Gilda (1946) **1/2

Director Charles Vidor’s film noir, Gilda (1946), is full of sexual angst and self-loathing.  It is also not your typical noir. I won’t spoil the ending, but anyone who has seen it knows that the usual formula is not carried out to its bitter end.  That said, it’s an engaging movie with standout performances by Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, and George Macready.  Stylistically, it follows all the rules of a noir, and cinematographer Rudolph Maté does an excellent job of playing with shadows and light.  Still, the ending leaves me a bit cold and takes away from any ecstatic praise I might have given it.

Hayworth was given top-billing over Ford, but in reality it is he who is the main character—Gilda (Hayworth) is just his sexy catalyst into the emotional abyss of sexual and psychological obsession. Johnny Farrell (Ford) is both a gambler and a man licking his wounds over a bad romance.  When he meets Ballin Mundson (Macready), the owner of a casino in Buenos Aires, they become fast friends and business associates.  They trust one another implicitly until Ballin marries Gilda. From the very first moment they are introduced it is clear they dislike one another. There’s a reason for this: Gilda is the woman who did Johnny wrong.  What transpires from this moment on is a deadly game of emotional chicken, with scathing verbal barbs and one of the best revenge plans ever. I have to admit, when Johnny finally breaks Gilda’s will and she’s groveling at his feet I was highly satisfied.  And, then that trite ending…

I never really found Ford all that good-looking in other films, but he is full of sexual magnetism in Gilda. I’m sure it helps that he was playing opposite one of Hollywood’s greatest sexpots ever in Hayworth, but that does not diminish the fact that I can’t recall ever seeing Ford look so good—both in his appearance and in his acting.  There’s a particular scene in the film where he gives Gilda a good slap that I found exhilarating. Of course, this could be due to my extreme dislike of Gilda.

If the role of the femme fatale was made for anyone it was Hayworth.  We first meet her character when Ballin asks Gilda if she’s decent (clothed) and Hayworth does her now infamous hair flip and we know that that question, however posed, should always be answered unequivocally no. Unquestionably, she’s beautiful and sexy, but she is also cheap and petty.  Jean Louis designed Hayworth’s gowns to play on her curves and raw sexuality, but they also befit a woman of ill-repute as well. I noticed that Gilda always seems at her worse when she’s wearing some shimmering, beaded outfit.  Of course, exception must be made in the striptease scene, where she’s wearing a black gown and elbow-length gloves—I think the striptease was enough to convey her character’s cheapness.  We get to see her do a few musical numbers, where she dances provocatively and exhibits, what one can only assume is, her burlesque training. I hated Gilda, and so for that reason alone, I have to give kudos to Hayworth.  When you play your character so reprehensibly that even at the end of the film I still hate her (even after Vidor attempts to rehabilitate her), you’ve done a good job. 

Now, to appreciate Macready’s Ballin, disbelief must be suspended.  Screenwriters Jo Eisinger and Marion Parsonnet were obviously still effected by WWII propaganda when they concocted Ballin’s backstory about a tungsten cartel ruling the world (if this is so, we have another reason to fear the Chinese).  Once you get around the outrageousness of this plot development, you can enjoy watching Macready delve into his character’s borderline psychosis of jealousy.  Still, I never really believed he was insane (as Gilda liked to claim) until the end of the film when he came back to wreak revenge on his harlot wife.  Really, she wasn’t worth it. 

Maté’s cinematography adeptly plays on the mood of the story. When a character is thinking dark thoughts (which happens a lot),  Maté employs backlighting and shoots primarily from lower angles.  In scenes where characters are emotionally distant with one another, or one is trying to lure the other to whatever response they want, Maté shoots one half of the frame much darker than the other, and usually in long, full shots in rooms with an inordinate amount of space.  As noirs go, Gilda is stylistically right on.

 

 

Finally, the other thing that stands out to me is the film’s music.  When you begin your film with “Amado Mio” playing over the credits you are making a statement. Yes, it’s a love song, but it’s one of those creepy, obsessive ones. When Hayworth does her own rendition (not really, as Anita Ellis dubbed it) it is at a time when Gilda is nearing her breaking point.  And, the way that they used “Put the Blame on Mame” was ingenious.  The first time Gilda sings it (again Ellis) she’s in a position of power and it is a restrained performance.  But when she sings it near the end of the film, in the would-be striptease number, it is a hot-mess of uncontrollable emotional spite.  I think Vidor should be lauded for this clever reversal of fortune and power.  If he had only ended the film after Johnny slaps that crap out of Gilda for this burlesque act things would have been just peachy. 

