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The Criterion Collection's prime function is making great filmmakers accessible to the home video audience. Their new dual-format disc set The Essential Jacques Demy contains excellent restorations of the marvelous French director's best films. Always a loner exploring new avenues of music and romance, Demy's work will delight fans of his international success The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.
Jacques Demy is not categorized as a French New Wave filmmaker, but his Lola (1961) has the look of a Nouvelle Vague feature. It was filmed mostly with available light on location in the seaport of Nantes, with all audio dubbed in post-production. The B&W Franscope images slowly build a dizzying tangle of romantic relationships that center on the handsome but aimless Roland Cassard (Marc Michel) and a singer and bar hostess, Lola (Anouk Aimée). Roland meets an attractive widow (Elina Labourdette) in a bookstore, and offers advice to her daughter Cécile (Annie Duperoux). Roland encounters Lola and soon falls in love, but the timing isn't right. Lola spends the night with an American sailor friend, yet is saving her heart for a long-lost love that abandoned her with child seven years ago.
In Lola fate takes the form of accidental meetings, which happen easily in an ornate courtyard shopping arcade frequented by most of the characters. All of the lovers have histories of mistakes and broken hearts, but none of them realize that their personal stories are part of a larger, repeating pattern. Lola would rather wait for her dream lover to return than commit to Roland. When young Cécile is taken to a fun fair by Lola's sailor friend and falls madly in love with him, she's unaware that the exact same thing happened to her mother, and Lola as well. Jacques Demy is reminding us that our romantic experiences are private, yet shared by all.
Despite the gray realism of the cinematography, fantasy elements slip in. Sailors dance and drink at Lola's nightclub, where every working girl has a heart of gold. Cécile is barely in her teens, but we see her enraptured by love and ready to make a life-changing decision. 'Magical' timing brings people together and keeps them apart. Roland just misses an appointment for a job with a diamond smuggler, an accident that saves his skin. Appearing periodically through the picture is a tall man in a white Cadillac, who may hold the solution to several relationships.
Demy references other romantic movies as well. Elina Labourdette starred in the classic Les dames du Bois de Boulogne as a woman trapped in a sordid compromise; her character in Lola is determined to save her daughter from the same fate. Roland Cassard attends a matinee of Return to Paradise, in which Gary Cooper's sailor abandons his own daughter on the South Seas island of Matareva. When another character seeks to explain his long absence, he talks about being marooned on an isle called Matareva. Demy converts these previous movies into quasi-prequels.
Because its original negative was destroyed in a fire, the fine-quality restoration of Lola seen here is a genuine rescue job. Demy and his cameraman Raoul Coutard don't frequently film Anouk Aimée in extreme backlight, and she persists in looking ravishing even when the image is purposely overexposed. Criterion's extras include a 2012 interview with Ms. Aimée, another with Agnés Varda and four complete early films by Jacques Demy. One early student film points directly to what would later become the director's main theme: a young man wallows in self-pity after a romantic breakup.
Judging by the success of Lola director Demy had his pick of actresses for his next film. Bay of Angels (La baie des anges) features a remarkable performance by Jeanne Moreau as Jackie Demaistre, a serious gambling addict. Demy once again gravitates to the seaside, this time to the casinos of Southern France. Bored bank clerk Jean (Claude Mann) catches the gambling bug after winning half a year's pay in just a couple of hours. He meets and beds Jackie, an utterly charming but hopelessly corrupted devotee of the Roulette Wheel. Having left her ruined marriage behind, Jackie bounces erratically from city to city and also from man to man. Both she and Jean have excellent luck. Jean finds out what it is like to buy expensive clothes and dine at the most exclusive eateries.
But the troubled Jackie doesn't know when to quit, and loses money almost as fast as she wins it. When he first sees her, in fact, she's being ejected from a casino for attempting to steal chips. The practical Jean averts disaster more than once by announcing that he's held some cash in reserve. Jackie soon loses track of whose money is whose, and simply assumes that he'll give her everything he's got.
Other directors' movies about gambling addicts almost always end in tragedy. At first Bay of Angels makes winning a lot of money seem a possible way to make a living. But the emptiness of the lifestyle comes through as well. When he meets her, Jackie has nothing left except the clothes on her back. She talks about redeeming the jewelry she's pawned but keeps returning to the tables instead. The longer Jean stays with her, the more she revises her backstory to align with the truth, rather than the face-saving lies she told him on meeting.
Demy's direction of one of France's top stars is flawless. Just as notable is his refusal to criticize or condemn the unpredictable Jackie, no matter how reckless or abusive she becomes. Jean accepts her for what she is, and sticks with her. They're a remarkable couple; even if their lifestyle seems wholly unsustainable. The movie is a fascinating peek at a curiously detached existence.
Criterion's extras emphasize Jacques Demy's appeal to potential actresses, as the usually calm Jeanne Moreau enthusiastically endorses him in an old television interview. Instead of choosing mainstream work, Demy concentrated on expressing his romantic themes. His main collaborator would be the composer of the music for his first two films, Michel Legrand.
1964's The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Les parapluies de Cherbourg) is the movie that put Demy on the map. In America it has been rediscovered by succeeding generations of French language students, in the same way that The Red Shoes inspires budding ballerinas. French directors admire American musicals but only Demy has found success adapting the highly artificial genre to his own temperament. A fully sung jazz operetta, the movie's soundtrack had to be finessed and recorded before filming took place, so that Demy's non-singing actors could lip-synch to the lyrics. Michel Legrand's music is nothing less than enchanting, and his main romantic tune is still an instantly recognized standard. Adding to the film's legend is its 'discovery' of Catherine Deneuve, one of the most enduring of French stars.
For his first film in color Demy adopts an extravagant visual style, even though most of the film was made in a realistic setting, the port of Cherbourg. Just as in an MGM musical, bright primary colors are everywhere and costumes and props are carefully matched to the sets. Yet the story Demy tells is not an escapist fantasy. Umbrella shop girl Geneviève and mechanic Guy (Catherine Deneuve & Nino Castelnuovo) fall madly in love but are forced to separate when he's called up for military duty in Algeria. When she becomes pregnant and Guy's letters stop coming, Geneviève's practical mother (Anne Vernon) insists that she accept a marriage proposal from a wealthy diamond merchant. An undefeatable Great Love seems doomed to tragedy, as Geneviève realizes that she's just another victim in the world's oldest story.
The film surprised audiences everywhere. The format takes just a few seconds to win us over. Because the entire movie is sung to music, there are no awkward transitions between normal dialogue scenes and musical numbers. As in West Side Story we don't mind hearing people sing instead of talk in completely realistic backgrounds, such as an auto repair garage. Unlike West Side Story, the romantic fantasy flows, without stylistic breaks for ordinary scenes.
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg puts some audiences through an emotional wringer. The lovers' farewell at a rainy train depot fully conveys the desire to die rather than be separated, when two years seems an eternity. But Geneviève and Guy have already succumbed to their passion in a scene that of powerful visual symbolism. The inevitability of it all is expressed when they drift in the direction of Guy's house, without walking. The lovers know where they'll end up, and the film simply cuts to static images of the path to Guy's bedroom.
The bright colors seem to depart for the later chapters, when reality forces Geneviève to betray her love. It's at this point that Umbrellas takes the leap into Jacques Demy's world of 'romantic relativity'. The cool diamond merchant sees and wants Geneviève, and maneuvers himself into a proposal as if conducting a smooth business negotiation. He's none other than Roland Cassard from Lola, played again by Marc Michel. Roland's music cue returns as well. Having lost the love of his life, Roland found his calling in the diamond trade and is more or less shopping for a wife and family on his own terms. He's sincere but cool, and by no means the same broken-hearted man who moped around Nantes. As Roland tells Geneviève's mother about Lola, we suddenly see that ornate shopping arcade again, this time in color.
We spend the rest of the movie dreading what will happen when Geneviève and Guy meet again, for each has betrayed the other. Demy and Legrand have such control over the film's emotional flow that the snowy climax of Umbrellas achieves an impact equal to that of a classic opera.
The extras grant us a full appreciation of how difficult it must have been for Demy and his designers to build a stylized reality from scratch. Demy and Legrand timed out the entire movie soundtrack in advance, leaving room for stage business and transitions. It's amazing that the final action and performances never seem locked into a rigid pattern. Several interviews cover the making of the show. Ms. Deneuve underwent a full makeover to become the film's blonde, virginal Geneviève, a change that she initially resisted. Only a director like Demy could inspire such trust.
1967's The Young Girls of Rochefort (Les Demoiselles de Rochefort) spreads the musical-cinematic ideas of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg across a larger canvas and adds the dimension of dance. Its multiple romances play out similarly to Lola: when a music & dance company comes to Rochefort for a big boat and recreation show, a dozen potential lovers criss-cross in the streets, almost making the right romantic connections. Every line of dialogue is sung to Michel Legrand's music score and all the stage business is choreographed. Demy's newest collaborator is Hollywood's own Gene Kelly.
This time the tone is light and breezy. Show dancers Etienne (George Chakiris) and Bill (Grover Dale) must find replacements when their female counterparts decide to run off with sailors. Enter the Garnier twins, ballet teacher Delphine (Catherine Deneuve) and piano teacher Solange (Françoise Dorléac). Delphine is breaking up with the owner of an art gallery who displays a painting by young soldier Maxence (Jacques Perrin) that looks just like Delphine. Maxence has never met Delphine but he does know her mother Yvonne (Danielle Darrieux), and tells her that he's searching the world for the feminine ideal represented in his painting. Yvonne pines for the lover she spurned ten years before for frivolous reasons. He's Simon Dame (Michel Piccoli), who's just returned to Rochefort thinking that Yvonne's long gone to Mexico. Simon is soft on Solange, but she wants to go to Paris to meet successful composer Andy Miller (Gene Kelly). Add to that several other characters whose random destinies hinge on chance encounters in Rochefort's charming streets, and it's hard to tell who will end up with whom.
