles involving the modern architecture’s boxy, harsh lines — then the film moves to the seedy hotel locale and gets somewhat dull. The film’s exciting climax, staged in a dusty field, redeems things somewhat. Worth a peek if you like unconventional ’60s Japanese movies (and really, who doesn’t?).
Criss Cross (1949). Another noir, closer to home but no less odd. The virile Burt Lancaster heads up Criss Cross as a man harboring an obsession with ex-wife Yvonne De Carlo, now linked with sleazeball gangster Dan Duryea. Told mostly in flashback, the film details Lancaster’s and De Carlo’s attempts to rekindle their flame on the sly as Duryea executes a tricky bank truck heist. A rather standard story gets illuminated by great casting (especially Duryea, doing the kind of reprehensible men he does best) and some excellently photographed shots of 1949 Los Angeles (Angels Flight! Bunker Hill! Union Station!). Yvonne De Carlo was really fascinating to watch — I don’t think she’s the greatest actress, but there’s something watchable about her here and apparently the director agrees, lavishing long takes on her while the actress is dancing in a seedy joint with an uncredited Tony Curtis. She’s one hot tomato, that Yvonne De Carlo.
Eurythmics — Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This). I originally signed up on eMusic to get the 2005 reissues of the (personal fave band of the ’80s) Eurythmics’ catalog. The CD editions of these albums are so neatly packaged, however, that I decided to go with the tried and true plastic disc format. The liner notes for Sweet Dreams reveals an interesting story — by the time the LP came out in January 1983, Dave Stewart and Annie Lennox already released a flop album (In the Garden) and two underperforming singles (”This Is The House” and “The Walk”) to an indifferent world. It doesn’t surprise me at all that this album has an overall tone of resignation and icy reserve. In the Garden was a muddled, vaguely psychedelic mess with Lennox’s vocals buried too deep in the mix; with Sweet Dreams one could sense that they hit upon the simple equation of Soulful Diva Vocals + Chilly Electronics as the definitive Eurythmics sound. It’s a beautifully produced, hypnotic record, a bit repetitive at times, but sustaining a wonderful Euro-sleazy mood. The bonus tracks, mostly b-sides of the era, are lots of fun. I especially liked the 1991 remixes of “Sweet Dreams” and “Love Is A Stranger” and a brilliant cover of Lou Reed’s “Satellite of Love” which sounds more like a Be Yourself Tonight-era outtake.
Four Jacks and a Jill (1943). Wartime musical trifle was the last viewing from my personal Anne Shirley film fest. Honestly, I saw this five days ago and barely remember it; the plot revolves around Shirley as a waif who is somehow adopted by a quartet of musicians led by rubber-limbed Ray Bolger. I vaguely recall gangsters and a prince disguised as a taxi driver (played by a young Desi Arnaz) running around, too. Your enjoyment of this film probably depends on how much you can accept forgettable tunes and the goofy Bolger as a leading man. Shirley is cute as always, and seeing Arnaz as a capable comic actor so early in his career was a nice surprise.
thirtysomething: The Complete First Season. I was excited to see thirtysomething finally arrive on DVD. Although I was eighteen-something and working a night job when it premiered in 1987, I would try and watch the show whenever possible (especially the later seasons with Miles Drentell, Melissa’s gay friend, Nancy’s cancer, etc). Something about the way the characters naturally interacted with each other struck a chord; the characters tended towards the whiny and self-centered, sure, but aren’t we all somewhat like that? Watching this first season was an interesting experience. I don’t remember the show being so strongly centered on its “perfect” couple Michael (Ken Olin) and Hope (Mel Harris) at the beginning. These early episodes epitomize what the haters disliked about the show, with the characters less developed and at their most ’80s yuppie-ish. It quickly hits a stride by the time Elliot (Timothy Busfield) and Nancy (Patricia Wettig) separate at mid-season, however. It’s a hoot revisiting characters and episodes I barely remember. One of my favorite scenes here is the one in the pilot episode where Hope and Polly Draper’s Ellyn meet for lunch in a restaurant, only to have it cut short by Hope’s screaming baby. The two women have this implicit realization that a part of their friendship was severed because one married and had a kid, something that happens with every thirtysomething. I also identified with terminally single Melissa (Melanie Mayron) and her status as the group’s artsy pal; in one of the later seasons she said something to the effect of “being single means learning how to go to the movies alone and not feeling like a leper.” Totally, Melissa, totally. Going back to seasons 2-4 oughta be a blast.
