The Cameraman's Revenge

Caligula (1979)

James R. — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 14:01:04 +0000

Caligula is one of film history’s greatest follies, colossal trash of a truly epic kind, and the further away we get from it in time, the more batshit mad the whole enterprise looks; I don’t suppose it could ever have been made except at that particular time. So much about it is just jaw-dropping, including the fact that Roberto Rossellini, of all people, wrote the very first treatment for it, the fact that seemingly no one knew producer Bob Guccione intended it to be hardcore XXX, and the fact that it was released at all in whichever of its many versions, given the, well, difficulties of its making, the clash of sensibilities at work, and the welter of lawsuits that attended the process. The production was out of control and so was the “finished” product, if such a thing exists when you’re talking about Caligula. But most bizarre is the fact that, you know, it looks incredible. Amidst all the reams of pornography (sorry), you can’t deny that it looks every cent of the $17m or so it apparently cost (this being when $17m was still worth something, of course). Indeed, I only discovered tonight that the film’s art director Danilo Donati was one of Fellini’s regular collaborators, their first film together having been Satyricon, which makes weirdly perfect sense somehow. It may be a fucked-up mess, but what a bizarrely handsome one. I like Caligula far more than I probably should, but then again I don’t think I’ve ever professed to have impeccable taste in films; if I ever did, be assured I was lying. As extravagant as the recent “imperial edition” release is, I don’t think it exactly reveals an unheralded masterpiece as such, and I’d always hesitate to actually recommend the film (I don’t think the DVD will exactly make converts of the previously unconvinced). Still, I remain somewhat in awe of its very existence, as a relic of a time that—perhaps mercifully—may never quite come again…

Filed under: 1970s, drama, Italy, US, xxx

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974)

James R. — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:15:21 +0000

No, I still don’t like this. This was, from memory, one of the first films I rented on DVD when I got my first player in 2003, and obviously at that time I knew of the film, knew of its place within the horror genre history, had done since I was in my teens. Never actually seen the film itself. And I still understand the position it occupies, the cheap little indie production that helped rewrite the rules of horror in the mid-70s, driving it towards the slasher trend (right down to the “final girl”) that would start to proliferate later that decade, and being a cause celebre for years afterwards despite not actually being that explicitly violent; Tobe Hooper’s expectation that the film would be rated PG was ludicrous, but the X rating the MPAA first slammed it with was equally absurd. The title arguably leads you to expect something that the film then doesn’t exactly deliver (there being exactly one actual death by chainsaw); it’s been argued somewhere that the film is made to seem worse than it actually is, and I suppose there’s that, but there’s also the exploitation aspect at work, films of this sort never really delivering on their promised horrors… still, the film’s success apparently demonstrates that if your title is sufficiently exploitative then no one will worry too much that it’s hardly accurate. So yeah, I get the historical importance of the film and all of that… I just don’t get the film itself. I don’t really know why, either; it’s competently made, looks pretty swell for something shot on 16mm colour reversal stock (the DVD benefits from the 16mm negative being used rather than a 35mm blowup), use of sound is more interesting than I previously realised, well enough acted, all of that. Rough and ready, but you can’t really accuse it of being poorly made. I still don’t like it.

Filed under: 1970s, horror, US

The Killer (1989)

James R. — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 11:40:25 +0000

The plan to spend January doing rewatches of old stuff hasn’t really worked out, has it? Other project getting in the way and all that. Still, couldn’t let the month go without this one… alas, my delight at finding it on DVD (I got the recent Dragon Dynasty edition) has been tempered somewhat by the rather mediocre quality of the visuals, interlaced to buggery (apparently a PAL>NTSC conversion to boot) and looking worst of all during the big action scenes (after all these years, Weinstein still fucks up Asian cinema). And the big action really is what this is all about, even if it’s not quite as hyperactive as I recall it being. Indeed, it’s about 15 years now since I first saw (almost to the very day, I think), and what struck me most about it was how, well, “80s” it is. Something about it shouts “1989!” a little more loudly than it did when I first saw it, but then again 1997 was a lot closer to when the film was made than it is to 2012, it wouldn’t have looked so of its time back then perhaps… Still great, of course, still mighty stuff that I’m sure continues to define John Woo; though a comparative flop at home, it exploded him into the attention of western filmgoers and indeed into the Hollywood film industry, where he’s never really succeeded in matching his HK output, probably because for the most part (Face/Off being the notable exception) he hasn’t been able to go over the top as he does here. The gunfire is big, but the emotions are bigger; nobility, honour, all of that stuff, men on either side of the law forming friendship as they both find themselves adrift in a world that no longer respects the old values like they do. (On which note, isn’t it great to watch this knowing there’s not a frame of CGI in it?) I don’t know if I’d still call it the best action movie ever made, I’m no longer keen on such absolute statements, but any competitor would have to go really fucking hard to beat it for the title.

Filed under: 1980s, action, Hong Kong

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