The film's ambition seems to be to revive and develop Hollywood's abandoned tradition of MGM musicals. Every scene has at least one song, and even more combine singing with dancing -- lots of dancing. The leading characters dance on the street, in hallways, just about everywhere. The twenty or so squeaky-clean show dancers do large-scale numbers in every open space in town.
The lengthy Rochefort eventually wears us out. Michel Legrand's music has energy and style but is short on truly memorable melodies. There are also talent issues, in that the non-singing actors can be dubbed but they can't become real dancers overnight. Thus pros like George Chakiris, Grover Dale and Gene Kelly rein in their skills, while the gorgeous sisters Deneuve and Dorléac seem stretched beyond their abilities. They move well and have grace to spare, but are no match for the pro dancers around them. Yet they're a knockout in shimmering crimson dresses, in a dance modeled after Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe's big number in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.
Demy's charming screenplay is more than a little quirky. For several characters romantic Nirvana is just a chance meeting away. All subsist on their romantic dreams. Most of the older generation must live with bad decisions in their past. Yvonne told Simon she was pregnant with his child but left with another man to live in Mexico -- because she didn't like his name. In contrast to the mix 'n' match sweetness of most of the proceedings, a bizarre tangent surfaces about an axe-murderer. The weird subplot is treated as no big deal, yet has two songs associated with it.
Criterion has located vintage interviews with Demy and his collaborators, as well a TV show about the making of the film. Also included is Agnés Varda's retrospective documentary The Young Girls Turn 25. Sadly, co-star Françoise Dorléac was killed in a car accident not long after the premiere.
1971's Donkey Skin (Peau d'âne) takes Jacques Demy in a new direction. It's again a musical, a faithful adaptation of a classic Perrault fairy tale with a conclusion very much like Cinderella. Told in simple terms yet given an eccentric spin, Demy and composer Michel Legrand's show is often hilarious but never disrespectful. It was intended for all ages, although today's PC-minded parents might object to the story's main conflict as unsuitable for children. Part of the charm of Donkey Skin is Demy's refusal to soften elements of the original fairy tale. It stars the perfect fairy tale princess Catherine Deneuve.
A happy kingdom despairs when its Blue Queen falls ill: she makes her husband The Blue King (Jean Marais of Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast) promise to remarry only when he finds someone more beautiful than she. Pressured to produce a male heir, the King discovers that his own daughter, the Princess (Deneuve) is the only woman more beautiful than her mother. Confused, the Princess is willing to marry her father because she indeed loves him. But the opinionated Fairy of the Lilacs (Delphine Seyrig) counsels that one mustn't confuse two different kinds of loves. She has the Princess stall her father with demands for the making of three fabulous dresses. When the King still insists on marriage, the Princess asks a price that the Fairy is convinced he won't pay -- the skin of the King's magic donkey, which produces not manure but gold and jewels. But to the Princess's horror, her father makes the sacrifice and delivers the donkey skin. Now the Princess has no choice but to run away.
To our surprise, the incest theme in Donkey Skin turns out not to be a problem. As Demy and a collection of psychologists explain in the disc's interview extras, when young girls are asked who they want to marry, many will say, "Daddy". The story also includes a wealth of amusing details unlikely to surface in a Disney-fied fairy-tale adaptation. The sight off the 'Royal Donkey' defecating gold coins and rubies is hilarious, as is an obnoxious crone character that literally spits toads. Told that anyone whose finger fits into a tiny ring can become the bride of the handsome Prince Charming (Jacques Perrin), ladies and maids boil the fat off their fingers or whittle them down with knives.
Demy's fairy tale land is designed and constructed with remarkable taste, making the movie highly enjoyable just on the visual level. The servants in the Blue Kingdom are literally blue, as are their horses. The hairstyles are ornate and the three magic dresses are impressively designed. The 'dress like the weather' appears to have clouds flowing across its folds. Michel Legrand's songs carry playful lyrics that criticize the characters. When the Princess disguises herself as a ragged peasant in the forest, the villagers sing lyrics about how filthy she is. Te lovers' duet has words almost as silly as their instant affection. The story works its way to a logical conclusion without hyping the Perrault original. It turns out that the Lilac Fairy had a secondary motive in not allowing the King to marry his own daughter. His arrival on a 'magical' transport never fails to get a laugh.
Demy planned for years to make 1982's Une chambre en ville, an original opera for the screen that takes a much darker direction than his earlier work. This time his musical collaborator is Michel Colombier, who provides duets much more like traditional opera than Michel Legrand's more playful jazz themes.
A terrific B&W opening scene sees striking shipyard workers in Nantes of 1955 squaring off with riot police, and exchanging chanted lyrics in a call & response pattern. When the police charge the film suddenly cuts to color. The strike then becomes a background for the problems of François Guilbaud (Richard Berry), who argues with his wealthy landlady 'Baroness' Margot's Langlois (Danielle Darrieux). Guilbaud has decided that his faithful and adoring girlfriend Violette (Fabienne Guyon) bores him, but he goes crazy for Edith Leroyer (Dominique Sanda), a runaway wife. To spite her impotent husband Edmond (Michel Piccoli), Edith has taken to prowling the streets for lovers, wearing only a long mink coat. Guilbaud discovers that Edith is actually Margot's estranged daughter. Violette is expecting a marriage proposal, not knowing that Guilbaud has instantly committed himself to Edith; while the insanely jealous Edmond threatens to kill Edith with a straight razor.
Une chambre returns us to the city (and shopping arcade) of Lola, adding story elements from Umbrellas of Cherbourg. Just like Genevìeve and Guy, Guilbaud meets Violette after work, but their relationship is one of discord. The strike situation seems to throw everything off-kilter, as Guilbaud chooses this time to argue with Margot and dump poor Violette, and the unbalanced Edith walks the streets looking for a way to escape a husband she's grown to loathe. It's no wonder that audiences didn't respond, as the film's mood is cheerless and there's nobody to root for. The movie is a highly personal effort by Demy, yet its meaning is elusive -- the impressively executed 'musical riot' scenes fail to connect with the overheated personal tragedy. The troubles don't let up until one person is beaten to death and two others have committed suicide.
In the extras we learn that a group of French critics took out ad space in newspapers to ask the public to give Une chambre en ville a chance. But the film didn't find an audience. Looking at it now, restored to visual perfection, in stereo sound, we admire Demy's clear storytelling. The strike-oriented material comes off very well, with the violent standoff in the streets playing like Les misérables in miniature.
The extras let us know that Demy wanted to film Une chambre en ville right after Donkey Skin, but he couldn't secure his dream cast of Catherine Deneuve, Gérard Depardieu and Simone Signoret. Richard Berry does well as the confused Guilbaud, but Dominique Sanda only seems freakish as the sexually deranged Edith.
The extras finish off with two impressive documentaries. James Quandt analyzes Demy's style and themes with a multitude of visual observations in Jacques Demy, A to Z. Agnés Varda's feature-length ode to her husband, The World of Jacques Demy illustrates Demy's life and work with many stills and movie clips.
The Criterion Collection's delightful Dual-Format Edition Blu-ray + DVD set The Essential Jacques Demy is a treasure of impressive filmmaking and entertainment. The director's work has held up better than that of many of his contemporaries.
The boxed set also celebrates Agnés Varda's decades-long mission to restore Demy's pictures to their original color and sound. The delicate colors make Umbrellas, Young Girls and Donkey Skin pop off the screen, and new stereo mixes are in place. Each title except Donkey Skin comes with a trailer and four of the titles have restoration demonstrations.
Criterion producer Kate Elmore's 68-page insert booklet contains essays on the films by Terrence Rafferty, Ginette Vincendeau, Anne E. Duggan, Jim Ridley, Jonathan Rosenbaum, and Geoff Andrew, and Berthomé.
By Glenn Erickson
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By Lee Grant
Lee Grant grew up in New York City and dreamed from an early age that she could fly. She studied at the Neighborhood Playhouse, became a member of the famed Actor's Studio, a Vogue model, and then soared to new heights when, at the age of 24, she was nominated for an Academy Award for her work in Detective Story (1951). She celebrated that new fame with marriage and a new family.
Within a year, however, she was blacklisted, and the life she had built was in shambles.
But Grant has always been resilient and despite the loss of her marriage, she picked up the pieces of her life and reinvented herself. She threw herself into work, accepting every theater or teaching job that came her way. She met a younger man and began a wild, liberat¬ing fling that she never expected would last a lifetime. Her tenacity paid off. After twelve years of fighting the blacklist, she was finally exonerated. With cour¬age and style, Grant rebuilt her life on her own terms: first stop, a starring role on the television drama, Peyton Place, and then leads in Valley of the Dolls andIn the Heat of the Night. Twenty-four years after her first Academy Award nomination, she won her first Oscar for her work inShampoo.
Set amid the New York theater scene of the fifties and the star-studded parties of Malibu in the seventies, Grant evokes a world of political passion and movie-star glamour. She shares delightful tales of costars and friends such as Warren Beatty, Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelly and Sidney Poitier, and writes with unsparing candor about her multi-faceted life.
Lee Grant is an Emmy and Academy Award-winning actress and director. In 1989, Women in Film honored Grant with their first-ever Lifetime Achievement Award. Grant founded the production company Feury/Grant with her husband and is an adjunct professor at Tisch School of the Arts. She lives in New York City.
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By Carl Rollyson
After years of uncredited work in the silent film industry of the 1920s, actor Walter Brennan finally got his break as silent films were giving way to new fangled talking motion pictures. It was a break the young actor seized for all he was worth and, for the next forty-five years, would make the most of.
During those ensuing years, he became one of the greatest character actors in Hollywood history, and between 1936 and 1942, he won three Academy Awards for Best Supporting Actor (a record that still stands). He easily made the transition from film to television with The Real McCoys and was the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting that drew upon his unique roles in Western films.
