The Great Unwatched: The Deadly Bees (1967) and Out of the Past (1947)

Out of the Past (1947)

Director: Jacques Tourneur
Runtime: 97 minutes

As the credits came up on Out of the Past, I thought to myself, "I have never seen a film-noir before this; I only thought that I had." This thought is particularly amusing, because as Tourneur's movie opened -- and despite the title card -- I thought that I'd put the wrong disc in the player.

Let me explain. Out of the Past has a reputation as one of the great film-noirs, a genre known for their oppressive cityscapes and chiaroscuro lighting. Tourneur's past work with Val Lewton's horror unit demonstrates that he has a way with shadowy cinematography. So it's a shock when the first sights we see in Out of the Past are open plains, the first sounds a slightly rustic musical cue. One of the credits notes that the film is based on a novel called "Build My Gallows High." When we finally see a hard-top car driving along the country road, it's a relief -- this is not a Western after all.

Of course, this is the genius of Out of the Past. It's a film that seems to define the film-noir experience, but it wouldn't work without the film-noir tropes already established by earlier films. One of the key elements of great film-noir is that those elongated shadows and endlessly criss-crossing city streets form a prison around the protagonist, locking them into the date with destiny they made when they gave in to their passion. Opening on a sun-bathed rural community is a calculated surprise; it drives the mystery before a single word is spoken. Why are we here and not the city? What is coming out of the past? The Western associations also work in Tourneur's favor. That car that drives up the road is both welcome (because it's a clue we're in the movie we expected to be) and strange (its dark color makes it look like an unwelcome invader of this dusty village).

The man in the car is looking for Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum), the local gas station owner who used to be another person entirely -- Jeff Markham, private eye. Their meeting begins Out of the Past's descent into darkness, as night and shadow creep into the tale (both metaphorically and visually) with alarming speed. Markham became Bailey to hide from a big-shot named Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas). Why he went into hiding is a story he tells his girl during the drive to Sterling's lodge, with the requisite flashback and narration. Why he needed to hide comprises the rest of the movie.

My original summary of the film isn't accurate; it's not that I hadn't seen a film-noir before, it's that I'd never seen a film-noir protagonist before. How could there be any other except Robert Mitchum? The rest, even his predecessors, seem like pale imitations, shadows if you will. Hard-bitten doesn't begin to describe him. When he breathes, "Baby, I don't care" to Jane Greer, you know that he goddamn means it. He has a way with conveying emotion that's guarded and revealing all at once. When his deaf station assistant tells him he has a visitor, his face barely moves, but his expression changes all the same. It's a masterpiece of performance.

Worth the Purchase? Oh definitely.

The Deadly Bees (1967)

Director: Freddie Francis
Runtime: 83 minutes

This one's a bit of a cheat, as I'd seen a truncated version of The Deadly Bees once in an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000. A lack of wisecracking robots does this film no favors, unfortunately. It's slow, repetitive, and silly. A pop star (Suzanna Leigh) goes to a remote island to recuperate from a nervous breakdown, only to be caught in a hive of villainy -- one of the island's two beekeepers is releasing a new strain of killer bees on the unsuspecting populace. Is it cold, forceful Guy Doleman or the doddering, avuncular Frank Finlay? Does the audience care? Notable mainly for a strong performance from that ubiquitous supporting player of British horror, Michael Ripper, as the local barkeeper/lawman.

Worth the Purchase? I should've been stingier with my money.

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In Two Weeks: Legend of the 7 Golden Vampires (1974) and Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

The Return of the Great Unwatched

When I started this blog 11 months ago, it was devoted to a project called "The Great Unwatched," the goal of which was to watch 400 movies, all of which I owned and none of which I had seen, in a year. That project fell through in a month, even though I found parts of it extremely gratifying.

The goal was noble, but the pace was... well, stupid. It amounted to 1.1 movies a day, which might have worked if I wasn't the type of guy to balance two or three other projects alongside it (not to mention my 40-hour-a-week job and my social life).

Here's the thing: I seem to find all sorts of time to be movie fan, but I put aside less and less time to actually watch movies. I find making the simplest viewing choices excrutiating, as I try to balance a million questions -- Will I be able to sit through this movie, given my ADHD? Will I be able to review this movie for Classic-Horror? Can I watch this movie with my wife, who has aversions to films without strong plots and, well, pretty much all horror? Most importantly, what will this film add to my existing understanding and apprecation of cinema?

The last question is both the most important and the least relevant. Over the last week I've watched several films, letting my id choose whatever looked interesting in my Netflix Instant Watch queue. The films have mostly been horror (Strait-Jacket, The Cat and the Canary '27, Pin...) with exceptions like the Singapore-based Cyber Wars (original title, no joke: Avatar). Not every film has been a masterpiece -- some I didn't like very much at all -- but they've all added something to my filmgoing experience. Looking back on the single month of The Great Unwatched's first iteration, I realize this is generally true. Even the films that were really terrible like The Dark and Pick Up have stuck with me in some form or another (not so much Las Vegas Lady, but I did watch that with my then-girlfriend/now-wife, so it's not a total loss).

I figure it's time to revisit the experiment, but as a matter of quality over quantity. Every other week, I'm going to have a PHP script randomly select three films in my collection that I have not seen. I will watch at least two of them and publish my thoughts here. This new Great Unwatched will alternate with B-Sol's 52 Perfect Movies feature, so there will be new content here on a weekly basis. I'm looking forward to seeing the best and the worst my collection has to offer me in a variety of genres.

52 Perfect Movies: Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

My next film is certainly something that might be more typical for me to write about, given that I run a blog called The Vault of Horror. I'll admit I'm a little more in my element, but I'd go further than saying Bride of Frankenstein is one of the finest horror movies ever made--it is without question one of the finest movies ever made, period.

As horror films go, this could very well be the most skillfully made of them all--certainly of the so-called "classic era" of horror movies, in which, very often, they were treated as mere children's fare. Bride of Frankenstein is so much more than that. It's a sublime expression of cinema as art, wrapped subversively in the guise of a monster movie. And it is without question the finest hour of James Whale, the man I consider to be the greatest horror director who ever lived.

Whale's original 1931 Frankenstein was a masterpiece in its own right, but this was an improvement in almost every way (except sheer ability to terrify), making it perhaps the first sequel to surpass the original. With a much larger budget, and studio confidence on his side, Whale weaves a lush tapestry, giving greater license to Universal set designer Charles D. Hall. It's bolder and more impressive than its predecessor, with a script that's smarter and richer.

