The Cameraman's Revenge

Nuits rouges (1974)

James R. — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 14:56:43 +0000

On the other hand, I wound up liking this (which, unlike Judex, I hadn’t seen before) more than I think I may have expected to. This was the cinema version (shot in 35mm) of a TV mini-series Franju and Champreux made for French TV (shot in 16mm) at the same time, and I really want to see that now; Franju didn’t exactly get to remake Fantomas with it (though Champreux says that was the original plan until the rights to the books proved too expensive), but he produced a similar story of a criminal mastermind, just updated to the 1970s. This time Champreux also stars as said nameless and “faceless” overlord (and actually does a remarkable job with just his eyes behind the red mask he often wears; just look at how he stares without blinking) who’s in search of a fabled treasure belonging to the Knights Templar; when he kills a historian with Templar links, he finds himself having to square off against the police, the man’s nephew and his friends, and ultimately the Templars themselves. These are not Armando de Ossorio’s Templars, it should be said, which is kind of a shame; about the only thing this film lacks is a climactic showdown with the undead. Needless to say, this is about as pulp as a story like this can probably get without actually being shot on wood pulp paper rather than celluloid; this review compares it to some of The Avengers‘ camper moments, but for some reason I found myself put in mind of Diabolik… As I’ve said in the past, some films just feel like they’re in the wrong language somehow, and maybe this one would make more sense in Italian. Or maybe not. It’s a bewildering ride at times, but a fun one too if you’re in the mood for something brilliantly preposterous.

Filed under: 1970s, France, thriller

Judex (1963)

James R. — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 12:21:18 +0000

As with pretty much everything I’ve watched so far (and will be watching for the rest of January), I haven’t seen this in many years. From memory I think I saw it in early 1992 and probably haven’t seen it since then (thinking on it, it’s probably remarkable how many of the films in my old tape library never got watched more than once; I’d record it off TV and keep it for future reference that usually wound up not being needed). I recall kind of liking it at the time, hence why I was a bit surprised to find myself less enthused by it this time around. Obviously a reworking (and obviously a highly compressed one) of Feuillade’s 1916 serial, in conjunction with Feuillade’s grandson Jacques Champreux; the latter says in the interview featurette that, though the stuff depicted in the film is literally incredible, they got some good actors on board, and it must be said the actors do much to sell the film. Though it was a self-conscious exercise in retro, Franju evidently wanted to avoid mere camp; the nearest he gets here to real knowing irony is a scene where the detective Cocantin reads a Fantomas novel. But, when you know the backstory of the production, that novel also serves as Franju’s announcement that he would’ve much preferred to remake Fantomas than Judex, and perhaps his comparative lack of enthusiasm for this story made it into the film; it teeters on that fine line between being enigmatic (the somewhat reserved, almost magical character of Judex in this version) and just looking enigmatic because you can’t be bothered being clear (the lack of motivation for what Judex actually does, said motivation being a key part of the 1916 film but absent from this one). Nice, but I wanted to like it more than I suspect I really did.

Filed under: 1960s, crime, France

Silent Sunday: The Last Laugh (1924)

James R. — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 13:21:57 +0000

Concluding our mini Murnau fest (we’ll be doing more of him in future outbreaks of Silent Sunday), I have to say that, unfortunately, I still don’t really get this. Understandably famous for its unprecedented use of mobile camerawork, its minimisation of intertitles (although it’s not true and never was that it contains none at all), and its infamously absurd happy ending, I just don’t get the tragedy in the film’s basic situation, and I never have since I first saw this back in my UNSW days (the School of Theatre and Film had a video library of foreign films taped off SBS from the 80s; somehow I managed to borrow their tape of this one). Essentially, this is the story of an old hotel doorman who gets busted down to being the men’s washroom attendant, and whose pride won’t let him admit this fact to any of his family or his neighbours, until in the notorious climax he improbably inherits a vast fortune. (Apparently UFA thought the film was too much of a downer and wanted a happy ending attached before they’d release it; Murnau obliged with the most deliberately silly thing he could think of.) Ebert calls it “improbable and unsatisfying”, which are the words I’d use to describe the rest of the film. Lotte Eisner said it was one of those films you only get if—like the Germans of that period—you view the uniform you work in as all-important, higher than God king and country. And I know people like that exist, so I appreciate a bit better that the old man defines himself by his doorman’s job. (So, evidently, does the chap who replaces him.) I’ve never been one of those people, though, so maybe that’s why I’ve never bought The Last Laugh. I can appreciate the technical innovation and the storytelling with almost no intertitles, but not the story these things are used to serve. Maybe it’s just me.