All That Jazz (1979) **1/2

This is vanity at its most pretentious. Fellini had his 8 1/2 (1963) and director Bob Fosse had his All That Jazz (1979). Like Fellini, there is much to like about a Fosse production, but there are also, like Fellini, quibbles to be had, too.  Films with an autobiographical bent can sometimes become too fantastical, and, well, self-indulgent—there are elements of both in All That Jazz.

Joe Gideon (Roy Scheider) is a successful director of films and musicals, as well as a gifted dancer and choreographer. But, he’s also a chain-smoking, womanizing workaholic on the verge of a massive coronary. He starts his days off by listening to Vivaldi’s Concerto in G, popping dexedrine, and smoking a pack of cigarettes before breakfast.  In what can only be described as an extended ostentatious reflection, the audience gets to eavesdrop as Gideon discusses his life with a scantily-clad Angel of Death (Jessica Lange)—with  over-the-top Fosse musical numbers scattered in for good measure.  By the end of the film you are either pleased as punch with the ending or asking yourself WTF just happened—or perhaps both. 

Well, it wouldn’t be a Fosse film if there wasn’t singing and dancing, so let’s start with the musical numbers.  I love musicals, but for some reason I didn’t really like any of the numbers in All That Jazz. Sure, I loved hearing George Benson’s “On Broadway” at the start of the film, but found myself overly-taxed by watching the infamous cattle call at the beginning.  Then, there’s “Take Off with Us”. The first part is palatable, the second part is one step above soft-core porn, and, as such, not my cup of tea.  And, finally, there is the series of numbers relating to Gideon’s impending demise: “After You’re Gone”, “You Better Change Your Ways”, “Who’s Sorry Now,” “Some of These Days,” and “Bye Bye Life”. The production designs and costumes are interesting (both won Oscars), but the musical numbers seemed lacking. 

Then, there’s the acting.  Scheider was nominated for an Oscar, and overall I think he does a nice job of showing what a complete hedonistic ass Gideon is. I suppose before he started making Jaws sequels he was a decent actor. Still, I didn’t think his was the standout performance. I particularly enjoyed Leland Palmer as Audrey, Gideon’s ex wife, and Erzsebet Foldi as Michelle, Gideon’s daughter.  My two favorite parts in the film involve the scenes where the two of them dance with (or in the case of Audrey, around) Gideon.  The complexity of his relationships with Audrey and Michelle shine in these two particular instances, and give much more depth to Gideon’s personality.  As for the rest of the cast, they are passable—except Deborah Geffner as Victoria, who plays her character as though she is really in a soft-core porno. 

So, I’m not exactly raving on this, am I? Still, I gave it a **1/2 rating, so I guess I should say why.  I think Fosse tells the story in a highly unusual and entertaining way.  Yes, it can be pretentious at times, but the way he puts all of the varying parts of the story together to meet at a pretty startling conclusion is inspired storytelling in my opinion.  Alan Heim won an Oscar for his editing of this, but I suspect Fosse had a heavy hand in every single cut.  Sometimes originality doesn’t work, but that is not the case with All That Jazz.

The Artist (2011) **1/2

When it comes to artistic achievement, director Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist (2011) should be duly lauded. Nominated for ten Academy Awards, it took home Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Original Score (Ludovic Bource), Costume Design (Mark Bridges), and Best Actor (Jean Dujardin). Making a silent, black and white movie in 2011 took guts, and in the end it paid off for Hazanavicius and Dujardin. Still, that doesn’t mean I have to love this film—which I obviously didn’t as indicated by my **1/2 rating. I liked Hugo (2011) far more than this and was beyond shocked that my husband Mr. Clooney’s performance in The Descendants (2011) was beat out by a man who spoke less than five words. Perhaps this sounds like sacrilege to some, but I don’t care, I just wasn’t that impressed.