I won't be the first one to point this out, but the film is also tinged with a daring Christian allegory that only adds to the viewing experience. Who would've thought that the Frankenstein monster could become a Christ figure, yet this movie does it--having the creature literally descend into the grave and "rise again", associating him with a blind man in a scene which plays to "Ave Maria", and of course there's that iconic moment of the monster "crucified" by the townspeople. This is heavy stuff for a creature feature!

Boris Karloff gets to speak as the monster, and delivers a performance that is packed with power and pathos. Colin Clive, aged considerably by the rigors of alcoholism in the four years since the original, puts in another terrific performance as the good doctor, as well. But it's Ernest Thesiger who steals the picture as the one and only Dr. Pretorius--perhaps the greatest non-monster role of any of the classic Universal horror films. He also gets one of the great movie lines: "Here's to a new world of gods and monsters!"

Beautifully lit and shot by John J. Mescall, who had previously shot Karloff in The Black Cat for Universal, Bride of Frankenstein is filled with unforgettable scenes. Chief among these is the rightfully famous log cabin scene with the blind hermit. Parodied in Young Frankenstein almost as famously, this is nevertheless one of the truly immortal film scenes, and for my money may be the most emotionally moving one I've ever seen in a horror film. It's for moments like this one that the film totally transcends the genre.

Ironically, despite the genuine sincerity of the cabin scene, much of Bride of Frankenstein actually plays for laughs, which is pretty bold in and of itself, given the somber gravity of the first film. The incomparable Una O'Connor is on-hand to make sure things never get taken too seriously, and even some of the monster's violence is given camp value. Yet it never feels forced, or a betrayal of the source material. This is also part of Whale's genius, and the genius of William Hurlbut and john L. Balderston's screenplay.

And then there's that incredible score. German film composer Franz Waxman was one of the most acclaimed and prolific of his day, and Bride of Frankenstein was the first American movie he got a chance to work on after moving to Hollywood. It may very well have remained his greatest. Filled with themes instantly recognizable to any vintage horror fan, the score is as much a character as any actor in the movie, conveying the dread as well as the light-heartedness. The actual theme of the Bride herself is an exotic and beautiful bit of music that represents a high watermark for horror film scores.

Bride of Frankenstein is a film that is far more sublime and wonderful than it has any right to be. Filled with remarkable imagery and delightful performances, it is the kind of film you show to someone who has yet to appreciate the finer points of what genre entertainment has to offer. Plus, it all climaxes in the highly awaited reveal of the Bride herself, portrayed in her brief appearance by the beautiful Elsa Lanchester. With Clive, Thesiger, Karloff and Lanchester all together in this scene, it becomes the kind of thing you don't want to take your eyes off for all the world.

There is a handful of horror films of such high quality that one can literally classify them among the greatest movies ever made. Bride of Frankenstein is one of them. It's the shining triumph of the beloved Universal cycle of monster films, and in this writer's opinion, the best horror film made in Hollywood's "golden age" of the 1930s-1950--which covers a hell of a lot of ground.

NEXT UP: Bringing Up Baby (1938)

52 Perfect Movies: Top Hat (1935)

The 1930s musicals of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers will always hold a special place in my heart. Believe it or not, before our hyper-sensitive and more sexually aware era, it was perfectly acceptable for a straight man to love musicals without his "manliness" being called into question. I'm pretty sure your grandfather could hum a few Irving Berlin tunes in his day, but just try walking down the street belting out an Andre Lloyd Webber song--yeah, whole different scenario.

What I'm getting at is that these films come from a completely different era of motion pictures, indeed a more innocent time, when happy-go-lucky musicals filled with beautiful melody and beautiful people could transport us away from our troubles without the slightest hint of snark or irony.

I grew up with the movies and music of Astaire, and his musicals are a part of my childhood as much as Star Wars action figures and The Muppet Show. And for me, Top Hat will always be the best--the creme de la creme, with the world's greatest dancer at the height of his powers, and the stunning Ginger looking for all the world like an angel fallen to earth.

And then there's the music. What can one say, but that Mr. Astaire is, in large part, responsible for some of the greatest songs of all time coming into being. Composers like Jerome Kern, Rogers & Hart and Irving Berlin set to work writing masterpiece after masterpiece for his films, and in this case its Mr. Berlin who wows us with tunes that have become part of the fabric of our culture. The title song, of course. "Isn't This a Lovely Day?" "The Piccolino" And then... "Cheek to Cheek".

You don't need to have seen The Green Mile to understand the power of this song to move, and of the particular scene in which Astaire and Rogers dance to it. It's moments like this one that the name of this blog series was created for, because it's about three minutes of absolute, unassailable perfection on film--two larger-than-life beings moving on screen as no two humans ever did before or since. It can literally take your breath away.

The melody and lyrics are pure Irving Berlin, and it remains one of the most well-known songs ever written. I have a particular affinity for the Great American Songbook--in fact, I devoted a whole blog to it. And well, this is certainly one of the absolute marvels of that amazing literature of popular music. I hear a song like this, and I get a bit sad for the sense of melody and beauty that has pretty much been lost in what we now call popular music.

What's the plot, you ask? Who cares, really? It's your basic romantic comedy plotline, guy and girl falling for each other, one misunderstanding after another standing in their way, until they finally stand united at the end. But that's not finally what this is all about. It's the music that's the star, and also the ambiance being created. That's all that matters.

But believe it or not, there's even more than just Astaire, Rogers and Berlin to recommend this movie. The sumptuous art direction of veteran set designer Van Nest Polglase succeeds in putting across this magical fantasy world in which the characters reside. Delightful character actors Edward Everett Horton and Eric Blore are pure gold in every scene they share. And Erik Rhodes is charmingly weaselish as the flustered heavy Alberto Beddini.

These kinds of 1930s musicals were designed to take people away from the dreariness of the real world going on outside the movie theater during the Great Depression, presenting them with gorgeous people moving gracefully through an elegant world, the cares of everyday life of no relevance to them. Unlike our modern audiences, which seek to wallow in misery when times are down, these were people who sought the blissful escape that entertainent could provide. And Top Hat gave it to them, in spades.

