52 Perfect Movies: 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

"Just what do you think you're doing, Dave?"

To a certain extent, this can be said of virtually every film included in this, the 52 Perfect Movies series--but it is especially true of Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey: It almost requires no explanation at all for this film to be included here. 2001 is a work of pure, undistilled genius; a breathtaking piece of art put forth into this world by the combined intellects of Kubrick and the legendary Arthur C. Clarke, to be savored, pondered and debated for all time to come.

As science fiction epics go, it is the gold standard--an intoxicating, cerebral journey into the issues that resonate most deeply with the human race as a species, and with the human being as individual. There are no laser guns required, no Flash Gordon-esque childish gimmickry on display. This is science fiction for grown-ups, that speaks to us on a mature level, in our own time and place, rather than a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

Kubrick famously rebuked those who tried to get him to explain the much-discussed finale to the film, insisting that they had to figure it out for themselves. Perhaps he was being clever, or perhaps he actually didn't quite know himself, but I will forgive him this bit of obtuseness. Whatever it may actually mean--and I have several theories, but this is not the place for them--it is quite true that it exists on another level, beyond the intentions of Kubrick or Clarke. It, like the rest of this monumental film, is there for the viewer to experience, to digest, to absorb and make of it what he will. Art at this level owes us no easy explanation.

Taking a genre of film that had long been the province of Saturday afternoon serial matinees or chintzy post-war monster movie fare, and elevating it to a place of beauty and depth of thought and feeling rarely seen in film, 2001 is the definition of a cinematic landmark. And even if the science fiction genre never quite lived up to the promise of this film, that does not take away from its achievement.

We see Kubrick here cementing his other-wordly, sterile, appropriately alien directorial style, approaching the material with the precision of a surgeon and the uncanny depth of perception we might actually expect from an observant alien race. The man was a gift to the craft of film-making, and it's entirely possible that this fact was never so completely established as in this motion picture, a model of perfection in editing, cinematography and sound design, among many other things.

As in much of Kubrick's work, it is the bigger picture here that takes us in and holds us. Kubrick was a stylized film-maker, no doubt about it, and here he sets a pace that certainly takes its time, paradoxically whizzing across various distant epochs in time, and millions of miles of space, and yet always moving at an even keel, fascinating us with the way the story is carefully unfolded, the characters patiently revealed to us. To those weened on music video editing styles, a film like this may seem a chore indeed, and that is quite sad. Because although it moves at anything but a brisk pace, this is the kind of film that must be slowly and deliberately savored, and rewards those who do.

From the masterful scenes at the "Dawn of Man", featuring tribes of primitive ape-men so convincing that suspension of disbelief is a non-issue, to the clean, bright, deceptively calm moments during the Jupiter mission, A Space Odyssey is an unstoppable juggernaut of a movie, cruising majestically along, metaphorically towering above the viewer like the implacable monolith itself. Here at the start of what many refer to as the "modern era" of movie-making, Kubrick shows us how it's done, setting the bar extremely high--perhaps too high, really--for any who woud dare to come after him, and taking the very practice of film-making to places previously undreamt of.

Keir Dullea and Gary Lockwood are terrific as Dr. Bowman and Dr. Poole, the passengers on board the Discovery. And yet, the performance best remembered is that of Douglas Rain as the voice of the computer HAL-9000, whose tragic malfunction and spiral into madness is at the heart of what this movie is all about. Among Kubrick's fascinations was the conflict of the human against that which seeks to dehumanize or automate humanity, and nowhere in his body of work (although Full Metal Jacket comes close) is this theme so directly explored.

The concept of the foolproof, beautifully choreographed scenario slowly sent completely off-kilter into utter choas--this is another favorite idea of Kubrick's, and it's no wonder he took so thoroughly to Clarke's material, as it speaks to this concern of his quite directly. Clarke himself often said that with 2001, he wanted to raise more questions than he answered. Most devotees of the film (and actually, probably most of its detractors) would agree that he succeeded in doing just that.

The strains of Strauss' Also Spracht Zarathustra, famously used to such powerful effect in this film, almost serve to act as something of a clarion call, waking the movie-going public up to the notion that the era of the auteur film-maker had arrived; that directorial visionaries would, more than ever before, be able to create deeply personal works that directly expressed their souls, with far less outside intervention than the studio system had ever allowed. And to a lesser degree, among those who devoted themselves to genre entertainment, it demonstrated that speculative fiction in cinema could do the very same thing it had been doing for decades in literature.

When discussing greatness in film-making, from a technical point of view, 2001: A Space Odyssey is a film that will invariable be brought up, and rightfully so. It is a sumptuous delight to watch and to listen to, with its groundbreaking (and actually realistic) special effects and brilliant use of classical music, and yet it is also much more than that. It is a film that becomes more than a film. It is an experience. It is a journey, into the self, into that which is beyond ourselves. In short, it is the kind of a narrative work that comes along once in a lifetime.

NEXT UP: The Odd Couple (1968)

Gene Kelly - Dancin' with Myself

So I should've posted this ages ago and I didn't. Sorry. This is a video I whipped up for exhibition at Vividcon's Club Vivid dance party this year. It's a montage of Gene Kelly clips set to Billy Idol's "Dancin' with Myself." Enjoy.

(note: the vid is credited to an alias I sometimes use in fannish pursuits)

52 Perfect Movies: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967)

"When you have to shoot, shoot; don't talk."

It's fitting that the first color film profiled in this series would be Sergio Leone's 1967 masterpiece Il Buono, Il Brutto, Il Cattivo, a grim yet sumptuous epic that practically redefined the motion picture spectacle for the modern era. The epitome of the beloved sub-genre known as the spaghetti western, it is a film that has so much to offer, and you don't even have to like westerns in general to enjoy it. It is a deeply satisfying film, which succeeds on so many levels and captures the imagination like few others.