Dujardin plays George Valentin, a silent-era film star on top of Hollywoodland in 1927. As handsome as John Gilbert and athletically gifted as Rudolph Valentino, Valentin is admired by his fans and valued by his studio, Kinograph. But things change dramatically for Valentin when his studio head, Al Zimmer (John Goodman), decides to scrap silent films in favor of the sound era and replaces his “old” actors with fresh, young faces like Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo), a woman who got her start in Tinseltown because of Valentin. By 1931, Valentin is pawning and auctioning off his belongings and is mired in alcoholism and depression. It is left up to Peppy to bring Valentin back from the brink and reinsert him in the celluloid frame.

So, what did I like about The Artist? Guillaume Schiffman’s cinematography is brilliant. He may have lost the Oscar to Robert Richardson’s work in Hugo, but coming in second to that effort is no reason to be ashamed. Schiffman shot The Artist in color and at a frame rate of 22 fps (to mimic the silent era’s standard speed). Every detail was matched to the equipment used in 1920s silent films. I have said it numerous times, but I’ll say it again: there is no more beautiful cinematography than a well-composed, pristine black and white shot movie.

The other two things that I like about The Artist are Bejo and Uggie (who plays Jack the dog). While I couldn’t help but admire Dujardin’s handsomeness, it is Bejo who stood out the most to me. Her performance adds depth to this film, and it isn’t difficult to notice that Dujardin’s best scenes are the ones in which he appears with Bejo. She has what they call in France je ne sais quoi. While Uggie might not be described quite the same way as Bejo, he is absolutely adorable. Of course, I love dogs, so he had an extra advantage.

In the end, I am not a huge admirer of The Artist. I respect it as a daring piece of art in a cinema world infested with CGI and intellectual bankruptcy, but it just wasn’t “all that” to me. Still, I think it should be respected for its artistic integrity and outstanding cinematography. But, I must say this once more: my husband, Mr. Clooney, was robbed.

The Night of the Hunter (1955) **1/2

Renowned screen actor Charles Laughton played some of the most memorable cinematic characters ever: Captain Bligh, Quasimodo, Nero, Dr. Moreau, King Henry VIII, Captain Kidd, and Sir Alfred Robarts, just to name a few, but like most actors, he thought he’d like to direct.  He’d had experience directing plays but wanted to helm a film that would make moviegoers "sit up straight again” at the theater and take notice.  And, so when he became enthralled with David Grubb’s best-selling novel, The Night of the Hunter, Laughton decided he would make it into a film. Unfortunately, it was both a commercial and critical failure and Laughton never directed another movie before his death in 1962. Today, his The Night of the Hunter (1955) is regarded by critics as one of the best films of the 1950s. I’m sure a man with such an ironic sense of humor as Laughton’s would have found this somewhat depressing. 

Set amidst the West Virginian countryside during the Great Depression, this is a movie that is one part gothic fairy tale and one part morality tale.  It is written in 1 Timothy 6:10 that “the love of money is a root of all sorts of evil, and some by longing for it have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.” This pretty much sums up ‘Reverend’ Harry Powell’s (Robert Mitchum) sociopathic existence.  Plagued with a pathological disgust of women (calling Dr. Freud) but an insatiable need for money to bankroll his false prophesies, Harry finds himself compelled to kill widows.  After being incarcerated for stealing a car, Harry shares a cell with a man (Peter Graves) sentenced to death for killing two people in a bank robbery where he stole $10,000 that was never recovered.  Once released from prison Harry sets out to find the man’s widow and the missing money. The problem is the widow, Willa Harper (Shelley Winters), has no idea where the cash is stashed, but her two young children, John (Billy Chapin) and Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce), do but have promised never to reveal that it’s hidden in Pearl’s doll. What ensues is a true battle of good versus evil.

The Brothers Grimm and German expressionism obviously influenced Laughton’s vision of this film. James Agee is credited with the screen adaptation of Grubb’s novel, but in reality it was Laughton and his assistant directors, Terry and Denis Sanders, who wrote most of the script that ended up on the screen. Much like the novel, the film focuses on the duality of good and evil, which is quite literally etched on Harry’s knuckles, with one hand reading Love and the other one Hate.  When a film starts off by quoting Matthew 7:15: “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves,” and the next thing you see is a man in clerical garb, wearing a hat that looks like it has satanic horns, then you know this isn’t your everyday story of good versus evil.  Somehow the fact that Harry is perceived as a man of God makes his evil ways even more dark and sinister—a fact that would have not been lost on the Brothers Grimm.