I prefer these classy musicals of the '30s to the more bombastic widescreen extravaganzas that would come in later decades. Top Hat is the epitome of the escapist film, creating a fantasy world through the music of Berlin, and the dancing and singing of Astaire & Rogers. To watch a film like this is to know what it feels like to fall in love. The word "heartwarming" was invented for it.

Forgive me if I've gotten a bit curmudgeonly or nostalgic with this particular review. But there's a phrase in one of the songs of the film, "simply reeks with class"--and that's what this movie does. There aren't many latter-day films we can say that about. Later movies would be great for other reasons. But what made Top Hat great, and what made the entire Astaire/Rogers cycle so great, is a quality which sadly is no more.

"Heaven! I'm in heaven," sings Fred to Ginger. And when we watch them move, so are we.

NEXT UP: The Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Us Among Aliens Among Us: Avatar and District 9

I had the curious fortune to see James Cameron's Avatar and Neill Blomkamp's District 9 within days of one another. While I'm not really sure that District 9 did anything but confirm my initial opinion of Avatar, Avatar's flaws certainly deepened my appreciation of District 9. 

Avatar

I saw Avatar in 3D on a "normal" theater screen -- no IMAX for me (but the IMAX they use for feature films hardly qualifies as proper IMAX). The visuals are breathtaking, yes, but here's the thing -- you get used to them after a while. That should be a good thing, since the visuals shouldn't distract from the story. In Avatar, however, the story is so old hat, it needs blocking badly. For all intents and purposes, Avatar is a CGI-heavy remake of Dances with Wolves as seen through the lens of FernGully: The Last Rainforest, with a little Braveheart thrown in for good measure. It's the precipice of the "What You People Need is a Honky" trope, wherein the White Knight teaches the People of Color how Things Are Done.

Somewhere in Avatar's fourth or fifth act (the movie has so much rising action in its 162 minute runtime that it borders on vertiginous), after human marine Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) uses his remote-controlled alien avatar to ingratiate himself to the denizens of Pandora, a strange boredom settles in. The plot has given up all of its secrets already -- when it comes down to choosing between the evil corporation hellbent on exploiting Pandora's resources and the tribal aliens (the Na'vi) that stand in their way, Sully's obviously going to side with not-evil. Cameron's world-building and the game-changing CGI have already done their work to a point -- they impress, but they don't add emotional resonance. Yes, it's very bad that the evil corporation ruins the environment and wants to displace the Na'vi and it's very good that Sully learns important lessons about ecological unity and honor. And? So? Maybe Avatar would resonate more if the corporation wasn't so evil, if the Na'vi weren't so honorable, if Sully wasn't such an empty receptacle for the Na'vi teachings (he actually comments on his "empty head" during his introduction to the Na'vi chief).I think Cameron wants the conflict to be complex -- Giovanni Ribisi's corporate exec looks perpetually ambivalent when giving damning orders -- but it never is and therefore the plot never surprises.

There are funny moments and thrilling moments and sexy moments (when Sigourney Weaver's avatar first shows up, I found that I can be attracted to a computer graphic). There are moments of pure awe and wonder. There are moments of none-too-veiled political commentary. But that's all the Avatar's impact is -- moments. These bits and pieces impress but don't last; they don't connect to the whole (which is ironic, actually, given some of the sci-fi/ecological concepts put forward in the film).


District 9

Sunday night, I saw District 9 for the first time, my wife for the second. At the film's end, as the credits rolled up my television, my wife turned to me, buried her head in my chest, and began sobbing deeply. She didn't stop for several minutes. My feelings did not run as deeply (I apparently cry only during scenes where families are reunited and at the very end of When Harry Met Sally), but I understood. It's a depressing film, a damning one, but also a brilliant one.

Like Avatar, District 9 is about a no-good corporation's efforts to relocate an alien species and the human caught between the two sides by virtue of weird science. However, director Neill Blomkamp layers on additional complexities. Here the aliens, derogatorily called "Prawns," are refugees whose ship showed up over Johannesburg, South Africa over twenty years ago. In those two decades, they've found nothing but hate and, worse, indifference. Even though the Prawns have been forced to live in filthy slums at the edge of the city, their human neighbors feel it is not far away enough, so a new settlement (no better than a concentration camp, one character admits) has been created. The corporation MNU has moved in to enforce the Prawns' migration (and scavenge whatever alien tech they find).

The Prawns themselves have largely settled into depression, accepting their poverty, and finding their few joys in in-fighting and cat food abuse. What do they have to look forward to anyway? Whoever isn't ignoring them or hating them is exploiting them. In one corner of the Prawn settlement, a contingent of Nigerian gangsters run all manner of criminal enterprises -- weapon trafficking, interspecies prostitution, gambling, black market goods, anything that might turn a profit. MNU has taken on the resettlement contract because they are also one of the world's largest arms developers. They want to unlock the secrets of the powerful Prawn energy weapons, which only respond to Prawn DNA.

In the middle of all of this is Wikus Van De Merwe (Sharlto Copley), a South African bureaucrat who accidentally gets dosed with a Macguffin, which begins to rewrite his genetic code with Prawn DNA. The transformation would do David Cronenberg proud (it parallels Seth Brundle's in The Fly in some ways). Unlike Avatar's Sully, who can choose to exist in either the human or Na'vi worlds, Wikus is accepted by neither the humans (who see him as a guinea pig) nor the Prawns (who treat him with suspicion). District 9 also sidesteps making Wikus the Great White Hero. In fact, without Wikus's bumbling early in the film, one Prawn (given the human name of Christopher Johnson) might have carried out a two-decades-in-the-making plan to head home. Eventually Wikus does attempt to rectify his blunder, but his selfish drive to fix his own problem creates additional issues.

District 9's one significant flaw is one shared with Avatar -- the evil corporation is just too effing evil. Once MNU discovers that Wikus has been infected, they strap him down and begin a none-too-subtle mixture of medical experimentation and outright torture. Consider the stakes -- a whole bounty of alien technology that no human has ever been able to wield... until now. Why alienate (no pun intended) someone who is already sympathetic to the corporation's needs and desires? It would have been nothing for them to pretend friendship with Wikus to get what they want. Instead, they go straight for sadism and cease treating him as even vaguely human, even as he begs for compassion. No wonder he eventually sides with the Prawns, leading MNU to heavy losses in personnel, resources, and profit.

Blomkamp ends District 9 on a series of ambiguous notes, with the future of this mess uncertain. What is certain is that he's not that fond of humanity, even as he shares some understanding for why we act as we do. Without that empathy, District 9 would ring false, I think. Instead, it hurts like a motherf**ker.

