3. Season of the Witch

George Romero's 1972 Season of the Witch (a.k.a. Hungry Wives or Jack's Wife), like his previous film Night of the Living Dead, isn't afraid to mix social questions with regular ol' horror. The film is really interested in the terror of the feminine mystique, the fear inherent in a feeling of being both trapped in the home, and vulnerable to outside sexual attack. I loved the story and found the general atmosphere and mise en scene fantastic; I would say the film's only weakness is Joan Mitchell, the star; her permanently pursed lips and weirdly empty gaze become quite annoying by the end of the film. But she is hotter than her daughter. And clearly a talented witch. I suppose enough boredom leads to the possibility of a huge release of "energy." 

2. The Descent

The Descent is a 2005 film from director Neil Marshall, a horror film in the tradition, though a few interesting changes. For example, the film stars six women; the group dynamic doesn't rely on gender roles, a semi-unique move, particularly in such an athletically demanding situation. And the six women appear to be in the their thirties, possibly even very early forties - though they are all wonderfully physically fit, sexy and "single," their age complicates these characteristics. Why are they all still alone? What's the deal, are they too hooked on the gym to make new friends, of any gender? Of course, the film features the token lesbian character, the first to be seriously wounded, and the sad blondie, the first to almost die. But the evil creatures in the caves are actually pretty cool; they're scientifically possible, if you think about. Primeval humanoids who have adapted to their underground habitat. Hey, there's even a "mother" creature! I jumped, I laughed, I loved it. A rare find among recent horror films. 

1. The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane

The 1973 film The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane, directed by Nicolas Gessner, stars a shockingly young Jodie Foster (released the same year as Taxi Driver). The film was categorized as "horror," though the dead bodies in the cellar don't quite add up to that conclusion. It's much more a thriller. Though I wasn't "scared" in the traditional sense, I was thoroughly frightened by Martin Sheen's character's threats to the "little girl," thirteen years old, with "such pretty hair." What a creep! This has meaning not only as the warning of the evil side of living alone as a child - that protecting yourself becomes a daily task, particularly when a pedophile lives nearby, whose mother "owns" the village. The further significance lies in the uncomfortable sexualization of such a young person; Jodie Foster just debuted as a fourteen-year-old prostitute that Robert DeNiro falls complicatedly in love with - is he a father figure, or a lover? Can he say for sure? Similarly this film frightens with the older man's perverse desire for Rynn, but glorifies the young, awkward sexuality Rynn shares with Mario. So it's okay, simply because the guy is only a couple years older? Like I said, uncomfortable. However, it's a sweet, strange film. I dig it. 

 

31 days of Halloween

Well, I suppose it's not an entirely "original" plan. But I've decided to set a little project for myself: seeing 31 horror films throughout the month of October - not necessarily one per day, as it's already too late to make that kind of commitment, and it would require acquiring a film everyday - not necessarily a viable option. So, I will begin recording today, though I will include films I saw on previous days. "Horror" encompasses anything intense and/or frightening (to help me reach the goal, of course). 

Perhaps I'm too lazy for this after all.

Lo Sceicco bianco, 1957

Federico Fellini

I've had a busy week...

The Godfather

Francis Ford Coppola, 

1972

The Godfather, Part II

Francis Ford Coppola, 1974

Sweet Movie

Dusan Makavejev, 1974

The Osterman Weekend

Sam Peckinpah, 1983

Alive

Frank Marshall, 1993

The Three Faces of Eve

The 1957 film The Three Faces of Eve, directed by Nunnally Johnson, is a relatively good film that demonstrates a degree of sensitivity toward the mentally ill not necessarily common in Hollywood. Joanne Woodward performs magnificently, but I found her more convincing as the psychiatrist in another, more powerful film about multiple personality disorder: Sybil, the 1976 TV movie starring Sally Field in an absolutely stunning performance. The difference in time periods can perhaps excuse the rather shallow, sensationalistic portrayal in Eve, whose personalities are caricatures of deviance or abnormality - except, of course, Jane, the personality that wins out in the end. The manner in which the movement between personalities is depicted is similarly unconvincing. Furthermore, the incident of rupture from Eve's childhood is revealed and wiped away rather quickly in the film, thereby failing to portray the psychological intensity of that defining moment. 