There are two particular shots in the film that are obvious nods to the likes of Fritz Lang and Robert Wiene, pioneers of the German Expressionistic movement. The first comes early in the film when John is telling Pearl a bedtime story about a bad man looking to do harm.  Standing in a moonlit window as he relays the story, the boy finds himself silhouetted by the outline of a Puritanical hat belonging to a man singing his abased version of “Lean on Jesus” which he sings as “Leanin’”.  When film teachers instruct students on the power of a good foreshadowing scene this is beyond an obvious choice.  The other tip of the hat to Lang and Wiene comes in the bedroom scene where Harry kills Willa.  By this point in the story, Willa has become a brainwashed disciple of Harry and is so far gone that she can’t see him for the demon that he is, even when it is right in front of her face.  As she prattles on about her spiritual shortcomings, the scene is framed in such a way to make the bedroom appear as a church (steeple included)—she quite literally can’t see behind the shadows of delusion. 

While the first half of the film is dedicated to the depiction of evil, the second half focuses primarily on good. This is where Lillian Gish comes into the story.  Laughton desperately wanted Gish for the role of Mrs. Cooper and did what most could not do: he convinced her to come out of retirement and play what he thought was the lynchpin role of the film. Mrs. Cooper’s Christian compassion and charity are the perfect dichotomy to Harry’s greed and hatred.  As she says, she is a “strong tree with branches for many birds.” Reminiscent of the Old Lady in the Shoe, Mrs. Cooper is the caretaker of orphaned children and she takes John and Pearl in when they run away from Harry.  She is a formidable adversary to Harry, which is showcased in their pivotal showdown of wills and, well, religiosity. Never has there been a stranger duet than Harry singing “Leanin’” with Mrs. Cooper chiming in to sing the correct version of the song, “Lean on Jesus”. It is here that good and evil meet and only one can win—it helps that one brought a knife to a shotgun fight, though.

Mitchum campaigned hard for the role of ‘Reverend’ Harry and it shows in what is perhaps his finest performance.  Cool and cunning, as well as evil and deranged, never looked so good on a man.  There are very few actors who could pull off being both vile and charming, but Mitchum does it exceedingly well.  It is a shame that he was overlooked by the Academy Awards, but perhaps the world of 1955 wasn’t ready for such a dark and disturbing film. 

Overall, I enjoyed The Night of the Hunter. The story was gripping and Stanley Cortez’s photography was inspired. If I have one complaint about the film it has to be the character of Pearl. Was there ever a more helpless child in the world?  If I had to see John drag her up steps or attempt to put her uncooperative self in a boat one more time I may have screamed., “O come ye little children indeed!”

A Room with a View (1986) **1/2

There’s a reason I’ve seen just about every film in Helena Bonham Carter’s oeuvre: she’s one of the best actresses of her generation. Her acting ability is often overlooked (especially by the Academy Awards, which has only granted her two nominations) due to her quirky roles, but even quirkiness requires talent and Carter has loads of that. At the ripe old age of nineteen she appeared (and starred) in her first feature film, A Room with a View (1986)—a movie that garnered eight Academy Award nods and three wins. Her endeavor in this Merchant and Ivory production led to her being cast in several period pieces over the next ten years (one being The Wings of a Dove in 1997, for which she received a Best Actress nomination), but it wasn’t until her turn in Fight Club (1999) that her particular quirkiness was allowed to be on full display from that point forward.  It helps that she became romantically involved with one of the quirkiest film directors ever, Tim Burton, in 2001, and that due to this relationship she has found herself paired in six films with Johnny Depp. For someone unfamiliar with her earlier work, A Room with a View might be a bit of a shock, as it is a film about British social conventions at the turn of Twentieth Century and Carter is somewhat restrained by this. Still, there are slight glimpses of what is to come.

Adapted from E.M. Forester’s (Merchant and Ivory’s author of choice) novel of the same name, A Room with a View tells the story of how Miss Lucy Honeychurch (Carter) inappropriately found love in the Tuscan countryside with a free-spirited philosopher named George Emerson (Julian Sands).  It is this inappropriateness, which is hilariously pointed out by Lucy’s chaperone and cousin Charlotte (Maggie Smith in an Oscar-nominated turn) that causes a rift in the relationship.  It takes an unbearable engagement to an exhaustingly boring and affected Cecil (Daniel Day-Lewis in an Oscar-nominated role) and the publication of Eleanor Lavish’s (Judi Dench) scandalous novel about Lucy and George’s Tuscan tryst to convince Lucy that there is more to life than social constraints, namely love and happinesss.