Incidentally, I highly recommend my friend John Kenneth Muir's review of District 9. One of John's more infuriating traits is his ability to state my own feelings on a film with a greater depth of knowledge than I possess. I realize this is through no fault of his own -- his position just happens to line up with mine. In his analysis of District 9, John brings in comparisons both obvious (Kafka's "The Metamorphosis" and Graham Baker's film Alien Nation) and surprising (Paul Verhoeven's sci-fi satire Robocop and the video game Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2). I dug it lots.

To Sum Up

Asking the same complexities of Avatar that exist in District 9 is ridiculous. Avatar follows the Campbellian "Hero's Journey." District 9 is a tragedy with action sequences. However, Avatar's excessive runtime demands a more complex film or it wastes the viewer's time. I only have so much patience for a film that builds in predictable ways to a predictable conclusion, especially one that wants very much to be revolutionary.

Black Dynamite is outta sight! (and later out of steam)

Black Dynamite is the spiritual sibling (one might even say "soul brotha") of 2007's double-feature experiment Grindhouse, in that it takes a classic exploitation trope of yesteryear and tweaks it just enough to make it relatable to modern audiences. In Planet Terror, Robert Rodriguez took the subgenre of Italian zombie films that popped up in the wake of George Romero's Dawn of the Dead, reimported them into the American cinematic syntax, and added modern digital effects to achieve some gonzo concepts that kept with the mentality of his inspirations, although not their actual execution. Quentin Tarantino's approach in his hybrid action-horror segment Death Proof was to replace the mind-bogglingly dull dialogue of lesser grindhouse films with his own brand of post-ironic banter -- which, within the provided context, wasn't any less dull, but it was certainly more inane.

Black Dynamite director Scott Sanders and stars/co-writers Michael Jai White and Byron Minns start with a loving, if slightly cheeky, homage to 1970s blaxploitation pics like Cotton Comes to Harlem, Gordon's War, Shaft, and Black Belt Jones, and slowly begin to add layers of influence from a different source -- the spoofs of Zucker, Abrahams, and Zucker (The Kentucky Fried Movie, Airplane, The Naked Gun). Instead of modernizing their concept, Sanders, White, and Minns create an unexpected but very welcome connection between two very different genres, making it a more successful homage than either of the two Grindhouse films, at least for the first two-thirds. Despite losing control of the escalating comedy elements in the final third, the filmmakers still have a lot to be proud of here.

What I love most about Black Dynamite (and what ultimately makes the last act so frustrating), is the restraint it shows at the beginning. Sanders and company understand that comedy, like suspense, is something you build -- something you earn. With that in mind, they keep their intentions close to the chest. The introduction of Black Dynamite (White), our composite blaxploitation hero (he's a former CIA agent, an expert in kung fu, and he plays by nobody's rules but his own), is played only slightly tongue-in-cheek -- the situations are knowingly cliche and the dialogue just a bit too arch to be serious. Most of the early gags involve the particulars of low-budget exploitation films in general -- frames are randomly dropped, a boom mike eases into frame, and one character smokes an unlit cigarette.

As the actual plot is brought in, direct nudges at blaxploitation cinema come in. Not only must Black Dynamite avenge the murder of his brother Jimmy by gangsters, but he also has to investigate the introduction of drugs into the community by those same gangsters. The funk soundtrack becomes key to the comedy at some junctures, as Adrian Younge's mood-setting lyrics often provide an accurate description of the scene we're watching! We're introduced to characters with names like Cream Corn (Tommy Davidson), Bullhorn (Minns), and Chicago Wind (Mykelti Williamson), who alternately hinder and help Black Dynamite on his quest for justice.

Before we've even realized the subtle evolution of the film's tone, it's already working on adding another layer to the comedy -- making fun of its eponymous hero. This is probably Black Dynamite's most sublime comic work. Poking fun at an already comedic construct should feel like more of the same; it shouldn't be unexpectedly side-splitting. The key here is really in Michael Jai White's performance. From the first frame he's in, he establishes Black Dynamite as a righteous, nigh-unflappable mofo who can get the job done, someone's who's just too damned competent at everything. Right as that characterization starts to get stale, however, White introduces a fallibility we didn't even know we'd been begging for. When Black Dynamite loses his legendary cool at a prostitute who's only crime is interrupting his jive monologue, the timing couldn't be more perfect -- the moment is where we want it to be in the scene and the scene is exactly where we need it to be in the film.

There are occasional sequences that drag on too long and one in particular (Black Dynamite and his crew cleaning up the streets) that is over before you can register it started. These are minor hiccups, though, and there are great moments within these scenes that make their unfortunate pacing forgivable.

However, the last act of Black Dynamite goes completely off the rails. During what seems like a climactic raid on a warehouse, Black Dynamite discovers that a new villain, hiding at a remote location, is responsible for the evil goings-on. I assumed that the movie would cut to a faux trailer for Black Dynamite 2 or something, because it would be ridiculous (and not in a way consistent with the film's humor up to this point) for them to go face this new, completely unforeshadowed threat now. Well, the movie does keep going, shifting into a weak, cut-down imitation of A Fistful of Yen (from The Kentucky Fried Movie). Then the movie gets even dumber still in a sequence I can't describe without making it sound ten times more awesome than it actually is. I think Sanders wants his audience yelling, "No f**king WAY!" but instead the response is, "You've gotta be f**king kidding me."

It hurts when a movie like Black Dynamite squanders its good will. There's so much that I love about the film's understanding of comedy, timing, and how to turn expectation into laughter. Alas, none of that understanding is apparent when the film enters its final act. A shame, too. Black Dynamite starts out as one bad mothaf**ka, but by the time the credits roll, it's transformed into a jive turkey.

52 Perfect Movies: Trouble in Paradise (1932)

This is probably going to be one of the lesser-known films of this series, but it belongs nevertheless. From the first time I saw it at a special screening in New York's Greenwich Village, I have been in love with Ernst Lubitsch's Trouble in Paradise--a shining example of an era in time and in cinema that is forever gone.

Trouble in Paradise is of a certain genre of movie that simply doesn't exist anymore, and for which there is no equivalent. A sly, sophisticated and slick romantic comedy, it is about as far as you can possibly get from the so-called "chick flicks" of today, offering viewers a sublime experience if they but open themselves up to it.