This Above All (1942). Stirring romance with a WWII British backdrop plays like 20th Century Fox’s own Mrs. Miniver. Christopher found it hokey and stupid, I enjoyed it. Lovely Joan Fontaine plays a British blue-blood who upsets her family by joining the UK version of the WACs; she meets cute with Tyrone Power as a morose soldier on the run for desertion. The two take refuge in various inns while discussing their lives and the war in florid, important sounding language that could only have come from a best selling novel of the era. Excellent performances from both leads, as well as Thomas Mitchell as Power’s affable best bud. As an actor Fontaine tends to be either touching and meek or annoyingly prissy; here she’s a little bit of both (one can safely take a bathroom break during her “we must preserve England” speech). Power is surprisingly good despite having no trace of a British accent. Both work splendidly together and I completely believed in the couple’s starry-eyed sincerity amongst the bomb blasts.
It’s Like Quicksand, Quicksand (Yeah)
It’s that time of year again, when I splurge on one of Hip-O Select’s “Complete Motown Singles” CD packages. I recently had a cartooning job that paid off, so some of the newfound booty went toward The Complete Motown Singles, Vol. 3: 1963. Some background: I already own the peak volumes in this series, covering the years 1964-70. Now I’m in the process of hopscotching back and forth in time to get the last remaining sets, covering 1959-63 and 1971-72 (the final two volumes in the series covering 1972 haven’t yet been released, despite promises they’d be out in time for Motown’s 50th anniversary — in 2009).
Coming off the wild ‘n groovy 1970 volume, to be immersed in the comparatively quaint atmosphere of 1963 comes as something of a shock. Listening to the 119 single a- and b-sides included on these five discs, I get the impression that Motown was still your basic local R&B label at this point — albeit a label whose energy and ambition speak of being on the verge of greatness. Berry Gordy had his fingers in several pots at once, with subsidiary labels delving into Jazz (Workshop Jazz), Gospel (Divinity) and Country/Novelty music (Mel-o-dy). These off singles, while interesting, make the volume less essential than the others. On the plus side, having the songs presented in strict chronological order gives a clear picture of how Motown was developing, constantly releasing and reissuing stuff until the right formula translates into bona fide hits. A case in point is Little Stevie Wonder’s “Fingertips.” Stevie’s exciting live performance, split in two on the vinyl single, originally had “Part 1″ on the a-side for its May 1963 debut. Deejays quickly found, however, that the “Part 2″ flip with its “what key, what key?” musician’s ad lib was the more memorable side, so weeks later the single was remixed and re-released to chart topping success.
For me, the biggest development of 1963 Motown was the arrival of the dynamic team of Brian Holland, Lamont Dozier, and Eddie Holland. The first disc in this set contains the first two a-sides written and produced by the trio — The Marvelettes’ “Locking Up My Heart” and Martha & The Vandellas’ “Come And Get These Memories.” Right away, you get the feeling that with these two tunes they hit upon something special. Their tight rhythms and sing-songy melodies sound especially great surrounded by relatively dull sides from Mary Wells, Kim Weston and The Supremes. Indeed, the paucity of HDH sides seems to hurt the set’s misfire and obscurity (good and bad) heavy first half – until they struck gold again with Martha & The Vandellas’ tremendous “Heat Wave” in July. After that, the jumpy, gospel-inspired sound characteristic of early HDH gets the full treatment with hits from The Miracles (”Mickey’s Monkey”), Marvin Gaye (”Can I Get A Witness”), Mary Wells (”You Lost The Sweetest Boy”), The Supremes (”When The Lovelight Starts Shining Through His Eyes,” the tune that broke the girls’ “no hit” curse), and – again – Martha & The Vandellas (”Quicksand”). This is early, exciting Motown at its best, and that alone makes me happy I got this.
A Pinch of Basil
Today’s video is another forgotten ’80s tune I just discovered this week — Toni Basil’s “Over My Head.” I think this song actually betters “Mickey;” too bad it barely made it onto the Billboard Hot 100. The video has a terrific concept with multi-talented Toni dancing in and out of vintage pulp book covers with various “outrageous” looks. She’s a helluva dancer, of course, and the theatricality she used on her image is very prescient. The Lady GaGa of 1983?