A major crossover hit from the Italian cinema, it works because it speaks the language of action. Sure, the movie has some great lines, but the dialogue is sparse. This is a dynamically visual film, packed with unforgettable imagery, taking full advantage of the iconic Spanish countryside in which it was filmed, as well as some of the most interesting faces ever to be shown on a movie screen. Leone paints what is the very definition of a cinematic portrait, saying so much with expertly designed shots, careful and cautious editing, and some very bold artistic choices.

Together with Leone, cinematographer Tonino Delli Colli is truly one of the stars here, portraying each and every scene with a sense of heightened reality--vast, sweeping wide shots are intercut with the closest of extreme closeups. It's a technique that has been much parodied since, but it works so well here. That juxtaposition between the tremendously overwhelming, and the intimately introspective can be an intoxicating mix at times, as is the almost rhythmic alternation between shots that linger for alarming amounts of time, and those--such as during the climactic shootout--that whiz by at a dizzying pace. This film makes viewing it an active participation like few others do.

Together with Delli Colli, the film's other star is the legendary Ennio Morricone. Perhaps the most lyrical of all film composers, the scores he wrote for Leone in particular were things of absolute beauty. His daring work on The Good, the Bad and the Ugly represents one of the most recognizable series of musical motifs ever recording for film, and they have been so influential that nowadays it's easy to forget how jarring and unusual his combination of electric guitars, animals sounds, woodwinds and other instruments was, coming after decades of very traditional, much more "conventional" sounding cowboy-and-Indian music. Like few other composers, Morricone's music works so organically with Leone's films, and this film is the greatest example of that.

We have Clint Eastwood in the milieu that made him a star. Although no one would ever classify him as one of the great actors, he is a movie star in the truest sense, dominating the screen with a level of energy that belies his scant amount of lines. His very presence is a statement in and of itself, every time he enters the frame, no matter what he is doing. As the deliciously sinister heavy Angel Eyes, Lee Van Cleef, the New Jersey native with a face made to portray pure evil, is a film villain for the ages. His introduction scene alone is worth the price of admission.

But truly, although he often does not get credit for it, from a dramatic perspective, this film belongs to Eli Wallach. At that point mainly a stage actor, a previous role in The Magnificent Seven was something of a dress rehearsal for the career-defining role of Tuco, the guy who puts the "ugly" in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Conniving, deeply flawed, yet somehow undeniably charismatic, Tuco is one of the most unforgettable movie characters of them all, and Wallach brings a level of depth and humanity to him that I'm sure goes beyond what was on the mere printed page.

Westerns by this point had already become a tired genre, with a more jaded public now weary of the paper-thin representations of good and bad, and the sanitized version of America's past in which they existed. Leone's genius was in being able to take his love of the great westerns of John Ford and others, and push it through the meat grinder of his own decidedly non-American background and sensibilities. Perhaps it was this outsider's perspective that makes the spaghetti western so fascinating. It has been remarked that the most striking thing about them is the way the Italians represent such intrinsically American material.

The result is something at the same time familiar and exotic. This is, to be sure, not a realistic portrayal of the Old West, no more than the posturing of Gary Cooper and John Wayne is. But it is a slick, stylized and endlessly stimulating synthesis of it; a heady mix of symbolism, sound, color and music that results in something that can only be called "hyper-real"--the Old West as seen through a pulp fiction lens. It is also a world of muddied morality, where the good and the bad are not all that different, and where ugliness abounds. It is a world of mortality, of violence, and of unbridled human emotion.

The plot is almost irrelevant. Buried Civil War gold, hunted down by greedy and unscrupulous men, who cross paths along the way, and whose adventures take them through deserts, battlefields, graveyards and everywhere in between. But it's not about who did what to whom; the gold, and the search for it, is merely a device to put these incredibly drawn characters into motion, to light the powder keg of explosive action to which we are treated for the course of the film's nearly three-hour running time.

And yet this is not some mindless action flick, nor is it action in the same style that Sam Peckinpah was creating around the same time. This film is the very definition of a slow-burn, and it is not for the attention-span challenged. But for those with the patience and discipline to expose themselves to the work of a very deliberate and detail-oriented cinematic visionary, The Good, the Bad the Ugly is the kind of film that can grab hold of you and demand repeated viewings.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, and other standout films of its kind, are of a type of artistic work that could have only occurred at the time they did. Not too far removed from the traditional Westerns of old, yet filtered through a thoroughly modern sensibility, seasoned and packaged in a foreign land and shipped to America, almost as if their makers were looking for approval from the land in which these legends originated, the spaghetti western is a sub-genre which was once marginalized and looked down upon, and is thankfully now rightfully recognized as important, engaging and beautiful. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly represents just about the very best they could be--and yet how ironic, that just a couple of years later, Leone was able to return another time to the Old West for a film that may very well have trumped it...

NEXT UP: 2001: A Space Odyssey (1967)

Inception: The Movies in Your Mind (Part 1 of 2)

Note: I try to avoid major spoilers in the following piece, but a movie like Inception relies on the little pieces to make up the big picture, so almost any information is a spoiler. 

Early in my viewing of Christopher Nolan's Inception, I wondered if it was a follow-up or high-tech remake of Nolan's debut film, Following. Beyond the confluence of two characters, both thieves, sharing a name (Cobb), there's also the idea of a voyeuristic practice (following random people / invading dreams) that has a number of rules that eventually get broken. Except it quickly became apparent that the voyeurism angle wasn't as much Nolan's concern anymore. Certainly, there's the sequence where Ariadne (Ellen Page) peeks in on Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) as he dreams of his past regrets, but it's an exception to the rule. For the most part, dreams in the film aren't the nest of uncontrolled memory and emotion, but conscious constructs formed by someone other than the dreamer, set to pull a specific response from the target. In Inception, dreams are movies.

In case you haven't seen the movie or aren't aware of the basic premise, Cobb works as an extractor. Supported by a team of fellow thieves, he performs corporate espionage by entering the dreams of his targets (CEOs and the like) to retrieve sensitive information. One failed mission turns up an unexpected benefit -- his intended mark offers him a job to plant an idea in the mind of a rival. Inception is nearly impossible, but Cobb accepts anyway, bringing Ariadne into the fold to design the multiple levels of dream needed to bring this job off.