What I like most about the film is the acting performances. With a cast full of then and future Oscar winners director James Ivory had a pretty easy row to hoe with this picture, and I suspect he would be the first to say that his Best Director Oscar nomination and the film’s Best Picture nomination were due in large part to his cast.  As I’ve pointed out in previous reviews, Daniel Day-Lewis is an exceedingly gifted actor. He can play any part and make it completely his own, and that’s what he did with Cecil.  In the hands of a lesser actor Cecil may have turned into a caricature of the cuckolded fiancee. Instead, while Cecil is boorish and priggish he is also engaging to watch because Day-Lewis turns him into a character you don’t necessarily like but want to watch.  The same can be said of Smith’s role as Cousin Charlotte. No one plays exasperatingly idiotically polite characters like Smith, and that is exactly what Charlotte is. Smith expertly uses body language and facial expressions, not to mention that memorable voice of hers, to turn poor Charlotte into someone you first want to shake and then into a woman you want to embrace. 

The pairing of Carter and Sands is an interesting one.  Here are two actors who found themselves on the same career trajectory following the critical acclaim of this film, but one ended up on the A-list and the other on the D-list.  By far Sands’ portrayal of George Emerson is his best—perhaps he peaked too early in his career?  Still, one of the reasons I wasn’t completely enamored with Lucy and George’s pairing was because it was obvious that Carter was by far the more superior actor of the two. There are several layers to Lucy that must be peeled slowly away as the story progresses and Carter shows an unusual depth of character development for an actress so young. Never is Lucy more enchanting than when she finally tells Charlotte and Cecil what she really thinks of them.  Plucky and perky suit Charlotte, not to mention Carter, quite well.

Of course what would a Merchant and Ivory film be without beautifully designed period costumes (Oscar winners Jenny Beavan and John Bright), expertly crafted sets (Oscar winner), and pristine cinematography (Oscar nominated Tony Pierce-Roberts)?  All of the hallmarks of what comprises a Merchant and Ivory production are present here.  Edwardian clothes don’t excite me, but breathtaking shots of Florence and the Tuscan countryside do.  The first part of the film, which takes place in Italy, is where most of the visually stunning images are captured.  I suspect that is why Cousin Charlotte so desperately wanted a room with a view in the first place. 

Overall, A Room with a View is an interesting study in upper-class social etiquette in Edwardian England.  The movie benefits greatly from a stellar cast and a somewhat engaging story. 

12 Angry Men (1957) **1/2

In director Sidney Lumet’s first feature film, 12 Angry Men (1957), one juror asks another, “What kind of man are you? Who tells you that you have the right like this to play with a man's life?” The duty of a juror is to judge the evidence presented without prejudice or sympathy and render a verdict. The problem is every person who sits in a jury box has their own personal views regarding race, class, and gender, as well as their own personal problems. Reginald Rose’s Oscar-nominated screenplay (adapted from his stage play) does an excellent job of showcasing these very issues in this taut, dramatic film.  Aided by brilliant cinematography, outstanding editing, and stellar acting, 12 Angry Men is an inspiring look at one of the most disliked and avoided duties of American citizenship. 

Our jury is deliberating a first-degree murder charge involving an 18-year-old minority boy from the slums who is accused of stabbing his father to death.  If convicted, the mandatory sentence is the death penalty.  On the surface, it appears to be an open and shut case of guilt, but one juror, played by Henry Fonda, has doubts.  As the lone holdout, he takes it upon himself to make the other eleven jurors (all men, hence the title) reluctantly (and in some cases belligerently) reexamine the evidence.  Along the way we learn there are other contributing reasons for why they think the boy is guilty: racial and class prejudice, familial issues, and indifference.  It is a searing analysis of what actually influences jurors to make the judgments that they do. 

While I have a particular issue with the fact that all of the jurors are men (women could vote and thus serve on juries in 1957!), that does not damper my appreciation for how Lumet and cinematographer Boris Kaufman shot the film.  I’m not sure whether they chose to use black and white film to accentuate the viewpoints of the jurors (everything is seen as either black or white) or because it was cheaper, but it works. The beginning of the film is shot with wide-angle lenses and at an above eye-level perspective. This cleverly depicts how distant the jurors are from one another on many levels.  It also provides the viewer with the ability to observe the idiosyncrasies of each juror.  As the story progresses and becomes heated as jurors start changing their verdicts, the film is shot from much lower angles and closer shots.  These techniques heighten the drama and create an almost claustrophobic atmosphere.