Weekly Mishmash: June 13-19
Anita Baker — Rapture. Anita Baker’s “Quiet Storm” breakthrough Rapture is one of those albums that was critically acclaimed in its time (1986) but seems to have unjustly fallen under the radar in recent years. Which is a shame, since the album is a lushly produced charmer; seductive and consistent without sounding samey, and never falling into the bathetic realm of a “smooth jazz” radio station. Like Patti Austin, Baker approaches the material with a jazz singer’s finesse that many of her followers never picked up on. She’s a great singer, and the fact that she wrote much of this album is all the more impressive. For only eight tracks there sure are a lot of hits to enjoy. “Sweet Love” was the biggest, joined by “Caught Up in the Rapture,” “Same Old Love” and the mellowlicious “No One in the World” (a fourth track, “Watch Your Step,” also made waves on the R&B chart). This is an album for my inner Claire Huxtable to groove on.
Come Drink with Me (1966). An early Hong Kong action flick whose influence can be seen in many subsequent films, chief among them Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. The film is beautifully photographed, lushly produced, but rather blah in the storytelling department. Probably the biggest appeal it has to modern audiences lies in spotting the elements that Crouching Tiger paid homage to, including a kick-butt heroine (effectively played by Pei-Pei Cheng) that serves as a prototype for the Michelle Yeohs that came along afterward. I enjoyed the many fight scenes, too, even if they have hoards of men stupidly standing idle just waiting to get a kung fu sock in the gut. The film is actually very well made; director King Hu deliberately frames the scenes like an artist carefully composing a canvas. For that element alone, I bestow this film a (very slight) recommendation.
Flashdance (1983). One of many ’80s blockbusters that I hadn’t previously seen, even though I find the soundtrack album one of the best of its time (really!). This was, in all honesty, a pretty stupid movie. But I found it utterly fascinating as a relic of that period, and I love the ingenious way director Adrian Lyne got around the obviously cheap production by shooting the film like an ultra glossy, seductive TV commercial (similar to Foxes. And 9-1/2 Weeks. And that Jovan musk “what is sexy” ad). A good example is the scene set in a gym with Jennifer Beals and pals working out in front of harsh white back lighting (scored to Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n Roll,” no less). Have you ever seen a gym that looks like that? And yet it fits into this film’s weird alternate universe in which Beals’ winsome welder by day, stripper by night seems to passively waft through. Adding to the inanity is a Joe Eszterhas penned script which drops f-bombs to signify character development. Jennifer Beals with all her poise and inner serenity is probably the best thing about this flick — next to the still kickin’ soundtrack, of course. Corny as it seems, I often think about Irene Cara’s “take your passion and make it happen” line while making screen prints. It might sound silly, but it’s true!
Judgement at Nuremberg (1961). Whoa, I heard this was an effective film but I didn’t expect something this powerful. Somehow I got into my mind that this was a pretentious snoozer (who wants to watch three hours of courtroom testimony?), but luckily the film turned out better and filled with considerably more depth than that. It really examines the depths of humanity’s responsibility to itself, using the famed Nuremberg trials of surviving Nazi war criminals as a backdrop. Spencer Tracy is the presiding American judge, presented as the wise voice of reason while also allowing him to have his own quirky personality. It’s a terrific role and Tracy is great. I also enjoyed Maxmillian Schell as the German attorney, but some of the best performances went to actors in smaller roles. Montgomery Clift and Judy Garland are both amazing, and Marlene Dietrich surprises as a German officer’s wife who not so convincingly pleads ignorance to Tracy’s character on the horrors her spouse is accused of committing. I was also surprised that director Stanley Cramer used actual footage of WWII concentration camp victims in the film. The images still pack a wallop; I can’t imagine what it must have been like in 1961 when the horrors were still fresh in moviegoers’ minds.
Shutter Island (2010). In their fourth collaboration, Martin Scorsese directs Leonardo DiCaprio in this ’50s period thriller. As a police detective investigating a murder case in an insane asylum, DiCaprio essays an okay if somewhat hammy performance. To his credit, Scorsese does deliver some effectively creepy scenes at the asylum, a place filled with the stock forbidding doctors and spasmodic patients. This could have been a fun little throwback to the pulpy thrillers of yesteryear, but in the end the film is as bloated and overproduced as The Aviator. It takes to long to get from here to there — and once we arrive at a major plot point (the supposedly shocking “twist” scene, for example), it comes with a whimper instead of a shout. I suggest Scorsese needs to watch more old movies, since even the hackiest of ’40s/’50s directors knew how to be concise and to the point.
