THE MORE THE MERRIER
(George Stevens, 1943).
Eccentric middle-aged businessman Benjamin Dingle (Charles Coburn)
needs to find a place to stay in Washington D.C. during the wartime
housing shortage, and through sheer persistence and obstinancy persuades
working girl Connie Milligan (Jean Arthur) to sublet her apartment to
him. Dingle is an odd character, and his mischievous nature clashes
with Miss Milligan's routine-centered way of life. Things get more complicated
when he sublets his half of the apartment, without telling Connie, to
a wisecracking Navy man played by Joel McCrea, with the not-so-subtle
motive of playing the role of Cupid to the two young roommates.
The film's easy-going humor never sags into either unearned sentiment
or predictability. The script, reportedly conceived and supervised by
an uncredited Garson Kanin, is witty enough, but this is a comedy that
depends more on character and situations than dialogue. Fortunately,
all three of the leads are in top form. The reliable character actor
Coburn gets to stretch in a very colorful role that won him a Supporting
Actor Oscar. It's hard to imagine a character like Dingle in a movie
made today -- a portly older man who can be both charming and obnoxious,
full of himself and his go-get-'em philosophy, but somehow endearing
anyway. The eternally underrated McCrea creates another one of his laconic,
irreverent leading man roles, eager in love and not afraid to look a
little foolish. But in the end I think it's Jean Arthur that makes the
picture. If you've fallen in love (as I have) with Arthur and her mixture
of sharpness and vulnerability as displayed in her 1930s films for Frank
Capra, you'll find that this film is the perfect vehicle for her persona.
She's warm, funny, awkward, and sexy by turns. A scene outside of the
apartment with McCrea, when their characters are both slightly drunk
and willing to finally reveal their love, is an enchanting bit of romance
and light comedy that sparkles without being too sweet.
Stevens' technique is steady, and his handling of the actors is superb.
The film does goes a little bit astray in its situations, trying to
create some tension with a silly subplot where McCrea's character is
mistakenly accused of being a spy. But it's a truly satisfying romantic
blend overall, while the humor has both an intelligence and sense of
decency that now seems wholly of its time.
THE MAN WHO LAUGHS (Paul Leni, 1928).
In the 17th century, England's King James II tortures the young son
of a rebel peer by carving his face into a perpetual grin. Sold to the
gypsies, the boy escapes being murdered and is taken in by a traveling
showman (the always hammy Cesare Gravino) and grows up to become a famous
carnival clown named Gwynplaine (Conrad Veidt). Gwynplaine falls in
love with the showman's blind daughter Dea (Mary Philbin), but his identity
becomes known to the king's evil advisor (Brandon Hurst) who uses a
beautiful woman (Olga Baclonova) to lure him into a trap.
The bizarre story was freely adapted from a Victor Hugo novel, and
was a natural choice for a director like Leni, who made his name in
the expressionist film movement of postwar Germany. The first twenty
minutes or so, with the escape of the young Gwynplaine (Julius Molnar
Jr.) through a wild storm on a rugged coastline, are the most visually
stunning, with Leni's characteristic skill at bold lighting effects
in evidence. Then the story settles down into more conventional melodramatic
territory, with the theme of the grotesque man in love with the blind
girl, the somewhat tiresome palace intrigue, and the ending chase featuring
an heroic dog with the unintentionally humorous name of "Homo," who
could teach Rin Tin Tin a thing or two.
The film is nevertheless memorable for the performance of Veidt, whose
name is listed after Philbin's in the credits despite playing the main
character. With his mouth frozen into a truly creepy smile, Veidt expresses
all emotions with his eyes and body movement, and it's a mesmerizing
piece of work. Although the pace occasionally drags, Leni brings a feeling
of cramped tension to the story, evoking an eerie otherworldliness in
some of the scenes. One of the highlights is a sequence in which the
carnival troupe stages an elaborate ruse to fool the blind girl into
believing that Gwynplaine (who has been imprisoned) is still with them
and putting on a show for audience, even though the theater has actually
been closed.
Lon Chaney had originally agreed to play the lead role for his old
studio Universal, but changed his mind, and that gave Veidt his chance.
Chaney would surely have been good in the part, but Veidt brings a sense
of fragility to Gwynplaine that makes me grateful that the veteran Chaney
bowed out.
DIE NIBELUNGEN (Fritz Lang, 1924).
After the success of the massive two-part crime film Dr.
Mabuse, the Gambler, Fritz Lang and screenwriter Thea
von Harbou, now husband and wife, embarked on an even more ambitious
project, an adaptation of the German national epic Die Nibelungen.