With over 365 camera sets-ups and multiple angle shots, it is obvious that cinematography played a vital role in the overall production, but without clear, decisive editing it would have been useless. Having worked for several years on dramatic productions for television, Lumet knew the value of editing, and he and Carl Lerner expertly and concisely cut 12 Angry Men to create a smooth, cohesive feel.  While there are a lot of panning shots, the film is appropriately cut at crucial moments.

All twelve actors give fine performances, but three stand out to me. Fonda is obviously the star, and he plays his calm, rational Juror No. 8 well, but he serves more as a moral compass than anything else.  I’ve seen him play this part before in The Ox-Bow Incident (1943) and Young Mr. Lincoln (1939), so while he’s good here it’s not what I consider one of his standout performances.  No, when I think of the jurors I remember Ed Begley (Juror No. 10), Lee J. Cobb (Juror No. 3), and George Voskovec (Juror No. 11).  Begley plays his rude, bigoted part with just the right amount of anger and callowness.  By the end of the film, when almost every man turns their back on his poisonous prejudice, he does an excellent job of conveying his character’s resigned realization that no one respects him or his views.  Cobb’s Juror No. 3 is violently vitriolic and difficult to forget. His vehement agitation serves as the actual pulse of the movie.  And, finally, I think Voskovec’s turn as a naturalized citizen with an appreciation for the American justice system deserves to be recognized.  His dealings with both Cobb and Begley are memorable, but it is his confrontation with Jack Warden’s Juror No. 7 that hammers home the importance of the jury system. 

Overall, 12 Angry Men is an intelligent look at an important element of the American justice system.  It benefits from creative cinematography and editing, and has an outstanding cast.  It is a tad overdramatic at times, but that does not lessen its overall effect.

The Night of the Shooting Stars (La Notte Di San Lorenzo) 1982 **1/2

Lyrical, humorous and tragic are the words that best describe directors Paolo and Vittorio Taviani’s The Night of the Shooting Stars (La Notte Di San Lorenzo, 1982). Winner of the 1982 Jury Special Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival, this Italian film tells the poignant story of the flight of a San Marino village from their German-mined homes in the waning days of Nazi occupation in 1944. While it is a tad oversentimental at times, the movie benefits from an outstanding musical soundtrack and beautiful cinematography.

The story is narrated by a mother to her sleeping child on the Night of San Lorenzo, which according to Italian folklore is the night when all dreams come true.  She remembers her six-year-old self and her fellow villagers daring escape from retreating Nazis and Fascist collaborators on her own Night of San Lorenzo in 1944. Half of the village chooses to take refuge in the cathedral, where they have been promised by the Nazis and the Bishop that they will be safe.  The rest of the village doesn’t trust the Nazis and decides to set off to find the advancing American army.  Obviously the fleeing group had the right idea, as those who go to the cathedral are treated to a bomb as they receive holy communion.  Knowing that they will be shot if found on the road, the fleeing villagers band together for a tragi-comic exodus unlike any other.  Along the way they meet resistance fighters and encounter blood-thirsty Fascist collaborators—there is a particular father/son Fascist team that is so revoltingly evil that I actually clapped when they were killed.  Conflicting personalities and unresolved village grudges amongst the group adds a bit of comic relief to what would have otherwise been a somber march toward safety. Combined with the lighter moments, the violence and death that takes place is somewhat more palatable. 

When I reflect on what I liked about the movie two things stand out: the cinematography and the music. Shooting in the Tuscan countryside,  famed cinematographer Franco Di Giacomo captures such beautifully breathtaking images you almost forget people are being mercilessly killed.  It’s easy to see why Di Giacomo won the Donatello Award for Best Cinematography at Italy’s version of the Oscars.  The vast expansive shots of the countryside are poetically composed with pristine lighting and framing.  The spectacular shots in the wheat fields create both a pastoral feeling and an overbearing brutal sense of nature when things turn violent. 