Filed under: 1920s, drama, Germany, silent film

Silent Sunday: Nosferatu (1922)

James R. — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 11:08:27 +0000

This is probably the first time in years that I’ve actually enjoyed Nosferatu. In fact, I’ve spent years claiming I like Herzog’s remake better, which is probably heresy coming from someone who loves silent cinema like I do, and that Murnau’s film gets by mainly on the sheer otherness of Max Schreck as the vampire. And now, well, maybe I’ve been unfair to the film, cos I liked it better tonight than I ever have. Maybe it was the impressively mood-enhancing thunderstorm going on outside while I was watching it; maybe it was just seeing the film in such great shape for really the first time. I first saw it a bit over 20 years ago in a shitty version shown on SBS, barely an hour long, kind of contrasty, no tints and dubious music. Here it’s at its proper length (a bit over 90 minutes), looks finely detailed, tinted (and Nosferatu needs tinting if some of its scenes are to make sense), and with the original 1922 score, which is fascinating to hear (oddly restrained at points where you’d think it might go a bit overboard to underscore the bigger “horror” moments). It’s a damned impressive digital presentation of a film whose popularity I never fully understood; and though the loss of most of Murnau’s earlier films makes it impossible to really compare this with what came before, there’s still a feeling of advance in technique. I’m still not always convinced by some of the tricks used (particularly the fast motion to suggest supernatural power), and Schreck’s make-up job probably is still the best thing about the film, but suddenly I “got” it tonight in a way I don’t think I did before; for whatever reason, I think I understand—possibly for the first time, really—just why Nosferatu is so widely acclaimed as a classic. Only taken me 20 years…

Filed under: 1920s, Germany, horror, silent film

Silent Sunday: Schloß Vogelöd (1921)

James R. — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 08:41:03 +0000

What an effect a mistranslated title can have. Originally released in English-speaking territories as The Haunted Castle, you might expect a film with that title to be a horror film of some sort, even one of the “old dark house” kind with no real supernatural events. You would, accordingly, probably be disappointed to find that the house seems neither especially old nor especially dark, and the only horror comes during a dream sequence. I suspect this may be at least partly why I was kind of let down by it when I first saw it; I was expecting something else. Anyway, I have the Masters of Cinema DVD now, so I could approach it again with the knowledge of what it really is, i.e. a murder mystery in which there may or may not be a murder victim… A group of aristocrats converge on the titular castle for a hunting expedition; among them is the unwelcome presence of the enigmatic Count Oetsch. When one of the other guests, a priest, goes missing, suspicion falls of Oetsch, who’s already long been suspected of killing his brother a few years earlier to gain his title. There’s no prize for guessing he didn’t actually do it, of course, and the situation in the film is at least partly contrived for him to prove his innocence. Unfortunately all of this is told in rather plodding fashion without much excitement; though this was his eighth film, Murnau was still only in the third year of his career, and it feels like an early work. Not actually bad but thin and difficult to actually like. Mind you, if it does plod it looks beautiful while it does so; anyone who still thinks of silent films as overly sped-up and barely watchable should be shown this as an example of how amazing a film of this vintage can look when newly struck from the original negative…

Filed under: 1920s, drama, Germany, silent film

The Maltese Falcon (1941)