Director Ernst Lubitsch, a German expatriate who had come over to Hollywood during the silent era, became known for a very specific trademark style. In a time when studios controlled content and most directors didn't have anything like the kind of leeway they later would, Lubitsch managed to carve out a unique feel for his work, which became known as "The Lubitsch Touch". This can be seen in such films as The Merry Widow, Ninotchka, The Shop Around the Corner, To Be or Not to Be, and Heaven Can Wait.

But before any of those was this one, a delicious comedy starring Miriam Hopkins and Herbert Marshall as a couple of con artists who attempt to fleece a millionairess of her fortune. Along the way, Marshall begins to fall for his prey (played by Kay Francis), drawing the jealousy of his typically cool-as-a-cucumber accomplice/lover Hopkins.

Hopkins and Marshall are amazing, tearing into a delightful script provided by Hungarian playwright Aladar Laszlo--on whose play the movie was based--and Hollywood workhorse Grover Jones, who pulled off the screen adaptation. This was before the enforcement of the censoring Hayes code, and it's absolutely delightful how much innuendo and biting satire the writers were able to effortlessly weave into almost every line of this terrific screenplay.

This is movie screenwriting as it has never been done since those heady days of the early 1930s--intellectual without being pretentious, brimming with outrageous wordplay without being vulgar or obvious, and pulsating with grace and class from beginning to end. Along with Marshall and Hopkins, benefiting from this treasure of a script is a cast boasting such character actors as C. Aubrey Smith, and the one and only Edward Everett Horton.

Horton was a comic genius on screen, who nearly stole every Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers vehicle he was in, and nearly does the same here, playing his patented bumbling middle-aged dandy to the hilt. He is one of my very favorite character actors of all time, and its always a pleasure to watch him work.

Those who equate movies of this time with the more chaste material of the late 1930s and 1940s are in for a bit of a surprise at the level of frank bedroom humor that goes on. In fact, although it would never draw such a rating today, the picture was given the equivalent of an "R" in some foreign countries, and was even banned in Finland. But it's all in good, harmless fun, and one can't help but chuckle at nearly every line of what is, for my money, a completely perfect script.

When the movie code went into effect in 1934, the movie was effectively prevented from being reissued to theaters, and so became something of an obscure little oddity for decades. In fact, it was never issued on VHS, and not on DVD for many years, leading lovers of the Lubitsch gem to seek it out at film festivals and from celluloid dealers. Thankfully, it was recently released on DVD, and I strongly urge lovers of 1930s cinema to immediately give it the Netflix treatment if they haven't seen it.

Lubitsch had a way of creating an atmosphere that was all his own, and this movie might very well be the earliest example of the "The Lubitsch Touch" fully formed. Although the script is largely what makes this such an unforgettable movie, it wouldn't have have been able to be so fully realized without the effortless richness and panache that Lubitsch brought to every production with which he was associated. He had a way of evoking elegance and suggestiveness at the same time, leaving much to the viewer's imagination, yet also making sure they got the point.

As I've said in previous entries, the early 1930s was a time of such exuberant experimentation in American film, and Trouble in Paradise is a beautiful example of that exuberance at its best. You know how they always say, "They don't make 'em like this anymore"? Well folks, in our far courser modern culture, they very literally do not make 'em like this anymore. But we'll always have Trouble in Paradise to remind us of when grace and class were at a premium in Hollywood moviemaking.

NEXT UP: Top Hat (1935)

52 Perfect Movies: The Public Enemy (1931)

William Wellman's masterpiece The Public Enemy is not simply an excellent gangster movie. It is the gangster movie; that is to say, it is the prototype, the epitome of the classic gangster film. This should not be confused with something like The Godfather, which took the genre to a different, more specifically mafia-oriented place. I'm talking about the old-school, all-American gangster movie here.

And make no mistake, these movies are all about America. The American dream, or rather the very dark side of it. They're about what desperate men were willing to do to grab their piece of the pie and hold on to it, in a world that didn't give a damn about them. And The Public Enemy illustrates that concept to perfection.

Of course, none of that could have happened without the man whose presence is really what this movie is all about: The one and only James Cagney. In a time when film acting, especially in the new sound era, was still developing from the broad histrionics of the stage, Cagney brought the art into the modern age. He was subtle; he was nuanced; he was real. He has a charisma so powerful that you can't take your eyes off him for a split-second. He owns the screen, and this is the part that forever etched him into the mainstream consciousness.

As Tom Powers, Cagney is pure joy to watch. His every movement, and every line of dialogue is a gem. In this time before the Hays Code, movies were able to get away with a bit more, and so Cagney is able to portray a gangster we identify with and root on despite ourselves. He may "lose in the end" to prove that "crime doesn't pay", but we know that's just a pretense. Make no mistake, despite his ruthlessness, he is the hero of this movie.

He just may be my favorite actor of all time, and this movie will show you why. The naturalism--he comes across not as an actor, but as a genuine wiseguy off the street. Pacino and DeNiro would be nothing without this guy blazing the trail, my friends.

And that's not to say he isn't surrounded by a supporting cast worth a fortune. We have the sexy Joan Blondell; veteran actress Beryl Mercer as Powers' large-looming mother; hard-boiled Brit Murray Kinnell as mentor Putty Nose; Leslie Fenton as the slimy Nails Nathan; and best of all, the great Robert O'Connor as the cool-as-a-cucumber mob boss Paddy Ryan. O'Connor is cast just right, using what time he's given to create a truly memorable character--the potato chip-eating scene alone is worth the price of the DVD.

And then there's Jean Harlow. Some have harped on her seeming out-of-place in this picture, with a finishing-school accent that comes out of left field. I'm not one of those people. To watch the ultimate blond bombshell interact onscreen with Cagney is pure magic. The scene in which they glide into a nightclub together and start dancing, almost defies words. You just know you're watching two larger-than-life legends of the silver screen impose their aura on everything around them. I love it.

This is a movie that takes an unflinching look at the world of organized crime in the time of Prohibition, a virtual free-for-all of bootlegging and violence. And it's not all about glorifying, to be sure--the film shows us the seedy underbelly of this world as well, in a way that we wouldn't see again to such a degree until the new generation gangster flicks of the 1970s like Mean Streets.