The memorable music fits perfectly with every scene.  Nicola Piovani wrote the score and it is played throughout the movie. It is lyrically haunting and memorable.  His use of both Richard Wagner’s Tannhauser and Giuseppe Verdi’s Messa da Requiem is simply brilliant. Verdi is leaned heavily upon in both the pivotal church bombing scene and the iconic wheat field battle.  The film has a few surreal scenes, so when “Dies Irae-Tuba Mirum” starts playing during a scene where our child narrator envisions an old man as a classic Roman warrior hurling spears at his enemy, its pretty awesome to watch.  I love Verdi’s Requiem Mass and when it is properly placed in a film, as it is here, then it has extra emotional pull for me. 

Overall, The Night of the Shooting Stars is an emotionally engaging film that is both beautiful to look at and pleasing to the music lover’s ear.  While I can’t place it on the same level as Cinema Paradiso (1988) or The Children Are Watching Us (1944), it is still one of the better Italian movies I’ve seen.

The Young Girls of Rochefort (Les Demoiselles de Rochefort) 1967 **1/2

In 1964 director Jacques Demy shocked the Cannes Film Festival when he released The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a modern day (popular) opera entirely sung and set primarily to a jazz score.  Along with legendary French songwriter Michel Legrand, Demy wrote a musical soundtrack/script that was at times playful, romantic, and haunting. It was a box office and critical success, and it made its star, Catherine Deneuve, an internationally recognized movie star. It was Demy’s aim to create a new musical format, one that owed “nothing to American musical comedy and nothing to French operetta.” Yes, he found inspiration in such films as An American in Paris (1951) and Les Girls (1957), but he wanted his musicals to be uniquely Demy—a colorful fantasy world awash with whimsical musical numbers.  That is exactly what he created with The Young Girls of Rochefort in 1967. 

Set and filmed in the French western seaside town of Rochefort (on the banks of the Charente River),  The Young Girls of Rochefort centers around the artistically gifted and ambitious Garnier sisters: twins (and real-life sisters) Delphine (Deneuve) and  Solange (Françoise Dorléac).  Unfulfilled with their jobs of teaching ballet (Delphine) and giving music lessons (Solange), the sisters long to escape to Paris to realize their dreams. Oh, and both are looking for their dream man, too.  When a fair comes to town for the weekend the sisters decide they will leave with it and make their way to Paris and, hopefully, stardom. 

All of Demy’s films have a thematic connection in that they somehow examine the meaning of love and separation.  In The Young Girls of Rochefort these themes are examined by the search for one’s ideal love.  Not only do the twins long for their ideals, but so does their mother Yvonne (Danielle Darrieux) and a number of other characters in the film.  By being separated from their ideals (some of whom have already been met and others who were just missed by coincidence and/or circumstance), the film has an underlying melancholic feel to it which is sharply contrasted by the overly bright production designs and the energetic musical numbers. These are the elements that define and set apart a Demy musical from others.

The musical numbers here are unlike those in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg in that no dialogue is sung and they are clearly breaks in the story.  The film opens with an intricately choreographed number by Norman Maen, as a carnival sets up in the town square with Legrand’s jazz introduction playing in the background.  This really sets the atmosphere for the rest of the film—clothed in bright colors the dancers effortlessly construct an entire set before our very eyes.  From this scene Demy smoothly transitions to the twins overlooking apartment, where we find the girls immersed in their artistic pursuits.  We are quickly introduced to them and the next thing we know they are engaged in a hilarious dancing duet about being “Les Demoiselles de Rochefort” (AKA “The Twins’ Song”).  From there we are treated to countless other upbeat numbers full of pep and color.  Still, there are a few melancholic songs, the most famous being “Chanson de Delphine” (although the music is set to various lyrics, based on what character is singing the song, it is after all everyone’s love song, just with a different ideal lover sung in mind).  Oh, and did I mention Gene Kelly is in the film, too?

That’s right, Mr. American Musical himself is in this quirky French musical extravaganza, too.  Demy waited two years to make The Young Girls of Rochefort because Kelly was engaged with other projects.  He plays an American composer destined to meet and fall in love with Solange.  He may have been 55 when he made the film, but he was clearly in peak shape and performs two of the best numbers in the movie.  “Andy in Love” finds Kelly exuberantly dancing through the streets of Rochefort after having met his true love: Solange.  Each person he meets along the way he engages in a small, separate dance—he even jumps atop a car (not so bad for 55, huh?).  Of course, the most beautifully fluid dance is the one he does with Dorléac near the end of the film.  Balletic and romantic, it takes my breath away every time I see it.  Still, after watching these musical numbers you might be a tad confused by the voice of Andy—it was dubbed.  This is strange because Kelly spoke and sung fluent French, but Demy chose to use someone else’s voice. 