James R. — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 15:12:32 +0000

Let’s face it, though, this really is more like the thing, not to mention a strong argument against the oft-made claim that remakes always suck. Given that two previous versions had bombed just a few years earlier, though, why did Warner’s go for a third one? Apparently because Jack Warner had promised John Huston could choose whatever story he liked for his directorial debut… Anyway, third time proved to be the charm, and watching this again right after the previous two attempts it becomes clear that it overtook them for good reasons (quite apart from the others just not being available for decades). Almost as soon as we see Bogart on screen, he just seems… definitive somehow. This is hardboiled stuff pretty much from the get-go, the sense of threat is stronger, Bogart feels a bit more desperate to get the cops off his back, and the overall tone of the film is constantly darker than that of the Cortez version. And Huston’s secondary cast of crooks is also rather more interesting than the 1931 mob, particularly Sydney Greenstreet, a stage veteran making a terrific screen debut. Huston apparently planned and storyboarded the film to within an inch of its life, and the end result looks like the work of an experienced hand, not a directorial novice, far smoother and slicker than either previous version. And yet I spent years not liking this film. Maybe it was because my first experience of it was the colourised print (shudder). Maybe I just wasn’t fully prepared for the knots the plot gets tied in (cos I know I got lost in it quickly when I first saw it). Took me a while to get it, but I’m glad I do. The 1940s have never really been my top movie decade, but this is the sort of film that mounts a good argument for those who do consider it a golden age.

Filed under: 1940s, crime, US

Satan Met a Lady (1936)

James R. — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 11:49:52 +0000

I was interested to learn that this second attempt at The Maltese Falcon came about cos Warner’s couldn’t reissue the 1931 version (which would’ve no longer passed the Production Code), so they just remade it. As a screwball comedy. As the film went on, I began to think it was as if Warner’s had decided that since Hammett’s Thin Man had been a big hit for them in 1934, why not retool Hammett’s earlier book in similar fashion, changing the title, character names, other not unimportant details… The end result has, I gather, much the poorest reputation of the three Falcons, loved by neither the critics, nor the people who made it (least of all Bette Davis); but, while there are a number of things about the film that don’t work, I actually found myself enjoying this frankly odd film much more than I’d thought I would. I quickly worked out that it helps if you try to ignore that it is, in fact, The Maltese Falcon we’re talking about (and, to be sure, Warner’s did their best to hide the fact by downplaying Hammett’s original authorship in the credits by not even mentioning the book’s name). Admittedly, this is not easy; it’s hard enough to not compare the 1931 Falcon to the 1941 version without trying not to compare either of those films with Satan Met a Lady… but it’s still interesting to see this material done as farce rather than tragedy, and it could be argued it actually does some things better than either (e.g. staging the showdown over the horn fairly quickly at the harbourside rather than at great length in the apartment). I don’t think I liked it quite as much as Marilyn Ferdinand did, and I don’t think it can be seriously claimed as a “lost classic”, but I found it rather more enjoyable to watch than it seems to have been to actually make.

Filed under: 1930s, comedy, crime, US

The Maltese Falcon (1931)

James R. — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 09:51:21 +0000

Humphrey Bogart’s a hard act to follow, even if you actually preceded him. This is the problem facing Ricardo Cortez, playing Sam Spade in the original Maltese Falcon a full decade before Bogie: even though Cortez got there first, I suspect virtually anyone who’s seen the 1931 version has only seen it after the 1941 version. That the latter is no less than the third version of the tale is a fact probably better known now than it used to be, and all three have been handily compiled into one box set. Obviously I’m looking at all three in their release order here, but it’s still hard to escape the fact that the first film really comes after the later one in real terms. And taken on its own terms (as near as is possible) it’s not that bad; it’s of a piece, I suppose, with other Warner pre-codes I’ve seen since I first saw this nearly a decade ago, especially in terms of sex (Huston’s film had less choice about complying with the production code than del Ruth’s). I’ve seen other reviewers complain that Cortez’ somewhat smirking performance deflates any sense of menace, but I think that’s unfair; there’s a nastiness behind the smile which gives the character and the film a certain edge. But there is also an overall kind of light tone to proceedings, you couldn’t really consider the 1931 Falcon as being film noir as you can the 1941 version, and I suspect that stems from it being, let’s face it, a 1931 talkie directed by someone who wasn’t really a master of cinema; the pacing is problematic, and the contusions of the plot aren’t always well-handled. And it does give the sense that Hammett’s novel could just as easily have been made into a play as into a film, it’s pretty stagebound stuff. As I said, not bad, though I don’t think you can say it’d be better known if the 1941 film hadn’t displaced it; this was a box office failure 80 years ago, and without the Bogart film it might not be known at all now.