Over the years, with his craggy voice and unmistakable laugh, he supplied support to some of the biggest names in film, including Gary Cooper, John Wayne, Spencer Tracy, Barbara Stanwyck, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Author Carl Rollyson reveals Brennan's consummate mastery of virtually every kind of role, while playing against and often stealing scenes from these and other-luminary stars.
He also explores Brennan's work with some of Hollywood's greatest directors, such as John Ford, Howard Hawks, and Fritz Lang and also delves into Brennan's conservative politics, which were often at odds to those he worked with.
Drawing on material in archives from around the country and written with the cooperation of Brennan's family, this first ever biography of Walter Brennan reminds us of the man behind so many memorable characters we love.
Carl Rollyson is the advisory editor of the ,i>Hollywood Legends Series from University Press of Mississippi and the author of several biographies, including Marilyn Monroe: A Life of the Actress and Hollywood Enigma: Dana Andrews . He is also a professor of journalism at Baruch College, the City University of New York.
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By Al Hirschfeld and David Leopold
"I am down to a pencil, a pen, and a bottle of ink. I hope one day to eliminate the pencil." -Al Hirschfeld
His work is part of our collective memory. Al Hirschfeld redefined caricature and exemplified Broadway and Hollywood, enchanting generations with his mastery of line. His art appeared in every major publication during nine decades of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, as well as on numerous book, record, and program covers; film posters and publicity art; and on fifteen U.S. postage stamps. Few artists have been so celebrated.
Now, The Hirschfeld Century brings together for the first time the artist's extraordinary eighty-two-year career, revealed in more than 360 of his iconic black-and-white and color drawings, illustrations, and photographs as well as his influences, his techniques, his evolution from his earliest works to his last drawings. David Leopold, who has spent more than twenty years documenting the artist's extraordinary output and worked as a Hirschfeld archivist, supplies the biographical text.
His early doodles on the backs of theater programs in 1926 led to his work for the drama editors of the New York Herald Tribune, an association that lasted twenty years, to his receiving a telegram from The New York Times in 1928, asking for a two-column drawing of Sir Harry Lauder, a Scottish vaudeville singing sensation making one of his numerous farewell tours, which began a collaboration with the Times that lasted seventy-five years. His theater caricatures became a sensation and were soon appearing every week in one of four different New York newspapers.
Here, through Hirschfeld's pen, is a litany of stars: Ethel Merman, Benny Goodman, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Katharine Hepburn, the Marx Brothers, Barbra Streisand, Elia Kazan, Mick Jagger, Ella Fitzgerald, Laurence Olivier, Martha Graham, and many, many others. Among the productions featured: Fiddler on the Roof, West Side Story, Rent, Guys and Dolls, The Wizard of Oz -Hirschfeld drew five posters for the original release-, Gone with the Wind, The Sopranos, and more.
Also included are his brilliant portraits of writers, politicians and the like, among them Ernest Hemingway (a pal from 1920s Paris), Tom Wolfe, Charles de Gaulle, Nelson Mandela, Joseph Stalin, Winston Churchill, and every president from Franklin D. Roosevelt to Bill Clinton.
Through the captivating images and illustrative text, a portrait emerges of an Hirschfeld, an artist and his age.
Al Hirschfeld was born in St. Louis in 1903, grew up in New York City, and studied at the Art Students League. His work is in the collections of many museums, among them the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Harvard Fogg Museum. Hirschfeld died in 2003 at the age of ninety-nine.
David Leopold was born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and studied at the University of Pittsburgh. He has organized several landmark exhibitions on a variety of aspects of Hirschfeld's art, among them Hirschfeld's Hollywood for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. He lives near Philadelphia.
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By Stevie Phillips
Stevie Phillips was a young secretary at MCA working for David Begelman and Freddie Fields in New York City in the 1950s. MCA was under the watchful eye of uber-agent, Lew Wasserman, and Phillips had ambitions of being an agent herself. When Fields and Begelman started their own agency, CMA, Phillips went with them, as did one of Fields legendary clients, Judy Garland. One fateful day, Phillips was tasked with watching over Judy Garland, getting her to meetings, publicity shoots and concerts. She became "Garland's shadow".
For four years, Phillips rode the emotional roller coaster that was Garland's life- the screaming matches, drug and alcohol induced attempts that had become just another part of Garland's life, the bad choices in men but there were also the high points, the concerts where she basked in the love of the audience. She became Phillips teacher teaching her "how to" and "how not to" live.
After her time on that roller coaster, Phillips was able to realize her dream of becoming a successful agent. Among her closest confidents was super agent, Sue Mengers. Phillip's applied some of the lessons she had learned from her days with Garland succeeded beyond her dreams. Her roster of A-list clients included Robert Redford, Judy's daughter, Liza Minnelli, Paul Neman, Henry Fonda, Bob Fosse and David Bowie, among others.
Stevie Phillips began her career traveling with Judy Garland and become the head of the theater and the motion picture departments of CMA (now International Creative Management) in New York. As an agent, she represented film stars, directors, and musicians and was involved with multiple award-winning theater productions-among them, Doonesbury, Loose Ends, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, Nuts, and Open Admissions. She lives in New York City.
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When documentary filmmaker John Boorman made the leap to feature filmmaking with Catch Us If You Can (aka Having a Wild Weekend, 1965), a low-budget rock-n-roll vehicle for the Dave Clark Five, he transformed the quickie into a surprisingly biting satire of popular culture set to a bouncy soundtrack, displaying a remarkable sophistication and creativity unexpected from such a project. It was enough to land him his first American film, Point Blank, where he revealed an even greater ambition and talent.
Based on the novel The Hunter by Richard Stark (a pen name for Donald Westlake), Point Blank shuffles the lean, straight-forward story of a gunman named Walker (Lee Marvin), who is double crossed by his partner in crime and returns (seemingly from the dead) for revenge, into a surreal, abstracted crime drama. The plot is faithful to original novel, a hard-boiled piece of crime fiction reimagined for the underworld culture of the sixties, but Boorman and Marvin, who requested the young director and supported his unconventional vision for the film, refract it through a modern lens. Walker's odyssey from Alcatraz in San Francisco to the underworld of Los Angeles is splintered with short, sharp shards of memory that cut through his story, as if reflecting Walker's attempts to put the pieces of cause and effect together in his mind.
Boorman views L.A. through an alienated lens and edits it more like a European art film than an American crime thriller, but fills it with offbeat, ultra-stylized scenes of violence. It opens on a gunshot that should have killed him and he struggles to put it all together when he wakes up: "Cell. Prison cell. How did I get here?" Marvin is enigmatic, to say the least, as he tracks down his unfaithful, guilt-ridden wife (Sharon Acker), his wife's sister (Angie Dickinson), his old friend turned double-crossing heist partner Mal Reese (John Veron), and finally the syndicate bigwigs, all just to get his due: "I want my 93 grand."
This vision of urban Los Angeles is alternately crowded and noisy and urban, and austere and empty and dislocated. His footsteps echoing through an empty, anonymous hallway becomes the disembodied beat of his march of revenge. A scatting, screaming R&B singer at a chic night spot called The Film Club is the feral soundtrack of a brutal backstage fight, at once visceral and abstracted in the clutter of 35mm film cans and nightclub supplies. The aftermath of a suicide becomes a psychedelic vision of destruction, which disappears in a cut to the apartment suddenly empty, a ghost house with no evidence of life or death, just transition.
The dialogue is loaded with references to "a dream" and characters constant remind Walker that he's supposed to be dead. Keenan Wynn adds another level of remove as the devil whispering in Walker's ear, another unreal figure with a carefully concealed agenda who is preternaturally attuned to Walker's movements. More than an informant, he appears from nowhere to provide a name, an address, a piece of information on the trail to the top man in the Organization as Walker's debt keeps getting passed up the chain of command.
Walker is both an unstoppable sentinel who seems more than flesh and blood and a vulnerable man wounded by betrayal who has armored over his emotions with a mission. Marvin delivers both sides of the character without compromising either. There's a cold fury under his deliberate movements and his eyes betray a moment of regret and sadness when he finds his wife dead by her own hand, but it is all pushed down and kept in check by his single-minded focus. "I just want my money" is his mantra, not a matter of greed but a debt to be settled to balance the scales. Marvin is at once deliberate and relaxed, a veteran criminal soldier alert to everything, which makes his character even more fascinating. He doesn't demand attention on screen, he commands it through confidence and ability and cool focus.
That alone makes him more admirable than Mal, who is played by John Vernon as an oily, arrogant, amoral rat, selling out anyone and everyone to buy his way back into the Organization. The rest of the members of the cast don't play characters as much as cogs, functionaries in a criminal enterprise as a cutthroat corporation, simply doing their jobs as if Walker was a rival in a hostile takeover. Only Angie Dickinson's Chris has the passion and fury and emotional life of a human being, siding with Walker out of both loyalty and for payback against Mal ("He makes my flesh crawl") and the Organization that has taken over her business and her life. Sharon Acker, who plays Walker's wife, comes off less haunted than simply weak. She barely leaves an impression, which is fitting for her character but fails to offer any sense of tragedy to her story, and she's almost instantly forgotten after she exits the film. It's really the only weak element of the film, which otherwise is strong, confident, and sure from beginning to end.
Point Blank has been called a modern film noir but it has more in common with Performance, another crime thriller that fractures time, offers enigmatic and ambiguous characters, and equates organized crime with big business. Boorman delivers meticulously executed set pieces that are designed for the wide CinemaScope frame with a sure sense of space and a dispassionate perspective. He emphasizes intelligence over action and presents Walker as total professional, never flustered and always emotionally removed from the situation. And if Walker is an extreme incarnation of the revenge driven noir anti-hero, the modern syndicate has transformed the old school mob into a world of paper jungles and corporate businessmen, an alienating concept to a two-fisted, gun-wielding independent like Walker. "Profit is the only principle," is their motto. Almost 50 years later, it's more modernist than modern, a fascinating time capsule of an era when young directors brought nouvelle vague style to classic genres, and a cryptic crime thriller that turns Marvin into the most enigmatic criminal professional in the movies.