Within the world of the film, dreams are created using the same system as movies (Cobb as director, Ariadne as writer, and various other members of the team working as actors, production managers, technicians, and moneymen). As in the movies, the most common dreams are the ones used to extract something from the audience/mark (emotion/information). More difficult are the dreams that inspire and create ideas.

Furthering the films-as-dream metaphor, each of the levels in the main dream resembles an action movie in its own right. First, there's a kidnapping caper, then a "who-can-you-trust" corporate thriller (that later turns rather Matrix-y), and finally a James Bond spy romp (complete with unusual modes of travel and guarded fortresses).

Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Ariadne (Ellen Page) explore
the world of dreams in Christopher Nolan's Inception

However, there's one quote that really encompasses my whole argument:

"You create the world of the dream. We bring the subject into that dream and fill it with their subconscious." -- Cobb to Ariadne on being a dream architect.

This has so many different layers of meaning when considering it in the context of film.

First, of course, there's the purely physical reality of film, which is nothing more than a series of still images that, when played back at a certain speed, cause our brains to fill the gaps, creating the illusion of movement.

Second, there's the normal act of viewing anything. We naturally fill in what we cannot see. A close-up does not eradicate the rest of the actor. Similarly any other characters in the scene are still "there," even if they aren't visually apparent. Rooms have four walls even if we can only see three, and they definitely have ceilings.

Third, there's the artistic language of cinematography and editing that's been in development for the past 115 years. A low-angle shot of a character indicates power, a high-angle shot indicates worthlessness. A roving, bobbing camera probably puts us in a character's POV (an assumption that Friday the 13th exploited to create suspense). Cutting between two shots creates an association between them, chronologically or thematically or emotionally.

Fourth (and somewhat related to the second), the world of any given film, like the dreams in Inception, is naturally incomplete. Even if there was a movie that followed its protagonist every single second of the day in real-time from birth until death, we still wouldn't know details like what smells surround this person, what happens to the people in his or her life after they leave the frame, or what thoughts are running through his or her head. Filmmakers do their best to represent those details that are pertinent to the story or the characters, but they are limited by the format, especially the commercially-imposed average runtime of two hours. So, as an engaged audience, we fill in the details from our own experience, our own subconscious. Office buildings smell like this, a person in this situation would be thinking that, etc. Sometimes filmmakers invite us to engage on a more conscious level, like when Quentin Tarantino never shows us what's in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. Nolan makes his own invitation with the very last shot of Inception.

Leaving that aside, though, we create our own stories. We debate character motivations and discuss sequel possibilities. We read relationships between characters that aren't explicitly stated. We write fanfiction to extend the story or to bring it more in line with our understanding of the world or to simply make it something we want it to be at the moment. Even if we never talk about it, though, on some level we all put part of ourselves into the movies we watch. It probably goes without saying that the more a film gives in terms of quality and craftsmanship, the more likely we are to become involved. That's just the nature of art.

Tune in later this week (after I see the movie again, probably) as I look at Inception's scarier areas of dreaming/cinema. 

52 Perfect Movies: Dr. Strangelove (1964)

"Gentlemen, you can't fight in here--this is the war room!"

It is rare to find a director with as awe-inspiring a body of work as Stanley Kubrick. Certainly, part of his highly successful "batting average" is due to the relatively small number of films he made--but much more so, it's due to his sheer genius, and the rare manner in which he voraciously and uncompromisingly brought his visions to life on the screen. There are a few Kubrick pictures which will be popping up during this series of 52 Perfect Movies--the first of them is his sublime political and social satire, Dr. Strangelove.

Kubrick would become known as a film-maker of gravity and intense seriousness, and yet here we have him delving into comedy, albeit comedy as black as coal, much like his previous effort of two years earlier, an adaptation of Nabakov's Lolita. And so we are left with a comedy as only the mind of Kubrick could've given us, wickedly funny, yet unrelentingly bleak; a "message film" concerned deeply with the fate of the world itself, yet also with the foibles of human nature, that manages to remain the complete opposite of preachy or self-righteous.

There really is no other film like Dr. Strangelove. Impossible to completely categorize, it is at times an all-out comedy--or more appropriately, a satire--which for much of the picture, doesn't "feel" like a comedy. With the exception of the appearance of the good doctor himself at the end--an example of Peter Sellers' brilliant physical comedy--much of the humor is slyly cloaked, and can even partly go over the head of some, shall we say, less astute filmgoers.

There's also the fact that it doesn't look like a comedy. Like most of Kubrick's work, it's heavy and ponderous looking, shot with stark shadows and sterile, almost dehumanizing production design. No one since Orson Welles knew how to use a camera as brilliantly to his advantage as Kubrick did, although in this particular case much of the credit goes to cinematographer Gilbert Taylor, the Englishman who would later work on such masterfully shot films as A Hard Day's Night, Repulsion, The Omen, and a little 1977 popcorn flick known as Star Wars.

In a lot of ways, Dr. Strangelove shows Kubrick really coming into what would be perceived as his "later" phase, in which his films are concerned with nothing so much as the alienation of the human soul, and the slow-burning anxiety of a seemingly perfectly balanced situation sent hopelessly and inevitably off-kilter. This was during the heart of the Cold War, when, despite how things turned out, many did earnestly believe that the world lay constantly on the brink of annihilation, and perhaps this was so. There's a real concern with this matter in Dr. Strangelove, underneath all that ludicrousness. As wry as the presentation is, and as bone dry the comedy is, the heart of this picture is quite serious.

Kubrick's flair for unforgettable imagery and jarring juxtaposition is here in full force. The sexualized mid-air refueling scene that opens the film, accompanied by romantic strings. The maniacal visage of Sterling Haydn's Gen. Jack Ripper, phallic cigar clenched in his teeth. Slim Pickens' iconic ride on the nuclear warhead. The closing moments of atomic Armageddon, set sardonically to the strains of the traditional wartime anthem "We'll Meet Again" by Vera Lynn. No one will ever meet again, because the world is coming to an end--that closing tune mocks the manner in which the Western world clung to outdated concepts of warfare in a time when those rules no longer applied.