The most interesting moment of the film is perhaps the interaction between Eve Black and Ralph, Eve White's husband. He has just scolded his timid wife, only to face her "alter-ego" in full va-va-voom mode, attempting to seduce and control him as his own wife never had. What makes this such a thought-provoking sequence is its relevance for the general portrayal (and understanding?) of the power dynamics and personality performance between men and women who are romantically or sexually involved. At first, Ralph is threatened and angered by this forward, barely-clothed woman whose make-up nearly hides her other personality; however, he is soon drawn to her, and consents to buy her things in order to bring her home - and to his bed. Of course, the control dynamic remains as it was as soon as they are home again. This instance also relates to an interesting aspect of the film, in that for most of its duration, as the audience is allowed to see, Eve's personality disorder seems to be perhaps an expression of repressed disappointment and boredom in the face of her controlling husband and banal domesticity. A risky move, to be sure.

WR: Mysteries of the Organism

The October, 1971 film WR: Mysteries of the Organism by Yugoslavian director Dusan Makavejev, borrows from Eisenstein's technique to create a film part documentary, part fiction - that is, follows in the footsteps of his early-twentieth-century Soviet filmmakers, with an added degree of honesty. Each is staged; each is propaganda; yet WR has the audacity and recognizes the benefit to increased forthrightness with the viewer. Unlike Godard's films of the era (as Jonathan Rosenbaum mentions in his essay), Makavejev's polemic admits to being just that - and transcends. Beautifully, I might add. I loved the film, and I felt challenged by it, and uncomfortable, and giddy, and moved. I'd like to read more about Wilhelm Reich and see more of Makavejev's films - and perhaps these are the signs of a certain kind of cinematic success: desire for more, questions left excitingly unanswered, introduced like opened doors, and the recognition that a new language and more time are required for the real exploration of such a film. 

Mr. Death

Errol Morris' documentary of 1999, Mr. Death, is subtitled The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. This subtitle has a great degree of significance; the film isn't truly about Leuchter's apparent "calling" as an "execution expert" or his strangeness, his queer fascination with the means of execution and the tale of a unique man; rather, it is the chronicle of an ordinary man, caught up in a familiar trap, and abandoned to oblivion. All those little additions to his name, the "A" and "Jr," the very length of the subtitle, these indicate the banality of the narration to follow - which isn't to say that the film is dull or boring, rather that its problems, motivations and subject are tragically mundane. Poor Fred. Not even Frederick. 

The film is lovely though not free of the rather "cute" touches that fill most of Morris' films. That the director of The Thin Blue Line and the First Person television series should allow, apparently relish, a ridiculously Midi soundtrack, and, just as in Fast Cheap and Out of Control, populate the film with useless little clips, is always a bit disappointing. The tale is there, the interviews are there; why is this preciousness necessary? Give the filmgoer a bit of credit.

Dog Day Afternoon

Sidney Lumet's 1975 Dog Day Afternoon provides a number of tremendous performances from the various actors, most notably a startlingly unwrinkled Al Pacino and the perhaps under-appreciated Chris Sarandon. One of the more moving moments in the film is exemplified by the look on Pacino's face and the proceeding change of general countenance when what Leon's saying - that he's terrified of Sonny, and doesn't want to be with him, and will become a woman without him - finally penetrates Sonny's wall of tension and violence and reaches understanding, and heartbreak. 

Afternoon refuses to make itself easily consumable for the viewer. What was Sonny's life like, how could he have maintained these two marriages and exploded into bank robbery, how and when did he discover his own homosexuality, how did the war effect him? What about Sal - clearly a product of Vietnam and a lacking education, why did the FBI kill him so immediately, so cleanly and easily, yet preserve Sonny? Why didn't Sonny and Sal commit suicide, when Sonny could clearly see what awaited him at the terminal? The film is two hours long, and takes place over a single afternoon and evening, yet it seems like the sped-up implosion of the little universe surrounding one man torn between his own various selves. Tragic. 