Boorman creates a hard, austere look for the film and the new Blu-ray delivers a sharp clarity to his vision of Los Angeles as an impersonal modern city. Apart from a few scenes, he strips the frame down to isolated figures in an empty urban landscape under the hard light of the California sun. It's an urban desert and the disc preserves that atmosphere of a ghost city by day and a shadowy underworld at night when the crowds gather on the streets and in the clubs. The impersonal palette of concrete surfaces and blank office interiors in the day gives way to the color of human habitation after dark, which oddly enough has a warmer atmosphere than the harsh light of day.
Carried over from the earlier DVD release is an audio commentary track with director John Boorman and fellow director Steven Soderbergh, a fan of the film who essentially hosts the commentary. He engages Boorman in conversations about the film's style, the use of color and camera lenses, working with Lee Marvin (who became close friends with Boorman), and making his Hollywood debut with a film that refused to play by the studio rules. Soderbergh's The Limey was clearly indebted to Point Blank in both its theme of revenge and in its fractured storytelling and unconventional use of flashbacks. Taking part in this commentary is like paying tribute to his inspiration.
Also features the vintage promotional featurette The Rock (in two parts), which looks at shooting the film on location in Alcatraz, and the original trailer.
by Sean Axmaker
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Ravenous (1999) channels the story reminiscent of the Donner Party disaster and the legend of Alferd Packer (the only American ever convicted of cannibalism) into a gruesome survival thriller with a crimson-hued streak of black humor and an elemental hint of the supernatural. The resulting film takes top honors as the definitive frontier cannibal movie. Not that there's a long list to choose from, mind you, but this earns its position with honors, thanks to a gleefully weird and savagely bloodthirsty sensibility.
Guy Pearce is Captain John Boyd, whose battle cowardice during the Mexican-American war inadvertently results in making him an accidental hero. The ordeal of playing dead under the bleeding corpses of his fellow officers also puts him off meat, as the opening scenes so vividly illustrate. Director Antonia Bird cuts straight to the heart of the situation as she intercuts soldiers devouring bleeding-rare steaks at a military luncheon with the bloody casualties of battle stacked like cordwood: meat is meat, at least as far as this film is concerned. Boyd's commanding officer (John Spencer of The West Wing), who knows that his valor is a fraud, ships him out to the fringes of military reach: a fort in a California mountain pass, which runs with a minimal compliment during the impassable winter months. "This place thrives on tedium," smiles fort commander Colonel Hart (Jeffrey Jones), who takes everything with a bemused indulgence. How else to survive a company made up of a useless drunk second-in-command(Stephen Spinella), a giggling weed-head idiot (David Arquette), a twitchy, mumbling chaplain (Jeremy Davies), and a macho soldier boy (Neal McDonough) who holds the rest of the company in utter contempt?
The tedium is quickly dispersed when a bedraggled disaster survivor (Robert Carlyle) stumbles into camp. He spins a horrific story of a lost wagon train and an incompetent scout who strands them in the mountains, where as the winter snows traps them and desperation leads to feeding on human flesh. It's a tale right out of the Donner Party until it turns feral, but it's not even close to the real story of Carlyle's wild-eyed survivor. For a starving man, he looks remarkably fit when he doffs his shirt, and other clues suggest that this is no production gaffe. One night, while camping on the trail to his old camp to search for survivors, he's caught licking the bleeding wounds of an injured soldier. You know, tasting his next potential meal.
That's when the film takes its twist into weird and wild horror, a bizarre plot that doesn't really make much logical sense but sure makes for a wicked mix of psychodrama and visceral body horror. The Native American Wendigo myth is referenced to explain madness, but you could say it's a vampire tale without the supernatural dimension--it turns out human flesh is addictive, and it helps to have a nest of fellow flesh-eaters to keep the diet coming--or call it a particularly gruesome metaphor for manifest destiny. However you label it, it is off-the-charts crazy, an eat-or-be-eaten thriller served very, very rare.
British director Antonia Bird seems like an odd match for this material. She honed her craft on TV drama and made her reputation with the tough, wrenching dramas Priest and Face, two films with complex characters and socially conscious themes. What they have in common with Ravenous is star Robert Carlyle, who recommended Bird after the film's original director Milcho Manchevski was let go after three weeks and the producer's chosen replacement, Raja Gosnell, was rejected by the cast. Bird (who passed away last year at the relatively young age of 62 after a battle with thyroid cancer) was frustrated by the conditions of the production and the oversight of the producers and she complained that her cut was compromised in post-production. That may explain the awkward pace, jarring turns, and a climax that feels tossed together--an uninspired way to end such a devious film--but she is clearly the architect of the odd, offbeat key of the film's blackly comic tone and surreal atmosphere and Carlyle is her partner in outsized madness. He leads the cast in playing their eccentricities big, though next to Carlyle's juicy performance, Arquette and Davies come off more like actor's studio sketches in twitchy weirdness or fidgety indecision than actual characters. Guy Pearce provides the contrast, creating a character fighting to maintain control and keep his emotions and his reflexive revulsion in check as everyone else lets their freak flag fly. It oddly enough makes him the most intense character on screen. As all that fear and disgust and anxiety just bottles up behind his desperate eyes and increasingly battered body, Pearce shows us the toll this ordeal exacts on him. In this survival drama, he's the one in true survival mode.
Scream Factory's Blu-ray features a solid new HD transfer that preserves the dynamic contrast between the white-out daylight scenes of snow and the ominous shadows of the deep forest and the dark rough-hewn quarters of the frontier fort. Night doesn't have to fall for the darkness to seep into the image. Given the elemental quality of the imagery--much of the film takes place in the snowbound wilderness, with the Tatra Mountains of Slovakia standing in for California--the transfer has a satisfying level of grain that not only preserves the texture of the film but gives the entire atmosphere an added level of authenticity. These images feel like they were carved into the film.
The film was previously released on DVD over a decade ago with three separate commentary tracks. Director Antonia Bird and composer Damon Albarn team up for the most informative track, with Bird talking in detail about the physical challenges of the production. Screenwriter Ted Griffin and co-star Jeffrey Jones tend to lapse into silences in their track and actor Robert Carlyle is even more intermittent in his the solo track. Also carried over from the earlier disc is a collection of deleted scenes (many of them in rough-cut form) with optional commentary by Bird and a gallery of stills. New to this edition is a 20-minute interview with Jeffrey Jones, who looks back on the themes of the film.
by Sean Axmaker
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A motley crew of Louisiana National Guardsman wade out into the swamps for weekend maneuvers. It's 1973, as the war in Vietnam is grinding away the soul of America and the heart of the military, and this platoon of weekend warriors--a volatile collection of rednecks, hotheads, jokers, and guys who probably signed up to steer clear of the draft--are like fresh recruits going into battle for the first time. They've got the fatigues and the cocky attitude but dubious discipline and training and their machine guns are loaded with blanks as they head into the bayou. To the Cajun swamp folk, the trappers and hunters living on the fringes of society, these men are invaders who trample their camps and steal their boats. And when one of the soldiers lets loose a burst from his weapon, laughing like the class bully after humiliating the new kid, these shadowy swamp dwellers defend themselves, becoming a guerilla strike force waging a war of terror on the utterly unprepared toy soldiers. They don't know that it's just blanks in those guns but it likely wouldn't matter if they did. They've been attacked and they will respond. These city dwellers are out their element and after their commanding officer (Peter Coyote) is gone, the first casualty in the war of attrition, they are out of their depth, flailing around with a panic that dumps their radio, compass, map, and pretty much everything else that was supposed to keep them alive.
Southern Comfort will never be mistaken for a Nation Guard recruitment tool. Call it an anti-platoon movie. Hill gives the squad the outward accoutrements of a real fighting force, down to the uniforms and weapons, but this is a military unit in name only. Beyond the swaggering banter of the soldiers and self-deprecating comments of Spencer (Keith Carradine), the self-appointed company joker, they have no real training, no experience under fire, and no commitment to one another. These guys are more like barroom buddies playing soldier than a disciplined force.
There are two voices of restraint in the wilderness, Spencer and new guy Hardin (Powers Booth), a transfer from Texas who doesn't know anyone in the company but sizes up their weaknesses quickly and realizes that they haven't much a chance as long as wild cards like Reece (Fred Ward) and Stuckey (Lewis Smith) go charging through the swamps looking for payback. Casper (Les Lannom) takes command by virtue of an essentially meaningless detail of rank and bumbles around quoting regulations and making speeches, doggedly following the book because he hasn't a clue what to do next. The filmmakers don't make him a figure of ridicule, mind you, just a guy falling back on the only thing he knows. In fact, none of them are necessarily "bad guys," though like any Hill ensemble, it has its share of jerks, bullies, racists, and anger management candidates and the pressure brings out their worst instincts.
So yes, it's a story of American soldiers in an alien land, lost in an unfamiliar landscape and outmaneuvered by a guerrilla army at home in the jungle. Director / screenwriter Walter Hill and producer / co-screenwriter David Giler insist to this day that Southern Comfort was never intended to be an allegory for Vietnam, simply a survival tale in an overwhelming and unfamiliar environment. It's hard to take them at face value but it is easy to forget the allegory in the heat of the drama. It also shares DNA with Deliverance, another film about city boys with guns who take their sense of ownership and entitlement into the wilderness, threaten the locals, and end up hunted by them. But where John Boorman's primal thriller turns his Appalachian backwoods men into brutal outlaws who take pleasure in stalking the city invaders, Hill and Giler keep their Cajun soldiers hidden, seen as figures in the distance or blurs running behind the trees, ghosts on the fringes of sight. They treat the would-be soldier like wild game, silently shadowing their progress and whipping them into a state of panic to steer them into their traps. And whatever the short-fused guys in the platoon think, this is no cultural conspiracy to wipe out the invaders. Their enemy consists of a handful of isolated hunters who didn't start the war but by God are determined to finish it. The rest of the Cajun folks they meet don't seem to be a part of it, though after a couple of days in the swamps, the paranoia is powerful enough to make every sidelong glance look ominous. Ry Cooder's eerie and haunting score only intensifies the paranoia.