While The Young Girls of Rochefort may not be as wonderful as The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, it is still a highly enjoyable (and colorful) musical. The songs are bubbly and the dance sequences are brilliantly choreographed.  In addition, the film has a rather poignant note for two reasons.  One, Françoise Dorléac died in a car crash just prior to the film’s premiere, and so it is nice to see her working so happily alongside her real-life sister Catherine Deneuve.  Second, this is the last good film Kelly danced in (Xanadu was crap).  For those of you who call yourselves Gene Kelly fans but haven’t seen this you should be ashamed.  Yes, it’s in French, but it is also the last time you truly get to see Kelly show off his extraordinary gifts as a dancer.  In the words of Shakespeare (sort of): Get thee to Netflix!

Seven Samurai (1954) **1/2

Massive is the word that comes to mind when I think of acclaimed Japanese director Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954).  Everything was massive: the set construction, the cast, the battle sequences, and the film’s running time of 207 minutes.  It was Kurosawa’s first samurai picture, and it set the bar for all others that would follow. Not only did it influence an entire generation of Japanese filmmakers, but it was also a blueprint for future Hollywood films like The Dirty Dozen (1967) and The Magnificent Seven (1960).

Set in 1587 Japan during one of its many civil war periods, the story is a simple one: a farming village of peasants are tired of having their crops and women carried off by bandits every harvesting season, so they decide to hire a samurai for protection.  They end up hiring seven samurai to not only defend the village, but to teach them how to do it for themselves.  Kurosawa refused to shoot the scenes in the village inside a soundstage and made his studio, Toho, construct an entire village on the Izu Peninsula. The scale of this endeavor was vast, and it only added to the hallmark of Kurosawa’s gritty realistic style.  The overlooking shots of the village from the surrounding mountains and forest is a testament to how much work went into building it. As a result, So Matsuyama was deservedly nominated for an Academy Award for Best Art Direction.

The cast is comprised of a core group of characters and hundreds of extras—as well as a stable of horses.  The seven samurai are played by Kurosawa regulars. Takashi Shimura (Ikiru, 1952) is Kambei, the reflective leader of the group. Toshiro Mifune (Rashomon, 1950) is Kikuchiyo, the comical but short-tempered wannabe samurai.  Daisuke Kato (Rashomon) is Shichiroji, a stoic man and good friend of Kambei. Isao Kimura (High and Low, 1963), is Katsushiro, a young warrior who wants to learn from others.  Yoshio Inaba is Gorobei, Kambei’s second-in-command. Minoru Chiaki (Throne of Blood, 1957) is Hayashida, a cheerful man who keeps up the group morale.  And, Seiji Miyaguchi (Ikiru) is Kyuzo, the complete badass swordsman of the group.  All seven men represent the different elements of the human personality. While Mifune’s Kikuchiyo is perhaps the most memorable of the seven, due to his character’s over-the-top personality, I think all of the men bring an incalculable amount of humanity to the roles they are playing.  They all embody the samurai code of bushido: frugality, loyalty, honor, and martial arts master. 

It is interesting to watch how the samurai prepare the peasants for the impending siege.  They instruct them on how to build fortifications and how to properly use a weapon.  Along the way they teach them discipline and responsibility.  All of these things are abundantly important for the massive three-day battle that they engage in with the bandits.  Trenches are dug and abatis and cheval de frise are constructed as means of defense, but eventually hand-to-hand combat is required.  Kurosawa’s decision to have the decisive battle scene take place in a torrential downpour was inspired.  Chaotic and frenetic, there is a cleansing element to it as well—by standing up for themselves the peasants have had years of misery washed away from them.  They are reborn.

My biggest complaint with Seven Samurai is that it is way too long. I know many people say the pace is quick, but they must have seen the edited version, because if they saw the film at its original length I can’t see how they would say that.  Had Kurosawa cut about thirty minutes the film would have run more smoothly for me.  Yet, other than it being a complete endurance test, Seven Samurai is a treat to watch.  As mentioned above, the battle scenes are intricately choreographed and shot from varying angles, which gives the viewer a bird’s eye view of the intricacies of battle design and implementation.