Weekly Mishmash: June 6-12
Belle and Sebastian – Dear Catastrophe Waitress. Yearning for something newish, light and fun on eMusic, I honed in on this gem from one of my fave indie pop acts. I thought Belle and Sebastian’s The Life Pursuit was the best album of 2006, and this earlier collaboration with producer Trevor Horn is very much in the same paisley printed bag. Like Life Pursuit, this album puts a smile on my face with its summery charm. Much of the album has a startling, vaguely retro sheen (”Step Into My Office, Baby”), while other tunes (”Piazza, New York Catcher”) hark back to the twee folk that characterized their earliest work. Many purists find this stuff too sweet and sugary, but I find the band’s commitment to real melodies totally refreshing and a distinct step above the atonal posturing that most indie acts indulge in. This also made me want to explore Trevor Horn’s work; I even went to the trouble of making a list of everything Horn produced that’s on eMusic. Peruse his official discography — now that’s a body of work!
Hit Men: Power Brokers and Fast Money Inside the Music Business by Fredric Dannen. Despite being published 20 years ago, this paperback edition of Dannen’s explosive music industry exposé is an enthralling read. Dannen casts a wide net in detailing the shady practice of goosing record airplay and sales — going back to the payola scandal of the ’50s and earlier — but mostly the book focuses on a ring of sleazy “independent promoters” who racked up millions in the freewheeling late ’70s and early ’80s. The book has a large cast of colorful characters (too large, to be honest), and everyone from thuggish bodyguards to pampered label execs gets a vivid portrait. The main thing I got from this book is that a good old boy mentality pervades the entire industry, and even the highest of label heads have the double-dealing oiliness of mob bosses. Dannen reserves his sharpest barbs for ’80s CBS Records head Irving Azoff, who here seems like the ultimate gladhanding sleazebag. A real eye-opener, and I wonder if it would be all that different for today’s music climate. Given what currently hits the charts, payola must continue being an essential part of the biz. The chapter on disco label Casablanca alone is worth its weight in gold.
Hoosiers (1986). I always wanted to see this, supposedly the template for every inspirational “come from behind” sports story committed to film in the last twenty or so years. Indeed, Hoosiers indulges in just about every sports movie cliché in the book, but Gene Hackman’s commanding presence and the wonderfully authentic, somewhat corny ’50s midwestern atmosphere pulled me over. Actually, the moody photography and faithful period detail were the film’s strongest elements in my opinion. Good performances are delivered by Hackman, Dennis Hopper (r.i.p.) and Barbara Hershey despite the fact that their characters are too stock to be truly believable. The only outright awful element would be Jerry Goldsmith’s score, weaving truly unfortunate ’80s synths into the mix that take the viewer out of the moment. Unbelievably, Goldsmith received an Oscar nom for this. What was the Academy thinking? The climactic game is pretty fantastically staged. I was stirred despite knowing what the outcome would be; if that’s not a ringing endorsement, I don’t know what is.
Manic (2001). Troubled teens argue, fistfight, argue, fistfight, the end.
Reprise (2006). Norwegian film with an intriguing concept, following two young men as they submit their first novels for publication. One becomes an immediate success, leading to a nervous breakdown; the other has his novel rejected but keeps plugging away and hoping to grab the attention of the reclusive older writer he admires. The film is structured in a freeform way, bouncing back and forth in time and dense with dialogue. While the technique is interesting, I found the two main characters somewhat bland and their slackerish lifestyle (mostly concertgoing and hanging out with friends, not much writing) wasn’t all that compelling.
Weekly Mishmash: May 30-June 5
Haunted Gold (1932). Haunted Gold is a lively little early b-movie Western starring a lean and green John Wayne. Actually it’s about three parts Western to one part Haunted House Movie, which is enough to make me enjoy it despite the silly plot and stilted acting. Wayne plays a man coming back to his childhood town to stake his claim on an abandoned gold mine, a spot that a gang of meanies and a lovely young woman (Sheila Terry) are vying for as well. Somehow the story also involves a creaky old house filled with assorted creeps and the regrettable stereotypical scared black guy (Blue Washington) who serves as the hero’s right hand man. At film’s climax, Wayne’s white horse “Duke” comes to the rescue doing something impressive even by celluloid animal prodigy standards. This was lots of fun, efficiently covering a lot of ground in just under an hour. Wayne was at an interesting stage where one can tell he’s not the greatest actor, but he has that indefinable “it” factor that the biggest movie stars possess. This was also an odd live action production by Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies producer Leon Schlesinger (check out the animated owls over the opening credits!).