And yet just as much as Dr. Strangelove is a triumph from a technical point of view, it is one of those films that is also just as much of a triumph thanks to the stellar performances of its lead actors. George C. Scott is a revelation as the war-mongering Gen. Buck Turgidson (one of the greatest character names in movie history), a role that put the gruff actor's abilities to exquisite use. Haydn takes us to the depths of madness while at the same time never undermining the ridiculousness of the proceedings, painting the portrait of a deranged, potentially genocidal lunatic who would wipe out civilization to quell the paranoia and doubt raised by his impotence as a man and as a leader.

Then of course, we have Peter Sellers. One of the greatest comic geniuses of the 20th century in what may be, when all is said and done, the most impressive cinematic turn of his career. He was rightfully nominated for an Oscar for playing three different roles, giving him the interesting distinction of being the only actor so nominated for a movie in which he played more than one character.

As Group Capt. Lionel Mandrake, Sellers sends up British propriety and comments on the strained behind-the-scenes alliance of the U.S. and the U.K. in the face of a common enemy. As President Merkin Muffley, he is the epitome of the stifled, emotionally deadened American, a man whose ineptitude becomes both situation comedy and horrifying cultural commentary. And finally, as Strangelove himself, Sellers unabashedly displays his comedy chops as a crippled ex-Nazi desperately fighting to suppress his sheer ecstasy as the world collapses into chaos.

Any one of these parts would have made him the highlight of the picture. With all three, the movie is utterly and wholly his, and it's easy to see why he was a Kubrick favorite. It doesn't make sense somehow that Kubrick and Sellers would be such a perfect match, but it's undeniable that they were.

The razor sharp wit of Dr. Strangelove is rooted in a specific time and place in American history, and yet it's still paradoxically timeless as well. There are moments that resonate just as profoundly as they did 45 years ago, such as Turgidson's outrageous and often-mimicked tirade in the war room, Ripper's deluded rant to a terrified and helpless Mandrake about "precious bodily fluids", or Merkin's panicked, creepily childish yet at the same hilarious phone call to the Soviet premier.

Dr. Strangelove is a bold statement that cinema was changing and that the things film-makers could say--and the ways in which they could say them--was changing as well. To watch it is to watch a true visionary coming into his own, and proving that sometimes there actually can be something new under the sun. There are few experiences for a moviegoer as unique as this film, a complex, dark and endlessly amusing statement on the insanity of the world and its inhabitants that seems to tell us, "If you can't laugh at all of it, what else can you do?"

NEXT UP: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967)

The Great Unwatched: Bava, Argento, Cronenberg

There are two goals to my Great Unwatched project. The first is to see some films that I might not otherwise give the time of day to. The second is to finally experience movies I should've watched a long, long time ago. This weekend, I focused especially on the latter goal, filling in gaps in the filmographies of three of my favorite horror directors: Mario Bava, Dario Argento, and David Cronenberg. I even made a special effort to watch some of their non-horror offerings mixed in with the usual fright flicks.

Film 1: Hercules in the Haunted World (1961, Mario Bava)
Bava's second (credited) turn as director is a fascinating tale of swords 'n' sandals with a bit of Christopher Lee thrown into the mix. Hercules (Reg Park) journeys to Hades to retrieve a mystical stone that will save the life of his lady love, Princess Deianira. What our musclebound hero doesn't know is that his girlfriend's wicked uncle (Lee) is machinating to use Deianira's blood in a ritual to make him immortal. Hercules in the Haunted World was Bava's first opportunity to show what he could do with color and he really wows. The scenes of hell in particular show his visual mastery. Reportedly Bava used a few movable walls and a handful of columns to form every interior set in this film, resorting to visual trickery when he needed it to look like he had more. He creates an expressionistic peplum film, which works best when taken as a visual feast hung on a loose plot.

Film 2: Erik the Conqueror (1961, Mario Bava) 
An unofficial remake of Richard Fleischer's The Vikings (1958), Erik the Conqueror (also known as The Invaders) tells the tale of two Viking brothers, separated as children when their village on the coast of England is pillaged by the vicious Sir Rutford (Andrea Checci). Eron (Cameron Mitchell) is raised by his Nordic brethren. Erik (George Ardisson) is adopted by the Queen Alice of Scotland (or Britain, depending on whether you're watching the movie dubbed or subtitled) and grows up to become the Duke of Helford.


What struck me about Erik the Conqueror was the care taken that neither Viking or English were portrayed as villainous or unsympathetic. Both sides are caught in the cycle of violence known as history, occasionally manipulated by Sir Rutford to achieve his own ends. Certainly the Vikings are portrayed as more brutish and violently-inclined, but they're also largely honorable, honest people. The English are more cultured, but they are given to subterfuge and, in the case of Sir Rutford, outright treachery. 

The best sequences, visually, take place in the Viking's headquarters, a large cave where Bava's colored gels run wild. The centerpiece of the set is the giant gnarled tree from Hercules in the Haunted World, which looks magnificent in this new context.

Overall, however, the film isn't that interesting, unless you're really into vikings.

Film 3: Fast Company (1979, David Cronenberg)
It's certainly possible to read a lot of Cronenberg's prevalent themes into Fast Company, most notably the intersection of man and technology and the betrayals of corporate America. However, I think it misses the point to a certain extent. This is Cronenberg working in established drive-in fodder territory for the first and only time in his career. He sticks pretty cleanly to the rules by providing a story with clear heroes and villains, plus the requisite amounts of sex and action. William Smith plays Lonnie "Lucky Man" Johnson, a race car driver in his twilight, doing the drag race circuit under the sponsorship of FastCo Oil. When FastCo betrays him (through their corporate liaison Phil Adamson, played by John Saxon), he strikes out on his own. Adamson uses every trick in his book to make sure Lonnie's cars never reach the finish line. Fast Company is slow-moving (ironically) and takes forever to get around to its central conflict. Cronenberg really only breaks out of the mold during a surprisingly brutal climax that kills off two characters and seriously injures a third.