The Bridge on the River Kwai

David Lean's 1957 The Bridge on the River Kwai is a real masterpiece, an example of responsible filmmaking done with a true artistic sensibility and realized in a beautiful, beautiful cinematic work. Gush, gush, gush. I left the theater in a state of glee. All this, despite having fallen asleep twice during the first hour (I'd worked all day after about 5 hours of sleep) and failing to recognize the significance of so much of the film until having left the Forum. 

The film's irony works, I think, as a powerful anti-war message. The opening and closing images are of birds before a blue sky - perhaps of symbolic significance, but also allegorical in that the bridge does not fully exist at the beginning or the end of the film, and that nothing has changed - a few men, possibly great men, have died, but the war continues, the prisoners are shunted from labor camp to labor camp, things are built, other things are destroyed. Admit it. It's almost funny; it's "Madness" on a national scale, blindness beyond party or national lines, idiocy and obsession rewarded and punished by armies of men. 

Lawrence of Arabia

David Lean's 1962 film, Lawrence of Arabia, was an especially wonderful cinematic experience for me. Seeing one of the definitive epics on the big screen will surely stay with me for a long time. Whenever I've heard of a classic, or something described as one of the greatest, I build up an image in my mind of something dull, difficult, and tragic, an image always destroyed by the real. For example, I had no idea before reading it that Ulysses was a hilarious romp through the nastiest body parts and the most repressed animalistic desires, a difficult read without the pain of dullness. Lawrence of Arabia was similar for me in its many-splendored exploration of the ugliness within man, of something so unavoidable in the interaction between "power" and "man." I was immediately reminded of another great, great film, Elia Kazan's A Face in the Crowd, and a somewhat great film, P. T. Anderson's There Will Be Blood. Cinema is perhaps the best medium for the depiction of this particular aspect of humanity, of particular fascination for the western, imperially-minded artist. While these three films are the depiction of it, Apocalypse Now, for example, is the cinematic realization thereof. Stunning, massive, horrific and fantastic. Human corruption.

Of course, I can't help but make a few shallow remarks on the political difficulties of such a film. For example, Lawrence features not a single female character. I can recall two instances of any female presence: in the distance, black burkhas seated Indian-style on the cliffs, sounding the familiar war cry that Americans love to use to characterize the evil Arab; and, a murdered harem that moves El Orance to murder an injured train of Turks. And, can we apply a political reading to the film's overall plot? What are we to think of Lawrence's embrace of the so-called "Arab Revolt," its relationship to the colonial desires of the English and French politicians, and the Arabs' apparent worship of a white man in "black face"? For whatever reason, I resist reflection on such questions. 

Brief Encounter

David Lean's 1945 film Brief Encounter proves, again, to be a real masterpiece. The cinematography is clever without being cute; the intensity of the projection of Laura's subjectivity is accomplished smoothly and wonderfully with her narration and the overlay of images of her back as she reflects upon the unfolding scene, etc. The music is beautiful. The romance is palpable. The Englishness is ridiculous(ly realistic). We speculated on Celia Johnson's bird-like appearance, and the likelihood that she mainly performed in comedies or rarely at all - which seems to be, in fact, the case, according to the IMDb. Trevor Howard is amazingly gorgeous and suave. 

On this second viewing, I'm moved to reconsider my earlier interpretation of the film as a pure romance, heart-rending and sweet. The audience laughed at loud during the early moments of the film, which were indeed funny, though I kept thinking, "Can't they see that her heart is breaking?!" Their romance is indeed a bit banal and ridiculous - they "accomplish" so little, and her own fears that it was nothing, reflected in the title, seem indeed to be true. They are simply bored suburbanites in the midst of their routine who add the attraction of a whirlwind, illicit love affair to that same routine, with little change. Which isn't to discount the reality and passion of their love; the truth remains that in those days, saying "I love you" came before sex, quite the contrary today. 

The Omega Man

This 1971 adaptation of the Richard Matheson novella I Am Legend diverges greatly from the source. The 1964 version, The Last Man on Earth, starring Vincent Price, is, on the other hand, nearly a direct translation. And the earlier is definitely much better, despite its novelistic tendencies... The greatest change lies in the nature of the "plagued" citizens, who, rather than becoming vampires, are a race of people sensitive to the light and averse to the technological developments of modern man. Neville is no longer their enemy because he is human and food, but because he represents what the "Family" believes is the cause of their plight - progress. The Family also represent one of the film's greatest weaknesses in visual effectiveness and general lameness. 