Prince & The Revolution — Purple Rain. Since eMusic is adding Prince’s back catalog in stages, I decided to toss a spare nine credits their way for Purple Rain, arguably his most enduring work. I used to own this on vinyl as a teen. The album still sounds good with a excellent flow that doesn’t make the hit singles stick out, unlike other megahit albums of the day. The only tune I didn’t originally remember was “Computer Love,” a funky semi-instrumental. Several of the other non-hits are so good they could have been released as singles; the salacious “Darling Nikki” is Hendryx brought into the ’80s, and “The Beautiful Ones” is one of his best-ever ballads. Now I’m itching to get into the Purple One’s other stuff dating from his self-titled ‘79 album up through the 1992 “unpronounceable symbol” album.
Swing It, Sailor! (1938). When I think of actor Wallace Ford, I don’t think comedian. I might think “only normal person in Freaks” or “hearty noir supporting character.” Nevertheless, the 50 comedy movie DVD pack we have contains no less than three comedies starring the doughy Ford. This forgettable maritime yuckfest is one of ‘em. With Ford and Ray Mayer as two gobs tussling over a hard-edged blonde (Isabel Jewel), this film isn’t very distinctive but it’s a breezy enough way to kill an hour. What interested me the most was Mary Treen as the leading lady’s plain roommate. The versatile Ms. Treen was one of those “hey, I know that lady” comic actresses who seemingly appeared in everything produced by Hollywood from the ’30s to the ’70s. I remember her best as Kay, the dull woman who briefly replaced Alice as the family housekeeper in one Brady Bunch episode. It’s true, everything in my existence ultimately relates to The Brady Bunch.
The River (1951). Late period Jean Renoir film is pretty to look at, but ultimately undone with stock characters and situations. The film concerns a British family in colonial India, particularly the brood’s two blossoming daughters who become entranced by a dashing Army captain visiting their neighbor. This film is rightly considered one of the best examples of Technicolor photography, and in that respect it particularly shines in opening segments depicting India as a mystical rural paradise. When it comes to the plot and acting, however, this was a total misfire. I didn’t find anything compelling about the two girls and their petty arguments (granted, the narration was nice) and the way the drama plays out. Even the subject of death is treated with a disarming callousness in Renoir’s hands. The best thing I can say about this is that it’s not flat out horrible like Renoir’s follow-up, The Golden Coach, my vote for the worst film the otherwise peerless Criterion ever put out. As long as I’m on the subject, what’s your least favorite Criterion DVD?
The Thief of Bagdad (1940). Colorful and fun kiddie adventure from producer Alexander Korda. This is the Arabian Nights told with plushness and visual flair in stunning Technicolor. The special effects might seem cheesy to our jaded CGI overloaded eyes, but I think the cheesiness has its own appeal. The most laudable thing about this film is that it leaves the impression of having spared no expense, yet it never seems like it’s trying too hard. I enjoyed all the characters, especially Conrad Veidt’s menacing Jaffar and Sabu’s industrious thief Abu. Some scenes take on a heady, psychedelic quality, such as when Abu ventures into a massive Hindu temple to retrieve a magic crystal. As with The River, the Technicolor photography has that strange muted quality unique to British productions — dreamy, a little tacky but lovely all the same.
Weekly Mishmash: May 23-29
Bananarama – Collectables Classics. Bananarama was one of those ’80s groups that I’ve always enjoyed, but not enough to buy their albums back when they were popular. Collectibles Classics is the trio’s first four albums — Deep Sea Skiving, Bananarama, True Confessions and Wow! — packaged with a tacky cardboard sleeve. All of these albums have their share of glossy filler, but I enjoyed hearing them back to back and tracking the evolution of Siobahn Fahey, Sara Dallin and Keren Woodward from shaggy, overall clad popsters to full-on dance divas. Sure, the ladies sing indistinctly with no harmony whatsoever, but they did write much of their own material and have a certain spunky charm that’s not easy to resist. One often thinks of them in terms of “fun” stuff like “Venus,” and yet I’m surprised at how dark a lot of their songs were. Take “A Trick of the Night” from True Confessions, for example, a tale of a boy prostitute with glossy yet hard hitting production straight outta Miami Vice. The tune is typical of the professional Tony Swain and Steve Jolley-produced material from LPs #2 and #3, but the lighthearted, d.i.y. inspired Deep Sea Skiving is the most purely enjoyable they ever got. I also have a soft spot for the fizzy, Stock Aitken Waterman produced Wow! Even if the album is heavy on brain dead beats which got better served in concise single-length remixes, I pretty much worship at the S.A.W. throne and this is a good one. Surprisingly enough, Bananarama is still going strong with Dallin and Woodward working in a more club-oriented mode as a duo. Girl power at its finest!