What ultimately differentiates them from the soldiers of a classical platoon drama is that they haven't bonded under fire and have never had to put their trust in one another. This group unravels and tears itself apart from fear and panic and unfocused rage. And in classic Hill manner, there are no philosophical musings or existential conversations. The closest the film comes to putting its theme into words is from the mantra of a terrified Simms (Franklyn Seales), who finds himself cut off from the group and suddenly aware of just how vulnerable he is. "I'm not supposed to be here," he repeats, as if begging the universe to correct some cosmic planning error. And then he's no longer there.
While this band of infighting brothers wades blindly through the swamp without a clue as to their bearings or direction, Hill's direction never falters. He has always had a sure hand as a storyteller, keeping his plots uncluttered and letting the details of character, conflict, and the world around them define the story. Southern Comfort limits the world to the middle of the swamp, where we (like the soldiers) are unable to find any point of reference, and observes how the discomfort of the environment and the constant disorientation takes its toll on what little good sense the characters bring with them to the mission. It exacerbates the already dysfunctional dynamics of this platoon of battle virgins and is as deadly on its own as the native hunters who use the environment as a weapon in their arsenal. It's not necessarily skill or even luck that saves the guardsmen who survive the ordeal. In classic Hill fashion, it is a matter of intelligence, awareness, teamwork, and the commitment to do what is necessary to survive. There's no sense of victory in survival, merely relief.
Blu-ray / DVD Combo Pack. Both discs feature the new HD master but the Blu-ray of course features superior clarity and richness of color. Both are clean, strong images while the Blu-ray shows off excellent detail. The Dolby Digital Mono soundtrack puts the mix right up front. A couple of scenes of chaos and confusion overwhelm the dialogue with background sound, which is surely intentional but still seems a little out of balance to my ears.
New to this release in an original 27-minute featurette with new interviews with actors Keith Carradine, Powers Boothe, Lewis Smith, and Peter Coyote and, on low-resolution video via Skype, director Walter Hill and producer David Giler, who collaborated on the script with Hill. The actors share stories of shooting in the Louisiana swamps in February with wet suits under their uniforms, six weeks of working in the cold and damp, and they remind us that they were all in it together. The crew endured the same conditions so no one had the right to complain. More interesting is the discussion around the themes of the film. Hill and Giler maintain that while they did not intentionally set out to make a Vietnam allegory they were aware that audiences would make that connection, while the actors admit that they knew it was an allegory from the moment they read the script. Keith Carradine's reading is particularly detailed and interesting. Curiously, none of the six participants mention Deliverance.
Carried over from the old DVD release is a brief collection of outtakes and the original trailer. All of the supplements are featured in both the Blu-ray and DVD discs of the Combo Pack.
By Sean Axmaker
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Tess (1979), Roman Polanski's film adaptation of Thomas Hardy's 1890 novel Tess of the D'Urbervilles, has in 2014 received a sublime Blu-Ray and DVD release from Criterion. Restored by Pathe under the direct supervision of Polanski himself, the movie looks and sounds magnificent. At first glance, the lushly beautiful Tess is a seemingly unusual work for Polanski, whose films we tend to associate with horror and sex, but this was actually a highly personal project for the master filmmaker. It was his first picture after fleeing the United States in 1977, and also a project that his wife, Sharon Tate, had suggested he make as a vehicle for herself -- just before she was murdered by the Manson gang in 1969. Polanski read the novel after her death and realized it was indeed right up his alley, and he dedicated the eventual film to her with an on-screen inscription.
Hardy's tale, to which the film is very faithful, is about a poor English girl, Tess, whose father learns he is a distant descendant of a once prominent, rich family, the D'Urbervilles. He sends Tess to the home of a remaining D'Urberville to find employment (or at least a handout), but Tess winds up being seduced by the ne'er-do-well Alec D'Urberville (Leigh Lawson), who becomes obsessed with her. Fleeing Alec, she eventually finds work at a dairy farm and starts a passionate relationship with a young farmer named Angel Clare (Peter Firth). But in this society, the revelation of the sins of her past, even if they were not her fault, could doom Tess to shame, ostracism and worse. Ultimately, Tess is about a woman struggling to make her way in the world, looking for happiness, or at least survival, but finding that a judgmental society, timing and even luck are all working against her.
Polanski explores this theme vividly, sympathetically and cinematically. Costumes, speech and physical mannerisms of the actors all convince the audience of the time period and of the distinctions among the social classes, and the film's pictorial beauty does much to stress the contrasting cruelty of some of the characters. The movie is not "pretty" for prettiness' sake. Most important, one really feels the isolation of Tess throughout the film, which is at once sprawling and intimate. The plot itself, while important, feels less vital here than the depiction of Tess' emotional experience of the world she is forced to inhabit, and as a result, the long running time feels entirely appropriate and never tedious.
Tess was shot entirely in France, mostly on locations in Normandy and Brittany, because Polanski worried that if he traveled to England he would be extradited to the United States. Polanski later wrote, "To tell the story at all, it was essential to find the proper setting, a twentieth-century equivalent of Hardy's nineteenth-century Dorset. The only way to convey the rhythm of his epic was to use that setting as an integral part of the film, signaling the passage of time and the change in Tess herself by means of a visible, almost palpable change in seasons. Once our rural locations were chosen, we would have to film throughout the year from early spring, through high summer, to the depths of winter." With such a shooting strategy, filming wound up lasting nine months over 80 separate locations, and Tess became, at $12 million, the most expensive film ever made in France to that point. Freak weather and labor strikes only added to the overall time and expense.
If Tess is atypical of Polanski, it's in the way that The Age of Innocence (1993) is atypical of director Martin Scorsese. But in fact, both films are completely emblematic of their directors' concerns and are indeed suffused with violence. It's just that the violence is emotional, an undercurrent beneath a pristine surface -- exactly like the societies the films depict.
That being said, it's hard to shake some of Tess's most exquisitely beautiful imagery, such as the lovely natural light of an outdoor dance, or the riders and dogs on a fox hunt who appear out of a sublime mist, or the face of Nastassia Kinski, who is heart-stoppingly gorgeous (a quality, incidentally, that is vital to the story). Cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth, who had shot such films as Becket (1964) and Cabaret (1972), died a few weeks into production and was replaced by Ghislain Cloquet, who sadly would himself pass away two years later. They shared the Oscar for Best Cinematography. The film also won for Best Art Direction and Best Costume Design and was nominated for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Original Score.
Criterion's dual-format release contains one Blu-ray disc and two DVDs, with both formats containing the film and identical extras. And there are plenty, starting with three short documentaries about the film's making (originally included in Columbia's 2004 DVD release), directed by Laurent Bouzereau and totaling 73 minutes in length. Bouzereau expertly interviews key players like Polanski, producers Claude Berri and Timothy Burrill, co-writer John Brownjohn, actors Nastassia Kinski and Leigh Lawson, set decorator Pierre Guffroy, costume designer Anthony Powell, hair and makeup artists, the crew electrician, the assistant editor and others. The artists discuss fascinating details of production, like the challenge of getting the "strawberry seduction" scene between Kinski and Lawson just right (which astonishingly was shot on a rainy day despite looking on-screen like the height of warm summer), the creation of the Stonehenge set outside of Paris, and the design of the costumes to be authentic and truly expressive of character -- beautiful without being decorative. Powell is fascinating as he discusses his approach, and also about the little splotch of blood he put on the hem of Tess' dress at a key point in the story, which Polanski shot for maximum impact.
Burrill recalls that on location the filmmakers were only able to see the rushes days after shooting, rather than the next day, and not always under the best conditions. But gradually, he says, "we started to see what was happening, the magic that was coming off the screen, and the extraordinary professionalism of Nastassia.... I don't think there was ever one day when she fluffed a line. She was word-perfect, always."
Second is a 52-minute documentary from 2006 by Daniel Ablin and Serge July entitled Once Upon a Time... Tess. This is also interesting, but it covers much of the same material as the Bouzereau pieces, with many of the same interviewees telling the same stories. It's also not as smoothly edited. But unlike the Bouzereau film, it includes composer Philippe Sarde, and delves more into Polanski's pre-Tess life and career. It also recounts the difficulties in Tess's post-production, particularly concerning the running time. Francis Coppola was brought in by producer Claude Berri to trim the film, which was deemed overlong, but Polanski hated the result, leading to a falling-out between Berri and Polanski and between Polanski and Sarde. Polanski himself eventually trimmed the film by about 20 minutes, resulting in the current running time of 171 minutes.
Third, there's a 1979 episode of the French TV program Cine Regards, running 48 minutes, that looks at the making of Tess and interviews Polanski during the film's production. The interviews with Polanski are revealing, but the real strengths of the piece are the long, uninterrupted slices of life on the set as Polanski directs and thinks through scenes, conducting his orchestra of crewmembers. These sequences go on long enough to make us feel as if we are there.
Fourth is a 1979 episode of the British TV program The South Bank Show, 50 minutes in length, in which host Melvyn Bragg interviews Polanski. And Criterion rounds things out with the film's trailer as well as a handsome printed booklet containing a fine essay by Colin MacCabe and crisp, colorful photos from the film, almost all of which feature the entrancing Nastassia Kinski. It's a beautiful package and motion picture, all very highly recommended.