The racial aspect is difficult to read; while Charlton Heston gets freaky with a hot black woman, she begins by calling him "the Man, literally" and "motha" and I believe I also heard the word "jive," never a good sign. Furthermore, she chooses to go white before the final rescue, in which Neville is left lying prone in a fountain, painfully obviously posed as the dying Christ. Earlier in the film, one of the surviving children asks Neville, "Are you God?" And he just looks at her and slowly turns away, not even denying it. Clearly, he IS the problem, not merely a survivor but a scientifically-minded antagonist to the cause of the albino people of the night. I fell asleep a couple of times. The couch was warm and soft... and the movie just wasn't that great.

Sins of the Fleshapoids, etc.

Every element of the three films featured on this DVD (Sins of the Fleshapoids, The Secret of Wendel Samson, and The Craven Sluck) was a complete surprise; I knew absolutely nothing about it, except that Netflix considered it a movie I would love. And I did. All three. I've since looked the Kuchar brothers up, finding the work absolutely divine, wondering: is there more that I can get my hands on? 

I'm not sure what to say; the three films are very different. The elements they share are an obviously-low budget, awkward/"bad" acting, script and plot, low-fi "special effects," and an interest in subversive sexuality. Sins was actually the least remarkable - though I must allow that it was the first of the three I watched, and was therefore a complete shock to my babied senses. My roommate and I were reminded of John Waters at times, as his films are also frequently interested in sex, drag, the disgusting, and apparently cheaply made. The envelope referred to the Kuchar brothers as the creators of "bargain basement cinema." If this is truly something beyond their films, I'm absolutely thrilled to have discovered it. I highly recommend... to some of my friends. 

Shoot the Piano Player

Francois Truffaut's 1960 Shoot the Piano Player is truly wonderful. The film inserts a degree of humanistic levity into the portrayal of rather heavy matters, without triteness or laughs - simply an honest, loving approach. Charles Azvenour is absolutely amazing, and the interior monologue is delicate and natural; how does Truffaut achieve this? The camera's constant self-consciousness, the constant presence of a milieu of references, and the persistent breath of a fresh breeze - really, how does he do it? I'm not even a particular fan of the director's work, yet there's truly something marvelous about this film's combined levity, movement and strength. Gush, gush, gush. 

As Sasha remarked, "They all end in the woods, in or near a cabin, but it works!" This is one of the effects, I believe, of a trope done well, of something familiar multiplied and enriched through some deeper exploration and conscious enjoyment or appreciation thereof. Why do they all end in the woods? I'm sure the greater response would have to do with the realization of true isolation as the result of being the outsider, the murderer, the petty thief; but maybe it's simply because there's something stunning about a woman's body rolling down a barren, snow-covered hill, or a man rapped in blankets aching for intimacy and warmth, or futilely moving figures against a pure  white backdrop. This film is so great because it refuses to give the easy or the typical difficult response. 

Don't Look Now

Nicholas Roeg's 1973 film Don't Look Now gives off a strong sensation of the eerie and the non-accidental; the story itself has its hiccups and inexplicable aspects, but it works, if only for the gloomy atmosphere of crumbling cathedrals, an ill-lit and murder-ridden Venice, and that bright red coat. Donald Sutherland is so under-appreciated - what an odd looking, fantastic guy. I found Julie Christie a bit grating at times, but I suppose that was at least partially intended. And I have to say, there's something so embarrassingly terrifying about a blind woman's cataract-eyes and an aging dwarf. Damn you, Nicholas Roeg. 

The form of the plot and its apparent priorities remind me of various of David Lynch's films, particularly Lost Highway, another film that appears to be about murder and terror, but is at heart the narrative of predicting one's own death as it approaches. David Eggars has a fascinating essay on the film, connecting it to Saul Bellow's early-twentieth-century story, "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," frightening and misleading in its own way. One could almost draw a timeline from the story, to Roeg, to Lynch, in delineating a sort of history of the meeting of the prognostication of death with the realization of its personal meaning and the actual death itself. This may give much away about the film. But I promise it doesn't "ruin" it. I have to mention how beautiful the cinematography, setting, etc. all are - the film is visually stunning.