Film 4: Inferno (1980, Dario Argento)
I still don't know what I feel about this one. Certainly it's the most beautiful Argento film I've ever seen. However, the plot is a huge wad of happenstance, with very little rhyme or reason. In some places it seems to want to emulate the structure of its predecessor, Suspiria, but it lacks a character like Susie Banyon for us to relate to. I'll admit that I was already starting to get a little burned out at this point in my marathon, so I might not have given Inferno the due it deserves. Next time I watch, I'll do it properly -- well-rested, with all the lights out, and the soundtrack up loud. Until then, I can't really give a strong opinion one way or the other.

As a bonus to my general theme, however, Mario Bava did some uncredited effects work for the New York segments of the film.

Film 5: Rabid (1977, David Cronenberg)
Rabid is much more in line with Cronenberg's general oeuvre. Marilyn Chambers emerges from experimental surgery with a retractable phallus in her armpit and a craving for blood. Those who she feeds from become blood-crazed zombies. Cronenberg expands on the themes he first posited in Shivers, with disease as a catalyst for societal breakdown. Moving outside the confines of a single apartment building into the city of Montreal, Cronenberg is able to analyze government and public responses to an outbreak of irrationality. Meanwhile, on a parallel track, Chambers is just trying to survive, oblivious to the effect her feeding has on her victims (and her victims' victims). Unfortunately, Cronenberg never manages to blend the external outbreak narrative with the internal vampire one, so the film gets narratively and thematically confused at times. Cronenberg would do better in later films by keeping his focus on a single character navigating through the chaos, as in Videodrome.

Film 6: Phenomena (1985, Dario Argento)
Not a lot to say about this one, except that it was the last film of the night and it didn't do much to grab hold of my already shaky attention. As a sidenote, at some point I may write an article tracking Argento's treatment of Daria Nicolodi's characters throughout their collaborations, as it does seem he gets more brutal with her after they broke off their romantic relationship.

My original plan, incidentally, had been to watch Four Flies on Grey Velvet, but my bootleg (purchased before Mya Communication announced their official DVD) was nearly unwatchable. Very disappointing.

52 Perfect Movies: Psycho (1960)

"We all go a little mad sometimes..."

Where does one begin in talking about Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, one of those watershed motion pictures that can literally be said to have helped change the course of the development of movies as we know them? Here is a film that has been studied, analyzed and digested over the course of decades of scholarly attention and fan obsession, and anything I say to praise its greatness has doubtless already been said many a time. But truly, if there are any titles that a series called "52 Perfect Movies" immediately conjures up, Psycho has to be on the short list. The perfect blending of commerce and art, it represents the greatest heights to which popular entertainment can aspire.

At the time Psycho was made, the Hollywood film industry was at something of a crossroads. The "golden age" of the silver screen was coming to a close. Studios were rapidly losing their power, and the directors (and to a certain degree, the actors), were gaining more creative control. The often draconian hold of the censorious Hays Production Code limiting what film-makers could put on screen, was starting to lose its grip--a process that would continue over the course of the 1960s. It was the perfect time for a film like Psycho to come along.

Psycho wasn't the first of what we'd call "modern thrillers", having been preceded by pictures such as the French triumph Les Diaboliques, but what it did was popularize the concept amongst mainstream American audiences. It was something of a departure for Hitchcock, who, since coming to Hollywood, had become known for sumptuous, full-color "event movies". This time out, he went back to basics, stripping everything down to the bare bones, for a lean, mean, suspense machine of a movie that never stops being endlessly fascinating and never fails to work on every single level, a half century after the initial shock of its famous surprise ending has worn off.

This is the kind of film that the word "timeless" was meant to describe. Literally from the opening shot, we are drawn into this ominous, brooding, somewhat seamy world of adultery, larceny, intrigue and God knows what else. Janet Leigh is perfect as the sultry, flawed and yet charismatic Marion Crane, a main character we come to identify with only to witness brutally murdered not yet halfway into the picture--surely one of the boldest narrative maneuvers ever attempted in American cinema up to that point in time.

Her murderer, although we do not know it at that time, is the deranged Norman Bates, played with boyish charm and naivete by a young Anthony Perkins, whose performance was inexplicably denied the Oscar nomination with which Leigh's was recognized. Nevertheless, he is note-perfect as the stammering, seemingly harmless Bates, caught in the ultimate Oedipal struggle with his off-screen "mother"--it's easy to see how 1960 audiences would've been totally caught off guard upon discovering the true nature of that relationship.

And speaking of that, Psycho was particularly groundbreaking in its relatively frank approach to sexually charged subject matter. Remember, this was still a relatively culturally conservative time in American pop culture (to give you an idea, Psycho is the first American film to depict a flushing toilet bowl), and so Norman's cross-dressing, not to mention Marion's nudity during the shower scene, was pretty heady stuff.

It's that shower scene, naturally, that everyone still talks about to this day when discussing this unquestioned classic. A masterpiece of editing, sound design and photography, many have called it the finest scene ever put to celluloid, and it's tough to argue that. One of the most amazing things about it is that anyone who sees it, especially for the first time, will swear they saw way more skin and blood than they actually did--they may even claim to have seen the knife penetrate Marion's flesh, which we never do. That's powerful film-making.

That scene, and so many others in Psycho, would have lost so much of its impact were it not for what may be the most famous film score of all time, composed by Hitchcock veteran Bernard Herrmann. In an era of sweeping studio orchestral pieces, Herrmann chose to go with a small, all-strings ensemble, a relatively unheard of approach that would later become much more popular thanks to its success in Psycho. Not only the unforgettable staccato sounds of the shower scene cue, but every single cue in the film is burned into the consciousness of film lovers the world over. For my money, only the work of Sergio Leone rivals it in terms of combining such high levels of both originality and pure skill.