It's a daring film from a daring era. Powers' seduction by Paddy Ryan's wife is dealt with in surprisingly frank fashion for the time, as is his out-of-wedlock shack-up with Blondell. Then there's the unforgettable climactic scene in the rain, beautifully shot and prefiguring 1940s noir, and that infamous closing image of Powers' "homecoming".

This is why the early 1930s is one of my favorite eras of movie-making, and The Public Enemy exemplifies the spirit of experimentation and exuberance that characterized it.

I've seen The Public Enemy many times, and I can honestly say I'm never not in the mood to see it. For me, this is comfort cinema at its best, and it's always my pleasure to worship at the altar of Cagney. I suggest you give it a try--you'll never look back.

NEXT UP: Trouble in Paradise (1932)

52 Perfect Movies: City Lights (1931)

To give you an idea of how truly amazing Charles Chaplin's City Lights is, Orson Welles--the man who made Citizen Kane--considered it his favorite movie.

The great cinematic legend, Chaplin is someone I would personally put on my very short list of true comic geniuses of the 20th century, along with Groucho Marx, Peter Sellers and Woody Allen. This film is the perfect example of why I put him at that level. For me, a true comic genius, one who steps out from the pack of those who are merely very funny, is someone who transcends pure comedy, someone who does something more with his work, who adds a level of almost intangible profundity to what he does, so that he has the power to do more than merely make you laugh.

There's no question Charlie Chaplin did this throughout his incredible career, and for my money, there is no film of his, feature or short, which illustrates that as well as City Lights. The movie represents a powerful evolution in his famous "Little Tramp" character, and an extremely daring balance of comedy and pathos/drama, even moreso than previous efforts like The Kid, another great one.

This is a movie that took so many chances, and they all paid off in ways that few chances in the history of cinema ever have. For one thing, Chaplin made it at the beginning of the 1930s, when the motion picture industry had already converted completely to sound. And yet he insisted on making it a silent film. In his eyes, it was integral to way the film would work.

And it's a good thing Chaplin stuck to his guns. Although the film does have a recorded musical soundtrack, it is indeed silent, thus the movie's original subtitle, "A Comedy Romance in Pantomime". There's something innately powerful about the wordless emotions put forth on the screen under the masterful hand of Chaplin: director, writer and star. He'd been doing it for years by this point, but City Lights is the ultimate distillation of his art.

Chaplin, as the Tramp, falls in love with a blind flower girl, who, because she cannot see, believes he is a wealthy businessman with the ability to help her pay for crucial eye surgery to restore her vision; determined to keep her love, the Tramp does whatever it takes to raise the money needed. On paper, it is melodramatic mush, but in the hands of Chaplin it becomes a genuinely remarkable filmgoing experience.

And while there is much earnest sentiment flying around, Chaplin manages to perfectly blend the comedy which initially put him on the map in the first place. Via his friendship with a drunken millionaire, and his many intrepid attempts at making money, Chaplin is able to interject hilariously funny material, yet never loses sight of the genuine feeling at the heart of the story. Among these comedy vignettes, by the way, is the classic prize fight routine, with the Tramp trying his hand at boxing.

There are few filmmakers who were ever able to seamlessly blend comedy and drama like Chaplin, and he never did it better than here. Talk about a filmmaker at the height of his powers. And the sentiment, the heart of the piece, is so pure, so true, and so moving, that it actually manages to infuse the comedy with an almost indescribable flavor of emotion, resulting in that very rare viewer response of combined melancholy and amusement that so few films ever succeed in eliciting.

Perhaps the finest moment in the history of Chaplin's Tramp character may be the closing moment of this film. Some have called it the most memorable film ending ever, and it's hard to dispute that point. It certainly is one of the most serene moments in cinematic history--the flower girl, post-surgery, her sight restored, seeks to meet her benefactor face-to-face for the first time, to thank him. And of course, upon seeing him as the Tramp instead of the wealthy businessman she thought he was, she nevertheless accepts him wholly and completely.

Again, what on paper would seem maudlin and trite is pulled off so perfectly by Chaplin as to be a thing of wonder. Supposedly Chaplin filmed his scenes with Virginia Cherrill, the actress who played the blind girl, literally hundreds of times trying to land the perfect take. And that insistence on perfection shows through in the finished product. Watching that look of unequalled relief, adoration and pride on the Tramp's face, a flower clasped nervously in hand, how else can one think any different?

NEXT UP: The Public Enemy (1931)

"52 Perfect Movies" Is Coming!

B-Sol of The Vault of Horror here. Firstly, let me just thank Nate so very much for giving me this outlet to express my love for cinema beyond the realm of the frightening. As he announced some days ago, I've been invited to contribute here at Cinema Geek, and I couldn't be happier about it.

The series of posts to which he referred is something I like to call, "52 Perfect Movies". I've been planning it for some time now--the trials and tribulations of daily life in the real world have kept me a bit too occupied as of late, but I just wanted to let everyone know that it is coming.

Once a week (in a perfect world), I will be spotlighting a different film. Each of them is a film that, in my humble opinion, can be said with relative certainty to be completely flawless. They are examples of the absolute pinnacle of movie-making, as I see it. I freely admit this is an entirely subjective endeavor, but I sincerely hope you will enjoy it nevertheless.

As for the movies themselves, I'm in a generous mood, so I've included a few pictures to give you an idea of what some of them will be. I'll be doing it in chronological order, and hope to start things up very soon. So stay tuned, and here's to a year's worth of perfect movies...

A Brief Guide to Aspect Ratios

This piece was originally written to help sort out some confusion friends were having about anamorphic DVDs and aspect ratios. I thought it'd be cool to throw it here as well.

The world of aspect ratios in movies can be really confusing. Why are some movies wider than others? Is widescreen always a good thing? What's it mean when a DVD is "16x9 enhanced"? Why is it that when I play my older DVDs on my new widescreen television, they have black bars on the sides as well as the top and bottom?

1. What IS an Aspect Ratio?

In simple terms, an aspect ratio is an expression of the relation between an image's width and its height. There are two ways of expressing them -- with whole numbers and with decimals.

Media (movies, television shows) ratios are usually expressed with decimals -- a movie with an aspect ratio of 1.78:1 will be 1.78 times wider than it is tall. The higher the first number, the wider the picture.

Marketing text on displays (computer monitors and televisions) will use whole numbers, which are easier for the consumer to digest, but actually make the math a bit more ridiculous. A television with a 16x9 display (the norm for widescreen sets) is 16 times wider than nine times its height. Really, 16x9 is just 1.78:1, but in terms that look good on a weekly electronics flyer.