By Jeremy Arnold
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The opening of Used Cars (1980) has the ominous, wind-scoured character of a modern crime film in a desperate southwest town where a Sergio Leone western wouldn't be out of place. The camera cranes down from a high shot over a struggling used car dealership, where a few pathetic beaters line the lot, and slowly glides over to one car with someone is crammed under the dashboard. The only sound is the lonely wind--the kind of strangled, desolate howl you get in dustbowl dramas and desert survival thrillers--and the grunts of the man struggling with the mechanics under the dash. And then we see the odometer turn back, shaving some 40,000 or so miles from the record. The title hits the screen, a brass band jumps in with "Stars and Stripes Forever," and the unidentified mechanic wriggles out to reveal Kurt Russell in a cheap, loud suit making his rounds to mask the sorry condition of the cars on the lot. It turns out that this is a crime movie after all, or at least a film of multiple misdemeanors and bald-faced misrepresentation, and the perpetrators are the good guys.
The second feature from director Robert Zemeckis and co-writer and producer Bob Gale, Used Cars comes right out of the screen comedy culture of the late 1970s and early 1980s, when the underdogs snubbed their collective noses at authority, propriety, property and privacy laws and anything else that crossed their paths in slobs vs. snobs comedies like Animal House (1978), Caddyshack (1980) and Ghostbusters (1984). Used Cars is raucous and reckless and far more gleefully corrupt than any of its brothers in rebellion, embracing the confidence games and illegal stunts pulled by the skeleton crew that works for Luke Fuchs (Jack Warden), who is the closest thing that the film has to an honest man. The devotion of salesmen Rudy (Russell) and Jeff (Gerrit Graham) and mechanic Jim (Frank McRae) to Luke is really all that separates them from Luke's rapacious brother and across-the-street rival Roy L. Fuchs (Warden again) and his slick sales force. That and the fun they have ripping off the rubes who wander on to their lot.
The premise of film - two used car outfits at war with one another - was hatched by John Milius, who was one of the executive producers (along with Steven Spielberg), but the script is pure Zemeckis and Gale. The rivals are twin brothers, the Cain and Abel of used car dealers. When impending freeway construction threatens to destroy bad brother Roy's dealership and make the good brother Luke rich, Roy finds a way to speed the demise of Luke's bad heart and Rudy makes good on his promise to keep Roy from taking over the lot. Rudy has his own, more immediate motivation, of course--he's trying to buy his way into the local political machine and he's still a little short on the down payment--but it's also personal. Luke is something of a father figure to the crew, which makes them the mischievous sons who break the rules whenever dad's back is turned. After Luke dies, their antics more outrageous, from secretly burying Luke on the lot (his beloved convertible fittingly serves as his casket) to jamming satellite signals with wild pirate commercials replete with gratuitous nudity and senseless destruction of private property. The plot seems to careen from one comic collision to another but there's a nicely-constructed plan under it all, simple but ingenious enough that you don't actually see how the pieces are laid in place until it all comes together in the ragged spectacle of final act.
It's not really a satire of American business so much as a wicked lampoon: lie, cheat and steal as the American way, as long as you do it with a sense of fun. Kurt Russell was just breaking out of his clean-cut post-Disney persona when he took on the role and he sinks his teeth into Rudy, turning the brash characters into the epitome of the smiling mercenary selling lemons to suckers with dirty tricks and phony promises. Gerrit Graham is his partner in commercial piracy, unfazed by anything but harbingers of bad luck, notably red. Deborah Harmon is both romantic interest and plot complication as Luke's long lost daughter, who shows up just after dad's death. Jack Warden has a field day playing twin brothers and Frank McRae is hilarious as the giant adrenaline-pumped mechanic. The crotch-grabbing Mexican junk car wholesaler is ubiquitous character actor and future director Alfonso Arau in his first great comic role in an American film (Romancing the Stone and Three Amigos soon followed). But the entire cast is in danger of being upstaged by the adorable dog Toby, who has his own role to play in the sale stunts. This pooch's hilarious performance makes him one of the greatest movie dogs.
Zemeckis matured into a polished filmmaker and an ambitious storyteller and went on to make more sophisticated, more provocative, and certainly more subtle films, but he never made anything as savagely funny as Used Cars. Its banged-up ingenuity and rough-and-tumble energy and warped mirror reflection of the American Dream as a snatch and grab free-for-all is wickedly funny. Everyone is a crook here and the epilogue even enshrines mendacity as a virtue, at least when it comes to stepping into the used car game.
Used Cars has a remarkably tidy visual aesthetic for a film about a seedy, shabby culture, with a screen that is uncluttered and flooded with desert sunlight in day scenes and blasted with floodlights as bold as a football stadium night game for the after-dark stunts. The new HD transfer shows a well-preserved print and is sharp and clear. Simply put, it looks superb.
The commentary track with Zemeckis, Gale, and Russell, carried over from the 2002 DVD reelease, is almost as fun as the movie. "We wanted Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life, except he's totally corrupt," is how Zemeckis explains the genesis of Rudy. Kurt Russell laughs back: "So you cast me!" These guys are having a blast laughing their way through their remembrances, but they manage to stay on track and keep the production stories coming. Few commentaries manage to balance the information and entertainment so well.
There's a four-minute reel of outtakes (apparently taken from surviving video dub; it's all quite hazy), a radio interview with Russell, a car commercial featuring Russell, galleries of art and stills, and not one but two isolated score tracks: along with Patrick Williams' musical score heard in the film is an alternate, unused score by Ernest Gold. We don't quite get it in the context of the film (at least not with dialogue and sound effects) but it's a more conventional, less satirical approach. The accompanying 8-page booklet features another fine essay by Julie Kirgo.
By Sean Axmaker
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Turner Classic Movies Pays Tribute to Dickie Moore on Thursday, September 24 with the following festival of films. This program will replace the previously scheduled movies for that day so please take note.
The new schedule for Thursday, September 24 will be:
6:15 AM Three Who Loved (1931)
7:30 AM The Star Witness (1931)
8:45 AM So Big (1932)
10:15 AM Gabriel Over the White House (1933)
11:45 AM The Story of Louis Pasteur (1936)
1:15 PM My Bill (1938)
2:30 PM Sergeant York (1941)
4:45 PM Out of the Past (1947)
6:30 PM Bad Boy (1949)
A cherubic boy with pronounced dimples, Dickie Moore was a prolific child actor in features from the late 1920s through the 1950s in such films as Blonde Venus (1932), Sergeant York (1941) and Heaven Can Wait (1943) among his hundred-plus titles. Moore hit his stride at age seven, when he appeared in over 20 films, including Oliver Twist (1932), for which he played the title role, and numerous Our Gang shorts. Like many juvenile actors, his career slowed as he reached his teenaged years, though there were occasional choice parts, like the courageous Kid in Out of the Past (1947). He also co-produced and starred in an Oscar-nominated short film, The Boy and the Eagle (1949), but by the 1950s, he had abandoned acting for public relations, which kept him active for several decades. Moore's long, successful and turmoil-free life stood in stark contrast to the countless stories of child actors whose lives crumbled into disarray after their stars had dimmed.
(Biographical info courtesy of TCMDb)
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As I drove from Los Angeles to Palm Springs on the morning of May 15 in the pouring rain -- it rained literally all the way to the Riviera Hotel -- I thought how appropriate this extremely rare late-season rainfall really was. After all, I was driving into the desert for only one reason: to watch film noir. And what is more "noir" when it comes to weather than darkness and rain? Let's just say it put me in the perfect mood for the sinister, shadowy, doom-laden world of film noir, with its fedora-wearing mugs, shadowy settings and rain-soaked streets. (Or at least water-truck-soaked streets.)
The Arthur Lyons Film Noir Festival has been happening annually for sixteen years. Once again, festival producer and host Alan K. Rode organized a superb showcase of film noir screenings and special guests over a 72-hour period beginning Thursday night, May 14, and ending Sunday evening, May 17. Twelve films were shown (most in 35mm), five of which were followed by in-depth discussions with actors from those films or with film scholars. And all the films were given intriguing introductions by Rode or two of his colleagues from the Film Noir Foundation, a festival sponsor.
Overall, this was a fun, relaxed, hassle-free event, with no jostling crowds (even though each show was close to sold out), no rushing about to get a good seat in the Camelot Theatre (they're all good, with amazing legroom), and no stressing between screenings about getting a bite to eat (the films are spaced far enough apart that there's time). The audiences were respectful, friendly, and engaged.
And just as the rain put me in the mood for the festival, the festival itself put me in the mood for TCM's fast-approaching Summer of Darkness series this June and July -- nine Fridays in a row filled with 24 hours of film noir each day. Five of the twelve films in Palm Springs will be featured in the Summer of Darkness series. Read on for the details.
I had been unable to get to Palm Springs on Thursday for the opening night film, Miller's Crossing (1990), the Coen Brothers' famous neo-noir. By all accounts, special guest Jon Polito gave a wonderful, rollicking interview to Alan K. Rode after the screening, enlightening the audience with his tales of working as an actor on that film plus four other Coen Brothers pictures. And I arrived a bit too late to catch the Friday morning screening of They Won't Believe Me (1947), a film I have seen before and admire very much -- and which I remember well for its twist ending. Robert Young plays a man on trial for murder, generating flashbacks which recount his tale of marriage and affairs that led to death. This was one of a few noirs produced by longtime Hitchcock associate Joan Harrison, and it's well worth catching when it airs on TCM on June 26.
While They Won't Believe Me was unspooling, I arrived to check in at the Palm Springs Riviera Hotel. If there's a more perfect hotel in Palm Springs in which to stay while attending a classic-movie-related event, I don't know what it is. The Riviera opened in 1959 as an immediate go-to hotspot for Hollywood celebrities, notably Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and the Rat Pack. Elvis Presley stayed there often. A few years ago it was renovated to recapture its swinging '60s vibe, and it still boasts mid-century design, furniture and color schemes in its rooms and public spaces, starting with a pool table just off the lobby. It looks and feels just like a place where Mad Men's Don Draper would stay on a Palm Springs vacation, and it really put me into more of an old-school, classic-Hollywood mindset than usual.