Films would be different after Psycho, particularly those films meant to scare, upset or disturb us. No longer would monsters and other supernatural things that go bump in the night be the primary tools of those purveyors of cinematic terror. Rather, Hitchcock proved in his brilliant adaptation of Robert Bloch's novel, that the most fearsome monster of all is the human mind itself, and it could be the one residing in the person living right next door to us. This became the message of modern horror: The monsters are us.

Hitchcock was known for his uncompromising perfectionism, and perhaps nowhere does it come across so powerfully as in Psycho. Making the most of a streamlined production crew assembled from the staff of his TV show, Hitch's fingerprints are on every single one of the great John L. Russell's breathtaking shots, in the almost palpable lighting that reminds us over and over again why this film had to be made in black and white, despite the industry's transitioning to color at the time. Nearly every line of Joseph Stefano's script has become an iconic quote, not just those given to Perkins and Leigh but also to outstanding supporting players like Martin Balsam as the hard-boiled Det. Arbogast, and Vera Miles as Marion's bereaved sister Lila.

Perhaps the finest intersection of art film and pop culture, Psycho has truly stood the test of time, and remains that one movie that film students most relish digging into. This is not some moldy "classic" forced upon younger generations by preachy academics--this is a living, breathing masterpiece, and a joy to experience over and over again.

For more, please check out The Vault of Horror's ongoing series, "Psycho Semi-Centennial"!

NEXT UP: Dr. Strangelove (1964)

Non-Movie Things

After the antics that lead to this post, it's been maddeningly difficult to sit down and watch a movie properly, even moreso to write about one coherently. It's a long story, but the end result is that my apartment is in disarray and all of my DVDs and books are boxed up in a haphazard fashion. For a guy used to having his movies organized by year of release, it's a painful situation, but I have ways of dealing.

For one thing, my wife and I have been going through Babylon 5 at a breakneck pace. We started just three weeks ago and we're already a couple of episodes into Season 4. This is epic, epic storytelling. I am shocked at the breadth and depth of it. This is what Lost could have been if they'd really had a plan (so far, the Vorlon vs. Shadows philosophical debate is already more intriguing than Jacob vs. the Man in Black). Don't get me wrong. I love Lost. But I am head-over-heels gaga for Babylon 5. J. Michael Straczynski gives me the kind of characters I can follow mixed with the epic "sweep-of-history" mythos I can't resist. Sure there have been a few individual clunkers here and there (especially in the occasionally dodgy first season), but overall? Masterpiece. So far. I'll let you know if my tune changes once I've finished.

When not plopped in front of the television, I've been consuming Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, usually on my train rides to and from work. I picked it up because I'm a fan of the Hitchcock movie. The book is kind of a ghost story minus ghost, a haunted house story without a haunting. One young wife, uncertain of her place in her new husband's life, finds herself pitted against the memory of his first wife, Rebecca. du Maurier's descriptions of Mrs. Danvers, Rebecca's devoted maid, are particularly striking in their horror imagery and all the more evocative for it.

Anyway, I'll be at Madcap Theaters in Tempe, AZ this Saturday for their 12-hour movie marathon (assuming it goes off -- they still need a few more people to buy tickets in order to make the event cost-effective). I'll let you know how it goes.

52 Perfect Movies: Witness for the Prosecution (1957)

"If you were a woman, Miss Plimsoll, I would strike you."

After making a film as perfect as Sunset Blvd. in 1950, many directors would have found themselves on that inevitable downward slide, forever trying to match the greatness of their earlier masterpiece. Not so with Billy Wilder. Not only did he continue to make such remarkable films as The Apartment and Some Like It Hot, but in 1957 he nearly equaled his 1950 achievement with a movie that has stood the test of time like few others: Witness for the Prosecution.

I first came into contact with this film thanks to a high school social sciences class which required us to watch it. Imagine a roomful of rowdy teenage boys (ah, Catholic school), sarcastically skeptical that this movie had anything to offer them, only to find themselves entranced by the drama and laughing at the comedy within minutes. This movie is entertainment at its most fascinating, a brilliantly acted, unflaggingly witty whodunit that just may be the finest courtroom drama of them all.

Years later, I had the pleasure of seeing Witness for the Prosecution on the big screen, presented by none other than Gene Wilder (no relation), who cited the film as one of his favorites, and one of his greatest influences. It might seem odd that a comic writer and actor would be so inspired by a courtroom potboiler, but this film is so much more than that.

Based on an original play by the queen of parlor mystery herself, Agatha Christie, the story was expertly adapted by early TV writer Larry Marcus, with the aid of Wilder and successful playwright/screenwriter Harry Kurnitz into a taut, brilliant script that alternates deftly between suspense and intrigue on the one hand, and whimsical comedy and wordplay on the other. It's quite an achievement, made even more impressive, as all movies are, when viewed in its proper setting.

Charles Laughton is magnificent as the stodgy-yet-irreverent Sir Wilfrid Robarts, the celebrated attorney who takes on the case of a young man, played by consummate movie star Tyrone Power, accused of murdering a rich, middle-aged widow. The plot thickens when his war bride, played by the devastatingly sultry Marlene Dietrich, is called as, you guessed it, a witness for the prosecution. But even that is grossly oversimplifying things--this movie is packed with twists and turns that need to be seen to be appreciated. And even though some of them may have become trite or cliche with the passage of time, they're done with such style that it doesn't matter.

Laughton's razor-sharp back-and-forth dialogue with real-life wife Elsa Lanchester, who plays his nurse, is nothing short of amazing (as an aside, I always found it amusing that the Hunchback of Notre Dame married the Bride of Frankenstein...) You see, Sir Wilfrid has recently suffered a heart attack, and isn't even supposed to be taking on such grave cases due to his health. It's his nurse, Miss Plimsoll, who is charged with the thankless task of keeping him healthy, which means doing none of the things he enjoys, ie. drinking, smoking and taking on murder cases.