With producer Erich Pommer underwriting the enormous cost, two years
were spent in preparation, and shooting took nine months, which was
a huge amount of time to make a film in those days. Once again, the
result was a two-part film. Part One (Siegfried) tells of the
warrior Siegfried's wooing of the Burgundian princess Kriemhild, his
services to her brother King Gunther in winning the warrior queen Brunhild,
and his betrayal and death through the spite of Brunhild and the machinations
of the King's favorite knight, Hagen. Part Two (Kriemhild's Revenge)
tells of Kriemhild's marriage to the barbarian king Etzel, and how she
lures her brothers and Hagen to her court in Hungary in order to exact
a bloody revenge for the death of Siegfried.
Those familiar with the 12th century poem will notice that the film
is almost totally faithful to its source. With only minor added dramatic
flourishes, Lang and von Harbou succeeded in transforming the entire
story, with its major and minor characters, into a magnificent visual
spectacle. Most importantly, the picture recreates the awesome, elemental
feeling of the epic, through an astonishing production design (Otto
Hunte and Karl Vollbrecht) and a brilliant dramatic and visual strategy
emphasizing the story's mythic elements through monumentalism and highly
stylized acting.
The two parts combined have a running time of almost five hours, but
the movie is never dull. At this point, Lang knew how to tell a story
primarily through images--gone are the lengthy intertitles that plagued
Dr. Mabuse. The huge sets have an abstract quality that aids
the picture's mythic, timeless mood. Every scene is carefully composed
to convey a particular spatial sense. The sets for Gunther's kingdom
are cold and majestic with lots of white. In the second part, the scenes
at Etzel's court have lower sightlines, emphasizing his barbarism and
the theme of revenge and retribution. The photography (Günther
Rittau, Carl Hoffmann and Walter Ruttmann) is impeccable. It's amazing
how Lang is able to make the material dramatic without ever shrinking
the characters into mere individuals who have motives and psychology.
These are larger-than-life emblems of human passion and struggle, and
yet the film's dynamism maintains its spell, keeping the action gripping
and involving.
The actors were somehow coaxed into performances that matched their
gigantic surroundings. Best is Margarete Schön as Kriemhild, especially
in her later incarnation as avenging angel, when she is positively scary.
Theodor Loos is compelling as the weak King Gunther, and the stalwart
Hagan is played by the intimidating Hans Adalbert Schlettow, who made
me understand why a character who appears to be a villain in Part One
can win a degree of respect (if not admiration) in Part Two. Paul Richter's
Siegfried may seem a trifle ludicrous as the image of youthful, athletic
nobility (especially in an early scene where he slays a rather quaint-looking
dragon) but even his primitive quality works to the film's advantage--this
is folk literature, after all. Completely over the top is Lang regular
(and von Harbou ex-husband) Rudolf Klein-Rogge as Etzel, the 12th century
poet's version of Attila the Hun. He is marvelously, hideously ugly.
If Lang had never directed another picture, he would be justly famous
for this incredible film alone. But as it turns out, Die Nibelungen
was completely overshadowed by Metropolis,
M, and the rest of Lang's illustrious later work, much of it
in Hollywood. This is understandable, since the later work was more
daring in method, and more far-ranging in theme. In addition, Die
Nibelungen has had a controversial reputation among film critics
and historians, some of whom see it as an example of a "fascist" style
in filmmaking. Well, it's true that the movie's set design and monumental
style are reminiscent of Albert Speer's architectural visions, and a
certain idea of German greatness and nobility is an unmistakable element.
But I would argue that one doesn't come away from the film with a sense
of triumphalism. This is a tragic story where greed and envy lead to
crime, which then leads to a cycle of vengeance that destroys everyone--hardly
the celebration of victory that a nationalist ideology would be looking
for.
In any case, Die Nibelungen was eclipsed by Lang's subsequent
work. I would hope, however that the recent excellent Kino DVD might
change that. The image is crystal clear, and the disc includes the original
score by Gottfried Huppertz that was used in the film's premiere screenings.
This is truly one of the most impressive achievements of the silent
era--an unforgettable, spellbinding experience.
SALVATORE GIULIANO
(Francesco Rosi, 1962)
A man lies dead in a courtyard of a Sicilian town. The police stand
around the body, taking notes. The dead man is notorious criminal Salvatore
Giuliano. Soon reporters arrive, clamoring for position, taking photos.
The cops struggle to keep them under control. Thus begins Salvatore
Giuliano, an exploration in fictional form of the life and death
of a real life Mafia figure.