But after checking in, it was off to the Camelot Theatre, just a couple of miles away, for an early afternoon screening of On Dangerous Ground (1952), one of my all-time favorite noirs. It had been a few years since I'd last seen it, and as soon as Bernard Herrmann's score came on over the opening images of dark, high-contrast, wet city streets, I was enveloped in its strong atmosphere. Directed by Nicholas Ray, it stars Robert Ryan as a city cop who is too rough, too violent, too aggressive when dealing with hoods, suspects, or, for that matter, anyone. Things reach a boiling point and he is sent by his commander to cool off out of town by investigating a murder case upstate. Off goes Ryan into a snowy, rural landscape, where he encounters Ward Bond as a vengeful father of a murdered child, and Ida Lupino as a blind farm-woman who may hold the key to the mystery. The contrast between urban and rural, dark and light, suffocating cramped space and wide-open fields, is totally visual and perfect for a filmmaker of Ray's caliber to explore. That he lends the rural area with just as much noir menace, but with an underlying beauty that begins to soften Ryan's hard edge, shows Ray as one of the great directors. Ryan and Lupino are each spectacular here, and On Dangerous Ground is a must-see when it airs on TCM July 10.
Following the screening, Alan K. Rode welcomed to the stage film critic J.R. Jones, who has just published a biography of Ryan (The Lives of Robert Ryan) and lent some worthy insight into a star who generally shunned the limelight and kept his life quite private. Ryan is one of my favorite actors -- he has a volatile quality that makes his performances, and characters, unpredictable, and he's just as convincing playing tough, violent and scary as he is playing sensitive and wounded. When a film like On Dangerous Ground offers him the chance to show off his wide range, he really shines. Jones said that Ryan himself considered On Dangerous Ground to be just a routine crime film, one of many he made in the period, and that he was longing at the time to do what he considered to be more serious work. Among Ryan's favorites of his own films were The Set-Up, Inferno, The Naked Spur, Billy Budd and The Iceman Cometh. Jones also discussed Ryan's late-in-life relationship with Maureen O'Sullivan, which was something I had not known about.
Coincidentally, Maureen O'Sullivan appeared in the day's next noir, The Big Clock (1948), directed by her husband, John Farrow. It's an excellent, taut suspense tale of a tyrannical publisher (Charles Laughton, modeled on Time magazine's Henry Luce), and an editor (Ray Milland) who races against time to clear himself of murder. Time is the key thematic and dramatic concept of his film, whose story is as intricately and perfectly designed as a fine Swiss watch. Film scholar/author/professor Foster Hirsch introduced the film as "really a story about control." The novel on which it is based, Hirsch said, "was written by a man, Kenneth Fearing, who lost control of his life, over and over again. He was an uncontrollable alcoholic, and he drank himself to an early death." Hirsch also related that Farrow made O'Sullivan audition for the role even though they were married, and that he considers Laughton's mustache here to be "the worst mustache in the history of movies!" You can see it for yourself in TCM's Summer of Darkness series on July 3.
Following The Big Clock, there was time to head to the Riviera for a quick poolside dinner. The hotel itself is shaped like the spokes of a wheel, and so is the pool, creating many nooks and crannies of pool and terrace. In one area is a comfy restaurant area that grows out from a bar inside. (Next door is a more formal restaurant space.) It was the perfect spot to grab a tasty burger and salad while other guests soaked up the last rays of sun, as the rain had since ended.
Back at the Camelot a little later, the day's final film got going: Chicago Calling (1951). This little 75-minute picture may contain Dan Duryea's best performance. It's a tour de force for an actor best known for oily, scheming bad guys. Here he's a sympathetic (if struggling) father, desperately trying for most of the movie to raise 50 bucks so as to pay his phone bill -- so that the phone won't get disconnected and he can receive word of his daughter, who has been injured in a car accident across the country with his estranged wife. Shot on location all over downtown Los Angeles, Chicago Calling positively aches with Duryea's well-meaning, good-hearted, deeply flawed character's struggle. He takes on a sidekick in a little 10-year-old boy (Gordon Gebert) who accidentally hits Duryea's dog with his bike. Gebert quickly becomes a surrogate son, helping Duryea on his quest to raise the money and learning some valuable, touching lessons in morality. It's very possible that The Bicycle Thief (1948) inspired director John Reinhardt's treatment of this story -- the films have very similar feels and narrative devices.
Gordon Gebert, now 73, appeared on stage for an interview with Alan K. Rode following the movie. A child actor in such other films as Holiday Affair, Fourteen Hours, The House on Telegraph Hill and To Hell and Back, Gebert left acting as a young adult to pursue a career as an architect and college professor. He spoke fondly of his years as a child actor for RKO, which often loaned him out, and said that he still receives fan mail -- thanks largely to TCM's occasional airings of his films. Gebert said that Duryea was a sweet guy, a devoted father in real life, and totally unlike the smarmy characters he excelled at.
The next morning kicked off with another little-known film noir, but one which will also be shown on TCM this summer, on June 12: Tomorrow is Another Day (1951). Introducing the film was Eddie Muller, founder and president of the Film Noir Foundation, who will be serving as the primetime host for the Summer of Darkness series. He cited Tomorrow is Another Day as one of his favorite films and mentioned that he was excited to have programmed it on TCM this June with Gun Crazy (1950), another lovers-on-the-run story. "But they each handle the theme differently," he said, with differences in point of view and emotional emphasis demonstrating quite compellingly how the little choices by a writer and director can make all the difference in audience response to what are otherwise similar stories. Here, Steve Cochran plays a just-released prisoner trying hard to forge a new life and leave his past behind -- usually a losing battle in film noir! The leading lady is Ruth Roman, outstanding. As Muller said, "To people who only know her from Strangers on a Train (1951), she can seem kind of plain, a little patrician maybe, but in this film she is a revelation. She plays one of my favorite hard-as-nails dames ever in film noir. And she's a blonde in half the film!" Cochran, too, is at his best in this picture, showing a vulnerable side that engenders much audience sympathy. In fact, the film's most penetrating "noir" feeling comes from the early scenes of Cochran unable to find work or a footing in life. The world is seen as a big, strange, unrelenting place, with no room for this man who only wants a fair shake. Further, Cochran is like a boy in a man's body as a result of having grown up in prison. He has limited skills and no clue how to talk to or behave with women. It's a fascinating notion, but the movie is only able to hint at his virginal state, due to production code requirements.
Up next was M (1951), a remake of Fritz Lang's 1930 classic. This 1951 version, directed by Joseph Losey, holds its own as a powerful take on the story of a child murderer hunted by police and citizens. Shot on location in downtown L.A., with a memorable setpiece in the Bradbury Building, it's evocative and often visually stunning, and David Wayne is superb as the psychotic killer, lending shades of complexity. Also in the cast are noir stalwarts such as Raymond Burr, Howard Da Silva, and Steve Brodie. The film was shown in a restored 35mm print but is not currently on DVD or available on TCM. Afterward, Rode welcomed to the stage 100-year-old Norman Lloyd, who plays a supporting role in this film. Just as he was at the recent TCM Classic Film Festival, Lloyd was positively charming and entertaining as he regaled the Camelot audience for half an hour with tales of his career. M was not a particular favorite of his, but he did speak of Joseph Losey, whom he first met and worked with in 1934 in a Harvard Dramatic Club play. ("I thought, this is the nearest I'll ever get to going to Harvard, so I said yes!") Lloyd worked with Losey on four plays in the '30s, the most important of which was the The Living Newspaper -- a production of the Federal Theater and the Works Progress Administration put in place under Pres. Franklin D. Roosevelt. Lloyd recounted his work with Orson Welles in the Mercury Theater and described firsthand Welles' famous all-black production of Macbeth. Asked by Rode about his longevity, Lloyd said, "You've got to look ahead. If you don't, you're dead. You've got to be working, you've got to be making mischief!" Judging by all the racy asides and jokes he made to the audience, the crowd-pleasing Lloyd seems to have no problem on that front.
"Wow, Steve Cochran and Lawrence Tierney on the same day? This is almost like badass overload!" exclaimed Eddie Muller. Indeed, not long after Tomorrow is Another Day with Cochran, we were treated to Born to Kill (1947) with Tierney, whom Muller described as "the meanest man in the history of motion pictures." Tierney wasn't acting when he played his despicable, ruthless lowlifes, Muller said. "He really was that character. And that's the secret of Lawrence Tierney on camera: he is a dangerous man. But there's something magical that happens on screen." In this tale, based on what Muller described as "one of the most depraved and perverse novels in the annals of crime fiction," James Gunn's Deadlier Than the Male, Tierney plays a psychopathic killer who essentially infiltrates a wealthy San Francisco family, marrying the sweet sister of devious, cunning Claire Trevor for only the most contemptible of reasons. Trevor is excellent in one of the best bad-girl roles she ever had. In a 1976 interview, she called her character here "a real psycho, a real mixed-up girl. And I got a big kick out of that... I found [her] more interesting to play than gangster's molls, because I don't think a gangster's moll is that psychologically disturbed." The novel, Muller said, "goes David Goodis and Jim Thompson one better. The resulting film is pretty incredible. But be aware of the fact that much of what is depraved about this story has to find its way under the limits of the production code." Definitely see all this for yourself when Born to Kill plays on TCM in the Summer of Darkness on June 5.