For the rest of this piece, I'll express the ratio in terms of [decimal]:1 (1.33:1, etc.).

2. A little bit of history

Image 2A
Frame from 1.19:1 movie
Fritz Lang's M (1931)


Image 2B
Frame from 1.37:1 movie
Cropped to 1.33:1 on DVD
Edgar G. Ulmer's The Black Cat (1934)

In the silent era, films were presented in 1.33:1 or 4:3 ratio -- roughly the shape of a non-widescreen television. When sound films came in, additional space was needed on the film strip for the optical soundtrack. Initially, this caused movies to be reduced to 1.19:1 (see Image 2A), which many people found disorienting.

Eventually, a standard was established which reduced the height of the image to compensate for the loss of width. Known at the Academy Ratio, 1.37:1 is how most older films are meant to be viewed. Not that you will -- when films are released to television and DVD, the studios (every last one of them) figure that the difference between the Academy Ratio and the 1.33:1 ratio of standard televisions is so slight that they crop out a small part of the picture. The screencap provided in Image 2B, therefore, is not a completely accurate representation of Edgar Ulmer's The Black Cat and it's certainly not a good representation of the Academy Ratio.

But I digress.

As television threatened to steal customers from movie theaters, the studios fought back by moving to more color productions and by adding another element -- widescreen. There were multiple widescreen standards. One of the earliest (and widest) was Cinerama, which involved shooting a movie with three cameras simultaneously, then projecting it from three carefully placed projectors onto a curved screen. The aspect ratio was, roughly, 2.65:1.

A more common practice was to film at Academy ratio and then matte (or block) out part of the picture when the film is projected. Directors and cinematographers using this method would usually have guides on the lens to let them know what was and wasn't part of the composition. Ratios for this method include 1.66:1 and 1.85:1, with many 1.85:1 films being reformatted to 1.78:1 for DVD (see Images 2C-2E).


Images 2C-2E: Various matted aspect ratios. From left to right, Mario Bava's Black Sunday (1960, 1.66:1), Black Sabbath (1963, originally 1.85:1, reformatted to 1.78:1), and Shock (1977, 1.85:1)

However, making the image any wider reduced the amount of space you used in the 35mm frame drastically, resulting in a loss in quality. The solution for this was an anamorphic lens, which filled the whole 35mm frame with the rectangular widescreen image by horizontally compressing the image. When exhibited, the film would then be uncompressed by another anamorphic lens on the projector (see Images 2F-2G).




Images 2F-2G: The anamorphic process. Top image: a still from Mario Bava's Knives of the Avenger (1966, 2.35:1). Bottom image: The same still altered to approximate its appearance as a 35mm frame.

There are other methods and techniques, including using 70mm and Super35mm film, but I've covered the biggies.

3. How this all works on DVD

Like a 35mm film frame, a standard DVD has limited resolution. In this case, it's 720x480 pixels (don't do the math there -- the pixels are non-square. The square pixel resolution actually works out to about 640x480 or 1.33:1).

Early DVDs simply handled widescreen images by slapping black bars on the actual image (Image 3A).

Image 3A. Matted widescreen. From Mario Bava's Hatchet for the Honeymoon (1970, 1.66:1).

Note even here, in the least wide of the widescreen formats, there is a loss of a good 19% of the possible image resolution to black bars. Worse, because the image itself is 1.33:1, it will appear on a widescreen (16:9) television as either matted on the sides as well as the top and bottom or it will be stretched to fill the screen, distorting the picture horizontally.

Later, anamorphic enhancement was developed. It follows the same basic principle of anamorphic film -- the image is squeezed horizontally and then pulled back out. The difference in DVD terms is that it can be used for any aspect ratio that is as wide as or wider than 1.78:1. On 4:3 TV, the film will display with black bars (rendered by the player), while on a widescreen television, a 1.78:1 film will fill every available pixel (higher ratios will have bars on the top and bottom, but to a much lesser degree).

In cases where the image is 1.66:1, studios like Warner Bros. will (much to my consternation) crop the image vertically until it is 1.78:1 (or even 1.85:1), so it will fit on widescreen televisions without needing to present the film in a "windowbox" (with bars along the left and right sides). Curse of Frankenstein, I'm looking at you. Other companies like Criterion Collection will preserve the original aspect ratio. Go Criterion.

I'm ignoring the whole full-frame/pan'n'scan/standard thing right now. Anybody who prefers that over widescreen loses 33% of the image and I'm not going to waste more time (than I already have) nagging them about it.

However, there's a weird flipside to it, which is companies turning films that were originally exhibited in Academy Ratio into widescreen movies. The most egregious example of this (mostly because it was done with the filmmaker's blessing but without any real artistic rationale to back it) is Anchor Bay's special "Book of the Dead" edition of Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead. The original was filmed on 16mm in 1982 and, up until the BotD, had always been exhibited at 1.37:1. Anchor Bay worked with star/producer Bruce Campbell to put it into widescreen format (I think because "widescreen" had become a buzzword at that point). The result is that whole sections of valuable visual information are completely sliced out of the top and bottom of the frame. Thankfully, when Anchor Bay came out with their Ultimate Edition of The Evil Dead, they provided both widescreen and 1.33:1 options.

4. Conclusion

I know what you're asking now. Why are most of Nate's examples from Mario Bava movies?

You're missing the more pertinent question -- just how awesome is Bava? I mean really?

Strange Things Afoot at Ye Olde Cinema-Geek

Three quick updates on the status of this blog that I think are fairly exciting.

1. B-Sol of The Vault of Horror (who, as you may recall, recently contributed a list of ten overlooked Woody Allen films) has been made a permanent fixture here. He'll be using Cinema-Geek in much the same way I do -- as an outlet to discuss cinema that falls outside of the scope of his horror blog. He's planning a pretty cool series of posts right now, but I'll let him fill you in when the time comes.
2. As you probably know, my main passion is Classic-Horror.com, the running of which has overwhelmed me so much that I've been unable to update here as much as I'd like. Well, Classic-Horror is on hiatus for the next six months. There's a number of things I'd like to do in that time, one of which is to take some more time to explore areas of cinema that I've ignored, like the work of Ingmar Bergman and early silent cinema. Cinema-Geek will definitely get the benefit of these explorations. I may even do another month of The Great Unwatched.
3. ...but not just yet. Last month, in the midst of the International Horror & Sci-Fi Film Festival, my girlfriend Erin became my fiancée Erin. Since we both work best under a deadline, we decided that an extended engagement wouldn't do. I'm in full event organization mode for a December 13th ceremony. Bonus of the date -- our four and ten-year wedding anniversaries will be on Fridays. We're getting married in a movie theater in a cinema-themed ceremony -- including a montage of movie clips in place of your traditional processional music. It's going to be legen--wait for it--dary. Legendary.