For Whom the Bell Tolls (1943). This is a film that is practically dripping with prestige: Hemingway adaptation, top-rank stars, opulent production. No wonder that it is a crashing bore as well. Though it does have a few great moments (the climactic battle and chase), mostly the film is ponderous and talky, never letting you forget that fact over the course of nearly three butt numbing hours. As an American everyman aiding a band of Spanish freedom fighters, Gary Cooper is pretty much the same as in every other film he’s done. Ingrid Bergman delivers an uncharacteristically hysterical performance as Cooper’s clingy love interest. Both are terribly miscast, although I can’t say the same of the generally fine supporting actors — highlighted by the indomitable Spaniard played by Katina Paxinou (who nabbed an Oscar for her work, then disappeared from sight). Mostly taking place high in the Spanish mountains, the filmmakers gave this film a sense of heightened reality with dramatic lighting and fake looking sets offset by more straightforward outdoor scenes. Totally schizo, in other words, but very indicative of this film’s lack of focus.
Meet the Mayor (1932). This scrappy b-movie served as a vehicle for vaudeville actor Frank Fay, and an interesting little diversion on our 50 public domain comedies DVD set. Prior to viewing this, the only thing I knew about Fay was that he was Barbra Stanwyck’s first husband and he treated her badly when it became apparent that she had the goods he lacked to become a movie star. Whatever douchebag-like behavior Fay had privately isn’t evident in this film (originally released as A Fool’s Advice), in which he plays a simple elevator operator who helps invent a recording device that he uses to dethrone the corrupt mayor of his town. Fay generally comes across as a second rate Will Rogers type, genial but lacking in magnetism. The film is pretty typical early talkie stuff, somewhat leaden but watchable with a few familiar faces in support. Nat Pendleton plays a menacing heavy (big surprise) and Franklin Pangborn is on hand essaying his patented Flustered Hotel Clerk.
Sally, Irene and Mary (1938). This was our week of having free previews of a bunch of satellite stations, including the Fox Movie Channel (which DirecTV cruelly upgraded to the “bunch of movie channels we don’t want” tier a few years back). This fluffy musical was the only thing I recorded from them, mostly because it’s otherwise unavailable. This was a remake of the old silent-era story of three girls pursuing show biz careers in the big, bad city. Despite the title, it mostly revolves around Alice Faye’s Sally, with Joan Davis’ Irene as able comic relief and Margery Weaver’s Mary merely serving as pretty wallpaper. Radio star Fred Allen, underutilized Jimmy Durante and a young Tony Martin round out the cast. Standard stuff overall, I’d say, and yet musicals from this period can always be counted on to have at least one amazing number. In this case it’s the tinkly “Minuet In Jazz” performed by Raymond Scott’s Quintette with dozens of chorus girls dressed in shiny 18th century-inspired garb. I so wished it was on YouTube, but unfortunately you’ll have to tune in the Fox Movie Channel to check it out.
Weekly Mishmash: May 16-22
Code Two (1953). Fun, documentary style flick about L.A.’s motorcycle cops. This film follows three men (Ralph Meeker, Robert Horton and Jeff Richards) as they go through arduous boot camp at the police academy (look fast for the same roadway from the Charlie’s Angels opening credits), make their way through office gruntwork, and finally earn their badges as motorcycle patrolmen. This film is awfully backward in its portrayal of manly men and their worried wives and girlfriends, and the many straightforward shots of people driving hogs around might make you reach for the nearest gun. It’s still fascinating from a historical point of view, however, with plenty of gritty footage straight out of an industrial training short. The film picks up a bit once the dramatic stuff gets under way, with rogue cop Meeker chasing down an underground cattle thieving ring. There’s also a scene where the hunky leads relax in bathing wear — nice!
Dead Again (1991). This is the third time I’ve seen this Kenneth Branagh/Emma Thompson thriller (it’s one of Christopher’s all time faves). It is one of those films that people either love or hate. Despite the film’s ludicrousness, I always fall for it, even to the point of not seeing the many “twist” plot points that get thrown at you like so many ham-handed scissor references. I think it’s because Branagh and Thompson are so committed to their characters, and they seem to be having a grand time playing both 1940s lovers and a contemporary pair who are not at all freaked that they physically resemble said 1940s couple.