Now we expect to meet Giuliano and see his life dramatized for us.
But here Rosi does something different, something that hadn't been tried
before. He circles around Giuliano, showing his environment, the social
milieu and political factors leading to his rise, the effects of his
actions and those of his followers on others, and an explosive trial
of certain of his associates after his death that reveals hidden connections
between the Mafia and the Sicilian and Italian governments. The time
sequence moves back and forth in an elusive pattern of events and correspondences.
But Giuliano himself is only seen in very brief glimpses. The film,
in other words, only uses Giuliano as a stepping-off point for various
and conflicting versions of Sicilian history.
Rosi deliberately works against the usual strategy of clarifying events
and organizing them into a narrative that reveals the truth. Watching
the film is more like the experience of actually living in the midst
of historical events, when a spectator has only a limited ability to
comprehend, and only witnessing parts of what happened. This is combined
with other events (and by implication, other spectators, just as in
life) that create conflicting impressions, or at the least, versions
of the truth that don't fit in a perfect linear fashion with previous
versions. The film is like a fallible human detective rather than the
omniscient one we are used to, and this ground-level position creates
a very peculiar and interesting experience.
Rosi shot the film in the same village where the real Giuliano came
from, using non-professional Sicilian actors. The style is naturalistic,
with a sure feel for the way people behave and for landscape (here he
shows his debt to his mentor Luchino Visconti). There is no central
character-- we float in a decentered world of collective experience,
and Rosi employs this unusual method brilliantly. The fights between
the outlaws and the police in the hills, for example, and the crowd
scenes in the village, are marvelously done. The realistic texture is
greatly aided by the superb black-and-white photography of Gianni De
Venanzo (also noted for shooting Antonioni's celebrated trilogy of alienation
around the same time).
We do learn some things along the way. Bandits and organized crime
figures were recruited by the Allies to help drive Mussolini's army
out of Sicily. After the war, the political factions that sought independence
from Italy used Giuliano and other Mafia groups as "freedom fighters."
Later, the outlaws waged war on Communist organizers, leading to a massacre
that becomes a crucial point of contention in the film. It would appear,
finally, that elements in the police and military collaborated with
the Mafia in order to put down the Communists. This last piece of information
made the film extremely controversial in Italy, even spurring a government
investigation.
The film's complex editing style makes it a somewhat demanding experience.
We are not given clear answers, or anyone to "root" for. But there is
a great theme running through Salvatore Giuliano-- the idea of
justice, and the tragedy of a society's failure to achieve it. The film
stimulates thought and further questioning--it disturbs our sleep, and
in this it shows true greatness.
THE CAMERAMAN (Edward Sedgwick, 1928).
Buster Keaton plays a sad sack who shoots tintype portraits on a streetcorner
for a living. By chance he falls for a young woman (Marceline Day) who
works for a company that makes newsreels, so he buys a movie camera
and tries to make it in the newsreel business so that he can impress
her and win her heart.
After the disappointing box office of Steamboat
Bill Jr., Keaton was persuaded by his brother-in-law
Joe Schenck to give up his status as an independent producer and sign
a deal with MGM, where Schenck's brother Nick ruled the roost. This
was his first film at Metro, and the studio tried to fit Keaton into
their fixed ideas concerning script and production. Luckily, he insisted
on doing things his way. But compared to Keaton's great comedies, The
Cameraman seems pretty tame much of the time, playing off the Buster
character's shyness with women and employing slight physical gags that
are innocuous by Keaton standards.
However, (and it is our good fortune that Keaton's minor films all
include a "however") there are a couple of great set pieces that make
the film worth seeing. The first involves Buster going to an indoor
swimming pool with his girlfriend, and having to get undressed and into
a swimsuit in a tiny dressing room already occupied by a quarrelsome
fat man. (The entire hilarious scene was improvised.) The second ranks
as one of the classic Keaton sequences. Buster gets a tip that trouble
is brewing in Chinatown. He goes there with his camera, gets stuck with
an organ grinder's monkey hanging on to him (it would take too long
to explain) and then a "tong war" starts in the streets. The ensuing
chaos, with Buster trying to film all the mayhem while being shot at
and otherwise attacked by the participants, is a perfect example of
how Keaton could come up with the most complicated stunts, flavor them
with terrifically inventive variations, and dish it all out at a perfect
pace while maintaining the deadpan, fatalistic sense of humor that was
his trademark.
Keaton made only one more picture after this, and then the sound era,
studio politics, and his alcoholism and divorce spelled the end of his
career as a director.
©2005 Chris Dashiell
CineScene