Beggars' Night

In Des Moines, Iowa, where I was born and spent the first nine years of my life, kids went trick 'r' treating on October 30th, called "Beggars' Night." We put on our costumes, went out, yelled "Trick'r'Treat!" and sometimes we really would have to "Trick" with a joke or a fun fact in order to get the treat.

Tonight my nostrils fill with the smell of wet leaves, my feet balk at the arduous journey through freezing wind. My hands grasp flimsy plastic handles on cheap jack o'lantern candy baskets, occasionally running fingers over the ragged plastic protruding from lazy joins. I can feel a cut lip that healed over twenty years ago and a stiff cowboy hat that made my scalp sweat despite the cold. I can see dozens of colorful wrappers surrounding a multitude of candies. Some kinds would go too fast and others would linger for months; I knew exactly which was which and so did my father.

Today I live in Arizona, and even though the October winds are blowing cold, they won't bite as bitterly. The air smells of dust and I won't be going out asking for candy. I didn't think to wear anything for the office costume contest. I celebrate Beggars' Night and Halloween by watching horror movies, the kind that the trick 'r' treater from long ago would have run from in terror. My traditions have changed. I am not the same.

Yet every October 30th, some part of me becomes that little boy again, with the sweaty cowboy hat and the plastic pumpkin filled with candy. And I am happy.

Ten Completely Underrated Woody Allen Movies

B-Sol of the insanely excellent blog The Vault of Horror takes the floor here at Cinema-Geek for a look at ten frequently overlooked films from one of his (and my) favorite directors.

Woody Allen has one extremely huge body of work. The guy basically makes a movie every year, and he’s been doing it for about 30 years. So you do the math.

Unfortunately, the downside of making movies that often is that not every one is going to be an unquestioned classic. Furthermore, every now and then, one will inevitably slip through the cracks.

Folks, I’m an unabashed Woody lover. I enjoy anything the guy does, from absolutely perfect films like Annie Hall and Manhattan, to relatively missable stuff like Alice, and Anything Else. I’d go so far as to call him the second finest working director, after Martin Scorsese.

So instead of listing the obvious Woody Allen treasures that everyone agrees are great—Hannah & Her Sisters, Sleeper, Crimes & Misdemeanors, etc.—I thought it would be more interesting to shed a little light on some unfairly underrated Woody Allen movies. If you love his stuff and haven’t seen these, give them a chance…

Bananas (1971)
Allen’s second film, this is a completely side-splitting comedy from his “early, funny” era. However, wedged between other gems like Take the Money and Run and Sleeper, it often gets lost in the shuffle. Woody as a Castro-esque Central American dictator is beyond priceless. And keep an eye out for the cameo from a young, unknown Sylvester Stallone.

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex (1972)
Another of the lesser-appreciated ‘70s Allen screwball comedies. A series of madcap vignettes dealing with human sexuality that literally leaves me breathless with laughter. John Carradine appears as a mad scientist who creates a monstrous female breast; a great oral sex joke is acted out; plus, the world’s worst transvestite. Comedy gold.

Love and Death (1975)
Only Woody Allen would be genius enough—and ballsy enough—to cross Dostoyevsky with the Marx Brothers. And have it actually work. This is the last film in Allen’s “silly phase”, right before Annie Hall. Plus, it teams up Allen and Diane Keaton, so you really can’t go wrong.

Stardust Memories (1980)
A bold film in which Allen basically plays himself, a movie director facing doubt about his own work, plus criticism for evolving as an artist. Very funny, as well as dramatic, plus one of the most memorable usages of a Louis Armstrong song in a movie, ever. Lovingly shot by longtime Allen collaborator and Godfather II cinematographer Gordon Willis.

A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy (1982)
Woody actually steps away from his comfortable urban setting with this gentle romantic comedy set in the early 1900s, in the countryside. Woody plays an eccentric inventor--plus we’ve got ‘80s Allen muse Mia Farrow, the legendary Jose Ferrer, a young Mary Steenburgen, Airplane’s Julie Hagerty, and of course, Tony Roberts. Plus, Allen puts together a soundtrack made up entirely of beautiful 19th century Romantic compositions.

Broadway Danny Rose (1984)
Astonishingly panned when it came out, this one is now rightfully recognized as an underrated treat. Woody plays a cheeseball talent agent, and Mia Farrow steals the show as his ditzy love interest. Best of all, the whole thing is framed as the recollections of a bunch of old school comedians having lunch at Katz’ Delicatessen in Manhattan…


Shadows and Fog (1990)
A bizarre little film that once again demonstrates Allen’s brilliant knack for synthesizing multiple themes and devices. If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if Woody were set loose inside a Kafka novel, then this is the movie for you. Quite serious and even chilling at times, Allen still manages to bring the comedy in the right places, mainly due to how hilariously out of place he is.

Everyone Says I Love You (1996)
I’ve always felt this movie was grossly misunderstood. Like myself, Allen is a huge admirer of the classic Fred Astaire-style musical comedies of the 1930s—and with this film, he answers the cinematic question, what if one of those films were set in the present day? Contains a number of delightful old-time pop standards, all performed legitimately by members of the cast not typically known for singing (including Tim Roth!).



Deconstructing Harry (1997)
For my money, this is Allen’s finest film of the 1990s, yet for the most part it went unrecognized. It was marketed around the gimmick of Woody going to Hell a la Dante, and although that’s the funniest part, there’s a whole lot more to it. But the sight of Woody Allen stumbling through the Inferno to the tune of Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing” is truly something else…

Small Time Crooks (2000)
Right before deciding to start casting younger actors in all the roles he used to take himself, Woody teams up with Tracy Ullman in this almost-forgotten comic delight. Best of all, Woody plays a smart-talking working class stiff, a real change of pace from his stereotypical neurotic New Yorker shtick.


Thanks again to B-Sol for this great list. Be sure to swing by The Vault of Horror for his musings on the horror genre.