Niagara Falls (1941). This breezy Hal Roach production was the latest offering in our cheap-o public domain comedy film fest. The print on our DVD was surprisingly crisp and clean looking, matched by comedy that was actually quite enjoyable on its own modest terms. The plot concerns a pair of young strangers (Marjorie Woodworth and Tom Brown) thrown together under unpleasant circumstances. When the two seek lodging at a Niagra Falls hotel, they are mistaken for newlyweds and booked in the same room. Although the two seem to have an easy way out (why don’t they just say they’re not married?), they are forced together via a zealous country hick (Slim Summerville) — much to the dismay of his long-suffering bride (ZaSu Pitts in full-on “oh dear” mode). A short, silly farce made watchable by a pleasant cast and slick production which could almost be mistaken for an MGM b-movie. The falls themselves appear through the magic of rear screen projection, by the way.
Night of the Comet (1984). I rented this expecting some good ’80s cheese; well, it’s cheesy alright but not so good. A comet hits earth, turning most of humanity to rust colored dust save for two vapid L.A. teens. The girls (Catherine Mary Stewart and Kelli Maroney) make their way to a neon-lit radio station, where they and a handsome stranger (Robert Beltran of Star Trek: Voyager) must elude zombies and mysterious agents who are coldly monitoring the trio. Interesting concept, but the production’s cheapness and plodding pace are a huge bummer. The film couldn’t decide whether the comet made people into dust or zombies, so they went with both and apparently hoped no one would notice. On the plus side I dug the ’80s shopping montage and the many shots of an empty downtown L.A. (shot at 5 a.m., perhaps?), and Stewart made for a nice, level-headed heroine.
The One and Only, Genuine, Original Family Band (1968). Another relic of Disney live action musical cheeriness from the ’60s. I find these flicks fascinating, but this 1880s-set opus left me puzzled. For one, the movie doesn’t really revolve much around the title band, preferring to stick with crusty grampa Walter Brennan’s political convictions (he’s a Democrat and Grover Cleveland supporter; son Buddy Ebsen is a Republican). Much time is also devoted to a romantic subplot with Lesley Ann Warren and John Davidson serenading each other to indistinct Sherman brothers songs. The family itself has too many kids who don’t have enough screen time to make an impression (even 14 year-old Kurt Russel gets lost in the shuffle) — a symbol of this pleasant yet overlong production. The one thing I did enjoy was the crafty “Ten Feet Off The Ground,” which can be better heard here on the great Café Apres Midi Meets Disney compilation.
Barbra Streisand — The Essential Barbra Streisand. Being a proper music loving queer, I decided to explore the rich catalog of Barbra Streisand on eMusic. At first I only wanted to get her first two “Greatest Hits” albums from 1970 and ‘78, but then I realized that the same credits could be used on this 2002 compilation with twice as many tracks. This set covers her first forty years in the biz in an even-handed fashion. Babs’ earliest stuff is the highlight, of course. From the opener “A Sleepin’ Bee” one can tell what a breath of fresh air she was, and old style singer’s singer with uniqueness and vitality. I’m delighted they put in the wonderfully sung “Don’t Rain On My Parade” and “On A Clear Day You Can See Forever,” but my favorite tune of hers is the rendition of Laura Nyro’s “Stoney End” — a song that by all rights could have been a hippie-dippy mistake, but Barbra’s enthusiasm makes it a joyous romp. From there on out, her music got more formulaic and overproduced as ironically her singing improved. I can admire the virtuosity in a “Papa Can You Hear Me?” from Yentl, but it’s missing the spark of something like “Lover, Come Back to Me” from 1963. Whoever compiled this tended to pick vocal virtuosity over hits (a nice tactic), which means entire albums are sometimes omitted. For example, I kinda wish they included something off 1984’s pop-oriented Emotion, but then again it would have destroyed the flow between the Yentl and Broadway Album selections. And there’s also the matter of everything post-’85 being such a crashing bore. It really says something that even when doing a snoozy ballad, though, the woman is like buttah.