Filed under: 1930s, thriller, US

Paths of Glory (1957)

James R. — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 13:33:29 +0000

As titles go, few are as bitterly ironic as that of Kubrick’s fourth film, wherein he really entered the big league of cinema. Here’s another one I probably haven’t seen since around 1995 or so, taped off Channel 7 after they showed it overnight at some heinous hour even I couldn’t have stayed up for… It’s powerful, enraging stuff about a gross miscarriage of military justice in WW1 (inspired by true events), as a French general randomly executes three soldiers for alleged cowardice after they fail to take a strategic position; bitter, ferocious, and—as I now realise upon this re-viewing—as manipulative as all get out. The key word is there in James Naremore’s DVD booklet essay: melodrama. That’s what Paths of Glory really is. It’s not a word you often associate with Kubrick, but Naremore’s right to use it. Kirk Douglas starred and produced; and though Kubrick wasn’t the hired hand he would be for Douglas on Spartacus, it’s still tailored as a “Kirk Douglas” film as Naremore says. His heroism is enhanced by everything being stacked against him, from the borderline psychotic nature of General Mireau to the frankly rigged court-martial; that he cannot and does not win underlines his virtue. It’s a film where everyone takes vengeance on someone lower; Mireau executes three men to cover up his own idiocy, Roget dobs in Corporal Paris to cover his own genuine cowardice, Dax makes Roget lead the execution, even the sergeant threatens the firing squad not to fuck up. And this is before we consider General Broulard, who arguably emerges as the most heinous figure in the film. Really, while watching the film my stomach was churning at the injustice it depicts, and yet I could never entirely escape the feeling that I was being manipulated in fairly blunt fashion; and as unquestionably brilliant as the film is, I can’t help but feel that I perhaps admire it a little less than I used to.

Filed under: 1950s, drama, US, war

The Killing (1956)

James R. — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 14:39:58 +0000

What a leap forward from one film to the next in such a short time. If Killer’s Kiss was the talented amateur, this is the work of the professional, working with a still small but more substantial budget, proper actors, a proper crew, and an honest-to-god/dess published author (Jim Thompson, whose books I really need to reread) working on the script. In short, a “proper” lower-level Hollywood product. The book was found by Kubrick’s producer, James Harris, who says in the DVD interview that Frank Sinatra also wanted to make the film; Frankie’s loss was very much Kubrick’s gain, though. It’s a classic heist situation, recently released crook Johnny Clay planning a spectacular racetrack robbery to fund life on the outside, but the telling of the story is what makes the thing interesting; I didn’t realise the film’s rather fascinating structure of overlapping scenes originated in the novel as well, which gives an amusing cast to the behind-the-scenes stories of the script (and indeed the finished film) being too complicated and Sterling Hayden’s agent claiming Kubrick had ruined his client’s career. Since then, of course, Quentin Tarantino’s made a career out of ripping that technique off. What’s notable about the film, especially when viewed immediately after its predecessor, is how much more generally confident it is… it’s as if, with superior resources available, Kubrick himself felt the need to lift his own game to match the people he now had around him, though he evidently had his own particular vision that he imparted to the film. But the pleasure of the film really is the structural unfolding of the plot, watching the plan get built up, then watching complications set in fairly quickly, and watching things finally turn to shit. In some respects this is always the joy of films like this, seeing the best laid plans fall apart, but there’s something especially delightful about how The Killing depicts it. It’s still B-movie pulp, but of a particularly good and entertaining kind.

Filed under: 1950s, crime, US