The Saturday night film was Elia Kazan's Panic in the Streets (1950), with Richard Widmark as a doctor chasing disease-infected criminals through the seedy underworld of New Orleans with cop Paul Douglas. The plague has been brought to town by an infected illegal alien, and the film becomes a race against time to avert an epidemic. Kazan brings his usual topnotch character shadings and strong sense of atmosphere to the dark, lowlife world of New Orleans criminals, which, while it is not included in this summer's TCM series, is well worth seeking out next time it does air. Following the film, a stroll down Palm Canyon Drive for pizza and beer was in order, followed by drinks with friends and hours of discussion about film noir. Then it was back to my fairly awesome Mad Men room at the Riviera Hotel for some peaceful slumber.
The final day began with another rarity that is otherwise very hard to see: Abandoned (1949). In fact, the print shown is the only archival 35mm print known to exist. After Miklos Rozsa's distinctive score from The Killers (1946) sets the tone over the opening credits, we are introduced to a dark, urban Los Angeles setting. A woman (Gale Storm) arrives in the city looking for her missing sister (shades of The Seventh Victim, 1943), and she quickly hooks up with a reporter (Dennis O'Keefe) to track her down. But that's Raymond Burr skulking around in the shadows, watching them... For once Burr plays sort of a weak dunce, whom O'Keefe easily gets the better of, and later on Burr is even tortured -- a truly delightful sight for weathered fans of film noir! After Storm and O'Keefe find the missing sister (in the morgue, unfortunately), they set out with eventual help from police chief Jeff Chandler to track down her killers, exposing a black market baby adoption ring. That's an especially seedy and disturbing subject which seems rather bold for a film of the period.
Indeed, Eddie Muller in his introduction explained that "B films made during this time often were the only ones that tackled uncomfortable issues that other films would not even go near." Abandoned is a solid noir, beautifully shot by William Daniels and featuring "additional dialogue" by crackerjack screenwriter William Bowers, one of the best writers of dialogue in Hollywood history. As O'Keefe says to Burr at one point: "You going legitimate is like a vulture going vegetarian." Muller recounted that back in the day, Bowers "would essentially sit at the corner bar on a stool and write these screenplays while getting progressively more lubricated. And it just flowed. He really had a gift."
After a lunch break, the festival was back at full steam with Hangover Square (1945), a great film with a superb performance by Laird Cregar. But as Alan K. Rode explained in his insightful intro, Cregar never even saw this film because he died before it was released -- due to a crash diet in which the heavyset actor lost too much weight too quickly. A period noir, Hangover Square casts Cregar as a Victorian-era London composer who is prone to memory lapses -- and episodes of murder! It's a Jekyll-and-Hyde type character, and Cregar is most sympathetic and compassionate in the role. He didn't want to play it originally because he thought he was just being cast as yet another ogre-like character. Luckily for fans ever since, he was persuaded otherwise. George Sanders and Linda Darnell add excellent support, and John Brahm's direction is fluid and atmospheric.
Furthermore, in a film about a composer, in which music takes an important role in the story itself, film composer Bernard Herrmann really stepped to the plate to deliver a haunting score, featuring his "Concerto Macabre" as a dramatic centerpiece. There to discuss Herrmann after the show with Alan K. Rode was Steven C. Smith, a producer, director and author, and a biographer of Herrmann (A Heart at Fire's Center: The Life and Music of Bernard Herrmann). Smith was fascinating as he spoke of Herrmann's life, career and working methods on this and other films, including many for Alfred Hitchcock. Herrmann loved Hangover Square and felt that Brahm had successfully "photographed my music," Smith said. But he was often a very difficult and temperamental artist to work with, and many of his creative partnerships ultimately ended in bitterness. Often this was due to Herrmann's own exacting standards not being met by other directors or collaborators. With directors like Brahm or Hitchcock, however, things went smoothly (until, in the case of Hitchcock, Hitchcock fired him off Torn Curtain and ended their relationship as well). He also wrote all his own orchestrations, which was not the norm with most composers. Late in his career, after being shunned by Hitchcock, he was rediscovered by a new generation of directors; his final film was Taxi Driver (1976), and he died the night after supervising the final recording of his score. Smith's talk truly enhanced my appreciation of this great artist.
Finally, the festival wrapped up with Thieves' Highway (1949), director Jules Dassin's striking and strongly noir take on A.I. Bezzerides' novel (adapted by Bezzerides himself) set in the world of produce wholesaling and trucking. As odd as that sounds for noir subject matter, this is a deeply felt, tough picture in which Richard Conte plays a war veteran seeking vengeance from fruit kingpin Lee J. Cobb for Conte's father's injuries. As with every other film playing here, it is a must-see for film noir fans at some point.
The Arthur Lyons Film Noir Festival is a jewel of a classic movie festival. It's set up to allow for a weekend of movie watching and simply vacationing, and it offers excellent value for its cost. Mark your calendars now for May 2016 and you will be sure to enjoy another mixture of fairly well-known, famous noirs and otherwise-impossible-to-see little gems. All of them are enhanced tremendously when seen on the Camelot Theatre's big screen with a sizable, enthusiastic audience. Alan K. Rode and his colleagues and festival supporters put on a class act.
For more information about the Arthur Lyons Film Noir Festival, go to arthurlyonsfilmnoir.ning.com.
For more information about the Palm Springs Riviera Hotel, go to www.psriviera.com.
Video-recorded interviews of the special guests will eventually be posted on the Film Noir Foundation website and can be seen here: www.filmnoirfoundation.org/video.html
By Jeremy Arnold
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DICK DINMAN SALUTES NOIR MASTERWORK "NIGHT & THE CITY" (PART ONE): The Criterion Collection's stunning 4K Blu-ray release of both the U.S. and British versions of Jules Dassin's monumentally intense descent into noir darkness NIGHT AND THE CITY is cause for rapturous celebration and producer/host Dick Dinman's returning guest is author/historian Glenn Erickson whose incisive and revelatory commentary is just one of the superb special features included on this sensational Criterion Blu-ray disc. PLUS: "Dick's Picks" segment shines the klieg lights on twelve favorite recent Criterion Collection Blu-ray releases.
DICK DINMAN SALUTES NOIR MASTERWORK "NIGHT & THE CITY" (PART TWO): Producer/host Dick Dinman welcomes back Dvd Savant Glenn Erickson as both marvel at the excellence of the NIGHT AND THE CITY cast with special emphasis on the virtuoso fever pitch performance of Richard Widmark in what is unquestionably his finest acting triumph and both comment on the comparatively disappointing turn his career path would take during the ensuing decade and beyond.
The award-winning DICK DINMAN'S DVD CLASSICS CORNER ON THE AIR is the only weekly half hour show devoted to Golden Age Movie Classics as they become available on DVD. Your producer/host Dick Dinman includes a generous selection of classic scenes, classic film music and one-on-one interviews with stars, producers, and directors. To hear these as well as other DVD CLASSICS CORNER ON THE AIR shows please go to www.dvdclassicscorner.com or www.dvdclassicscorner.net.
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Join pianist and historian Richard Glazier as he weaves together interviews, piano performances, and commentary to create a unique view of Broadway and Hollywood through music. Glazier explores the history of the great music that has been written for Broadway musicals and Hollywood films and television, sharing his lifetime love of each, as well as his proven talent as a host/narrator and pianist. FROM BROADWAY TO HOLLYWOOD WITH RICHARD GLAZIER is part of special programming premiering on PBS stations beginning Friday, May 29, 2015 (check local listings).
Among the remarkable people who appear in this special are the late actor Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. (award-winning star of The F.B.I. and son of famed violinist Efrem Zimbalist); Broadway veteran Patricia Morison (star of the original production of Kiss Me Kate); film and television composer Lalo Schifrin; author Daniel Selznick (son of famed producer David O. Selznick, and grandson of MGM founder Louis B. Mayer); composer/conductor David Newman (son of Alfred Newman, longtime head of the 20th Century Fox Music Department and composer of over 200 film scores); Miles Kreuger, founder of the Institute of the American Musical; and Gene Allen, former president of the Motion Picture Academy and the Art Directors Guild, Academy Award-winning art director (My Fair Lady), and longtime production manager for famed director George Cukor.
Each of the fascinating interviews relates to, and is shown in conjunction with, a musical selection. For example, Patricia Morison talks about her role in Kiss Me Kate, her relationship with composer/lyricist Cole Porter and the song "So In Love," followed by Richard Glazier performing a glorious piano transcription of the song.
FROM BROADWAY TO HOLLYWOOD WITH RICHARD GLAZIER features these performances:
"Drifting" from the movie Auntie Mame (Bronislaw Kaper)
Theme from The FBI (Bronislaw Kaper)
"Scene D'Amour" from Vertigo (Bernard Herrmann)
Theme from Mannix (Lalo Schifrin)
Medley from My Fair Lady (Frederick Loewe/Alan Jay Lerner)
"It's A New World" from A Star Is Born (Harold Arlen/Ira Gershwin)
"Over the Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz (Harold Arlen/E.Y. Harburg)
"So in Love" from Kiss Me Kate (Cole Porter)
"Sabre Dance" transcribed for piano by Oscar Levant (Aram Khachaturian)
Conclusion of "Rhapsody in Blue" for solo piano (George Gershwin)
PBS special programming invites viewers to experience the worlds of science, history, nature and public affairs; hear diverse viewpoints; and take front-row seats to world-class drama and performances. Viewer contributions are an important source of funding, making PBS programs possible. PBS and public television stations offer all Americans from every walk of life the opportunity to explore new ideas and new worlds through television and online content.
For more information, please visit www.richardglazier.com
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Wednesday, March 20, 2011
Removed: 10:00pm Springfield Rifle 12:00pm Casablanca Added: 1:00pm Virginia City 12:15pm Casablanca
Wednesday, March 20, 2011
Removed: 10:00pm Springfield Rifle 12:00pm Casablanca Added: 1:00pm Virginia City 12:15pm Casablanca
Wednesday, March 20, 2011
Removed: 10:00pm Springfield Rifle 12:00pm Casablanca Added: 1:00pm Virginia City 12:15pm Casablanca