Weekly Mishmash: April 25-May 1
Blast of Silence (1961). This was such an interesting find. Blast of Silence is a New York-set crime thriller written by and starring Allen Baron — an early example of indie shoestring filmmaking. Baron was not the first choice for the lead (Peter Falk was), but he does have a certain sulky presence as cynical hit man Frank Bono. The film is somewhat stilted and meandering, but Baron really conveys the banality of Bono’s existence in several fascinating shots in which he’s seen pacing the streets of a grimy ‘61 Manhattan at Christmas time. The best touch was hiring an uncredited Lionel Stander (what a voice!) to do the narration. This omniscient, blasé voice running throughout becomes the central motif of the film, and it elevates Blast from routine late noir to a cinematic art piece. Criterion’s DVD also includes a neat piece in which Baron revisits the film’s NYC locales thirty years later.
Gentleman’s Agreement (1947). Another Best Picture Oscar winner that I hadn’t seen before. I was expecting Elia Kazan’s filming of the then-controversial Laura Z. Hobson novel to be dated and ponderous, but the film adroitly deals with the root of prejudice in a way that resonates even today. In the film, Gregory Peck plays a magazine journalist who is assigned a hot story on anti-Semitism. The gentile Peck doesn’t know how to go about reporting on this, until he hits upon the idea of going undercover as a Jew (several scenes after the audience has figured it out – not a smart cookie, this Peck guy). One could say this film is wishy-washy and comes from a “bleeding heart liberal” point of view, but it’s also beautifully directed and boasts top-notch acting from a committed cast (including Dorothy McGuire, Ann Revere, John Garfield, Celeste Holm, June Havoc and Dean Stockwell). I thought it was swell and deservedly won Best Picture. I even wish that McGuire, who does wonders with a tricky role, had nabbed the Best Actress award that year. Instead the prize went to Loretta Young, the Sandra Bullock of 1947. Can’t win them all, I suppose.
Outrage (2009). Fantastic, utterly gripping documentary on closeted Republican politicians who have long track records of rejecting pro-gay and lesbian legislation. Normally I have a problem with the idea of outing celebrities or elected officials. If they want to keep their private lives private, that’s fine. I do take exception for those whose actions are downright hypocritical, however, and director/writer Kirby Dick unearths a lot of eye-popping stuff in laudably measured, non-exploitative tone. It’s astonishing the kind of gall people like Larry Craig and Charlie Crist have, courting right-wing Bible thumpers while trolling the internet for m2m sex. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! You have got to see this.
The Secret of Kells (2009). This was our special “day out at the movies” yesterday — I’ve been wanting to see the Irish/Belgian production Secret of Kells since it received a nomination for Best Animated Feature last January. Like most people, I thought “what is this?” I was enchanted by the exquisite visual design of this medieval adventure, then delighted when the film finally showed up at a local theater. The venue was located 20 miles away from us, but by gum we were gonna see it. This is an animated rendition of the origin of the Book of Kells, a story that might be more accessible to those who know Irish folklore but intriguing all the same. Every frame is like a gorgeous work of art — one equally inspired by Celtic illuminated manuscripts, Gustave Klimt, and classic Disney. I loved the stylized character design (that cat!) and the beautiful watercolor subtlety of the backgrounds. The film really has an exquisite eye for nature and the changing seasons — even the snowflakes are Celtic. I might even have to catch it again when it lands on DVD.
Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings — I Learned the Hard Way. Good, gritty retro-soul album was my token new music purchase for the quarter. Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings make every effort to mimic old soul records from circa 1970, with enough class and modern sensibility to make it considerably better than mere oldies revue pastiche. It’s a pretty tasty, tuneful record with the Delfonics shout out “The Game Gets Old” being the standout. Ms. Jones herself is a great, assured vocalist, but what stands out to my ears is how the Dap-Kings sound exactly like Al Green’s backup musicians from the early ’70s. Short of a time-traveling Delorian, how exactly did they do that?
Song of Russia (1944). Joy. Robert Taylor, the Senator Larry Craig of classic moviedom, was TCM’s star of the month for April. That didn’t really appeal to me that much, but I did manage to TiFaux one of his vehicles that has always held a perverse fascination: the WWII romance Song of Russia. The film was infamous — not so much for its obvious propaganda or its dippy storyline involving a dashing American conductor and the comely Russian swain he falls for — but for being one of the igniting forces behind the House of Un-American Activity’s investigation of alleged Communists in Hollywood. I won’t get into that particular angle, but the film itself was moderately entertaining hokum, ludicrously portraying the Russian people as simple farm folk who’d find an ordinary wristwatch dazzling. I actually enjoyed certain elements here — the classical soundtrack, the luminous b&w cinematography, and most of all Susan Peters as Taylor’s love interest. Peters’ life was tragically cut short when a hunting accident left her paralyzed; this film gives us a small peek into what could have been.