As much as this is a courtroom drama, and a very effective one at that, I can't stress enough how it's comic elements are just as entertaining, thanks in large part to the obvious chemistry between Laughton and Lanchester. Dietrich is movie magic as always, a figure of towering charisma who doesn't even have to speak to steal a scene. Power can't be blamed for being no more than a good-looking prop, as his character is merely a device to set the other characters in motion around him. His arc pays off big-time in the film's big "gotcha" ending--which I won't spoil here for those who have yet to experience it.

Over the years, and even in its own time, people have mistaken Witness for the Prosection for an Alfred Hitchcock film, which is truly a testament to the effortless manner in which Wilder takes to the material, even mixing suspense and comedy just as effectively as Hitch himself did so many times. This was probably the "heaviest" film Wilder had taken since Sunset Blvd., and it really says so much about his chameleon-like quality--so common in Hollywood directors of the golden age--that he was able to seamlessly transition from stuff like The Seven-Year Itch, to a movie like this.

By the time this movie came out, the courtroom drama was already a tried-and-true staple of motion pictures, and yet Witness for the Prosecution added so much to the genre, and set the standard for many more films to come. This can be attributed in equal parts to Christie, giant of the mystery milieu that she was; Wilder, the man who made it work so well without seeming like a "filmed play"; and the supreme efforts of a brilliant cast, highlighted by Laughton, one of the true craftsmen of his time.

In a sense, Laughton was ahead of his time--a character actor able to headline a film. Nobody bats an eye nowadays to see guys like Robert DeNiro, Dustin Hoffman and Jack Nicholson--who are essentially character actors--headlining their own movies, but in the age of the handsome leading man, it was far more unusual. Only Laughton, one of the most underrated film actors who ever lived, could have pulled off Quasimodo, Capt. Bligh and Sir Wilfrid Robarts. And despite the presence of Power in Witness for the Prosecution, there is never any doubt that this is Laughton's movie. His performance truly makes this one of cinema's most satisfying experiences.

NEXT UP: Psycho (1960)

52 Perfect Movies: 12 Angry Men (1957)

"Do you think you were born with a monopoly on the truth?"

There are many great ensemble dramas in the history of film. And then there is the great ensemble drama, which may very well be Sidney Lumet's 12 Angry Men. Adapted from a TV movie, this superb motion picture collects some of the finest actors of their own and any other generation, puts them in a room together for an hour and a half, and the result is absolute gold.

Let's have a look at the unbelievable assemblage of talent on display here. The gruff and cynical Jack Warden; the beguiling and childlike John Fiedler; the menacing and pompous Lee J. Cobb; the very young and unassuming Jack Klugman; the understated yet riveting Ed Begley; the regal and commanding E.G. Marshall. And of course, the beloved everyman himself, Henry Fonda as the central figure on the jury. And that's not even covering all 12 of the angry men!

To call this a dream cast would be the understatement of the century. This is the kind of a cast a director would kill to have working for him--a room full of unparalleled pros who take the already excellent material written by Manhattanite wordsmith Reginald Rose, and weave it into a tapestry of such sublime interaction, that the viewer is caught up in every nuance of the 90-minute conversation, from beginning to end.

How ironic that such an impeccable gathering of gifted actors would be brought together for first-time film director Sidney Lumet. Up to that point strictly a TV guy, Lumet was a hot young prospect at the time, and the homerun he hit out of the park with this Oscar nominee opened the door to an illustrious career that included such pictures as Long Day's Journey Into Night, The Pawnbroker, Serpico, Murder on the Orient Express, Dog Day Afternoon, Network, The Verdict, A Stranger Among Us, and Before the Devil Knows Your Dead.

Here, the 32-year-old auteur certainly has an advantage in a cast of gentlemen who could not give a bad performance if their lives depended on it. Naturally, it would be unfair to say that even a lesser director could've pulled off a classic given the material and the participants. Lumet was responsible for bringing it all together into a coherent whole, and he does so with the masterful confidence of a veteran, flawlessly staging the nearly claustrophobic goings-on with the help of Russian cinematographer Boris Kaufman, ratcheting up the tension higher and higher with the skill of an orchestra conductor.

12 Angry Men was a standout film in a sweeping sub-genre of "message" movies that Hollywood cranked out during the post-war '50s, somewhat liberal-minded pieces (which no doubt rankled the McCarthyites running roughshod with their red-baiting antics at the time) that fed into America's genuine desire to behave as the high-minded purveyor of principle its citizens considered it to be. And while this may not have always realistically been the case, it was an ideal that was genuinely striven for, and films such as Stanley Kramer's Inherit the Wind and 12 Angry Men are prime examples of its expression in film.

This is a film about ideas, that isn't afraid to hash them out in depth and with very little in the way of "action". The action here is in the dialogue, in the interplay of the characters, and in the development of their differing opinions over the course of the plot. It's a very thoughtful film, but manages to engage viewers of each ensuing generation, continuing to be amongst the most popular of all "pre-modern" motion pictures, owing most likely to the intensity and authenticity of the performances.

Fonda's wide-eyed innocence is here put to its best use since his younger days in films like The Grapes of Wrath. He is the film's moral center, the one we're supposed to identify with. The film revolves around his own moral journey, his search for the truth amidst a room of fellow human beings who range from tentatively fair-minded, to apathetic, to downright hostile.

In opposition to him is the bigoted, loud-mouthed Cobb, at his very best here playing the part of a man whom we may vehemently disagree with, whom we may see for the dangerous ignoramus he is, yet whom we still identify with as a human being. Most importantly, he is still written and acted as a whole person with motivations and ideas, and not just a cartoon character. This is a testament to the greatness of 12 Angry Men.

To do justice to the rest of the performances would take a series of posts like this one. Suffice it to say that each man in that room distinguishes himself at one point or another in the film--whether it be a handful of key moments, or a consistent presence throughout the film. Whether it be Warden's flippant comic relief, Fiedler's earnestness, or the meek charm of George Voskovec, there is so much here to be thoroughly enjoyed.

12 Angry Men is a movie about truth, and about the natural instinct of people to seek it out, within themselves and others. It's a movie about justice, and whether or not it can exist within the American legal system. It's a film that's high-minded without being heavy-handed, and packed with drama despite the fact that its characters never leave the deliberation room. They say that small people talk about people, average people talk about things, and great people talk about ideas. The same can be said of movies. And 12 Angry Men is one of the latter.

NEXT UP: Witness for the Prosecution (1957)

One of those Good News, Bad News Situations

Bad: Getting a call from your apartment complex that your apartment might be flooded.

Good: Finding out that it's just a little bit of water leakage (and you don't have carpeting anyway).

Bad: The most significant damage is to your Creature from the Black Lagoon mini-poster, which is probably the first monster movie memorabilia you bought with your own money.

Amusing as Hell: The damage is that the plastic casing has filled with water, so the Gillman looks like he really is swimming (and oddly enough, the poster hasn't fallen off the wall).

Phoenix Comicon Schedule

Hey folks, Nate here. Just a quick post to let you know that I'll be on a couple of panels at Phoenix Comicon this weekend.

Thursday:

Not Another Remake! (Room 152, 8-9PM) -- Join Arizona's top Horror Film aficionados for a spirited discussion of the pros and cons of the Horror Film movement of remakes. Hot on the release of the "Nightmare on Elm Street" remake, the discourse is sure to be lively! Why so many remakes? Panelists: Danny Marianino, Nate Yapp, Jeff Dolniak, David Hayes

Saturday:

Japanese Monster Invasion (Room 153, 9-10PM) -- AZ's top Japanese Monster "Kaiju" experts examine the cross cultural phenomenon entrancing fans for years. From Godzilla and beyond and from the rise of the Kaiju in its earliest incantations to modern day interpretations. Panelists: Damon Foster, Nate Yapp.

The convention is taking place at the Phoenix Convention Center and memberships are still available at the Phoenix Comicon website. Hope to see some of you there!

52 Perfect Movies: The Wrong Man (1956)

"In the past, I have given you many kinds of suspense pictures. But this time, I would like you to see a different one."

Alfred Hitchcock is known primarily for his thrillers and suspense films, but this is a very different kind of Hitchcock film--which stands out as one of his very best, both for its distinction from much of the rest of the director's body of work, and also by virtue of being a damn fine motion picture.

Sure, The Wrong Man builds an almost unbearable amount of suspense, but in a very different way from many of Hitchcock's other works. This time around, the director tells the real-life story of Manny Ballestrero, a Stork Club musician and mild-mannered family man mistakenly sent to prison for a crime he didn't commit. The majority of the powerful tension created here derives from the fact that we know Ballestrero is innocent, and are powerless to do anything but watch as he gets trapped tighter and tighter in a net of bad luck and circumstantial evidence.

But it's because of the magnificent performance of Henry Fonda that this whole ploy on Hitchcock's part works. The movie's ultimate good guy (well, until Once Upon a Time in the West), Fonda has boatloads of pathos in the role of the put-upon and unflappably virtuous Ballestrero, and we can't help but feel for the guy as things go from bad, to worse, to far, far worse. It's also a credit to both Hitchcock's direction, and the screenplay by Maxwell Anderson & Angus MacPhail, that somehow Ballestrero continues to act inadvertently as if he were guilty, even though he is not.

This character nuance rings true, and lends an air of realism to the proceedings. It also generates tremendous frustration, as the viewer takes in the worsening plight of the protagonist, mistaken for a stick-up man from a prior bank robbery, all the while agonizingly hoping someone will give him a break. Anderson, writer of such classic films as All Quiet on the Western Front, Death Takes a Holiday and The Lives of a Bengal Lancer, as well as the original stage play of The Bad Seed, adapted the story from true events, and teamed with MacPhail--who had worked with Hitch a decade earlier on Spellbound--to create a maddeningly tense script worthy of the master of the nail-biters.

Joining Fonda is Vera Miles in the role of Manny's wife Rose. Also known to Hitchcock fans for playing sister to Janet Leigh in Psycho, Miles is utterly gripping in the role of a very flawed woman. Rather than play it all Hollywood, the film shows the true-life fallout of Ballestrero's plight and the effect it has on his spouse. Rose is a damaged character, and her arc, as brilliantly dramatized by Miles, is another testament to the unblinking realism of the picture. No easy way out here.

What I also enjoy about the film is its portrayal of ethnic Americans in a completely non-stereotypical fashion. Manny and Rose are Italian-Americans, and yet this is subtly downplayed throughout the picture, rather than played as some kind of broad character trait, whether for negative or positive effect. It's simply part of who they are, and only plays minimally into the story. When it does pop up, as with so much in the film, it rings completely true.

The movie is crisply shot by Robert Burks, Hitchcock's go-to man for much of the 1950s and '60s. Burks had shot Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder, Rear Window, To Catch a Thief and The Man Who Knew Too Much prior to this, so he clearly had no trouble interpreting what his director wanted. And clearly his director was pleased, as he would go on to use him for Vertigo, North by Northwest, The Birds and Marnie.

Bernard Herrmann, another Hitchcock stalwart, turns in a stellar score, less string-heavy and more jazzy to reflect Ballestrero's profession. It's a blaring, jarring, yet also beautiful piece of music, perfectly accompanying Manny's trials and tribulations, and even foreshadowing what Herrmann would bring to the table 20 years later for his final film, Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver.

Take Henry Fonda, one of the most beloved and well-liked actors of all time, team him with the man many consider the finest director of all time, and what you get is a film that is both touching and raw, suspenseful without being sensational. It deals with decent, everyday people, in very trying situations, all the more powerful because it really happened.

The Wrong Man is a film that is often overshadowed by Hitchcock's more sweeping, larger than life movies, or his more stylish, lurid and sexy potboilers. But it's one that should be sought out by film lovers, especially lovers of crime drama and post-World War II era cinema in general. And certainly by fans of Alfred Hitchcock, who thought enough of the picture to open it with a personal introduction.

NEXT UP: 12 Angry Men (1957)