Three Days of the Condor

Sydney Pollack's 1975 political anxiety thriller Three Days of the Condor was another enjoyable watch, with an interestingly brainy plot that folds in on itself. I can't help but remark upon how sexy Robert Redford was as a nervous, stubbly journalist-type with big glasses and a cigarette, a little frightening and innocent in appearance at once. The ever-lovely Faye Dunaway was, however, a bit of a disappointment; while the fault seems to lie mostly with the oddly flat and melodramatic script, one would hope for a better sex scene, much less the flirtations that ought to have led up to it. 

My most pressing inquiry would be, is there really such a branch of the CIA that reads spy novels and watches patterns of sale and translation in the hopes of catching some underground communication? And, is there a CIA within the CIA? The point remains, Max von Sydow is always awesome. 

Coma

Michael Crichton's 1978 medical thriller, Coma, based on a Robin Cook novel, an author my mother always enjoyed, was an enjoyable, tense film. Michael Douglas is wonderfully attractive at such a young age, and though I despise Genevieve Bujold, she seems rather appropriate and convincingly hysterical/non-hysterical at once. The film's interest in gender politics within the medical field remains relevant; check this quote from an article in the most recent issue of the New Yorker: "Doctors, as it happens, have very particular taste in shoes. According to a physician at Sloan-Kettering with an excellent footwear aesthetic, surgeons like clogs, but internists prefer rich-looking loafers (clogs with ventilation holes, clogsonline.com; $64.95; Gucci loafer, for men, with a silver horse bit, neimanmarcus.com; $595). Nurses, of course, wear nurse shoes (shoeline.com has forty-nine styles of white shoes; $35 to $67.95)." [9/1/08, p. 89] The gender aspect also complicates the '70's conspiracy anxiety film (a favorite genre of yours truly). 

The film dwells little on the actual workings and meanings of the medical crime committed - a respectful vagueness, showing the filmmaker's trust in the viewer's ability to make connections and suspend disbelief as far as the objective world goes. The psychological aspect is more important. Dr. Wheeler seems to overreact and/or "play the gender card" rather frequently, but the men around her are disturbingly prone to rulings of female hysteria and general douche-baggy behavior. When is a string of coincidences just a string of coincidences, a pattern of bad luck, or simple human error? Whenever the defendant is accused of "conspiracy to commit murder" or "conspiracy to commit fraud," doesn't it seem derisive to the prosecution? Perhaps the general negative aura and immediate skepticism surrounding the word "conspiracy" is the result of some... conspiracy? 

TRON

Steven Lisberger's 1982 sci-fi classic Tron is... lovely? An enjoyable watch from start to finish, the film is not incredibly original, advanced, difficult or moving - but who can stifle a giggle of joy, a sigh of pleasure upon viewing the wonderfully bad special effects? Jeff Bridges is adorable, though seems almost to scorn the film he's starring in. The focal point of the film seems to waver between the battle to destroy "Master Control Program," watching human-like "programs" compete in computer games, and Flynn's retribution, both as a supremely successful gamer/programmer and as the original creator of the games Dillinger stole from him many years ago. Flynn shows no passion or real bitterness, so it's difficult to recall that this last is the motivating factor behind most of the film's action. The games offer an enjoyable avenue of tension and creativity, but the film seems to drop them quickly, barely exploring a chance for real special effects glory. Finally, the allegorical possibilities offered by the MCP are also only vaguely hinted at; the programs wish for freedom, but interpreting this in terms of real life doesn't offer much. 

Complaints aside, I'd re-watch Tron any day. 

Mondo Cane

Gualtiero Jacopetti, Franco Prosperi and Paolo Cavara's 1962 "schockumentary" Mondo Cane is mildly offensive, humorous, and overall rather easy to watch. My roommates both wandered in and remained till the end, at turns gasping over the graphic depiction of the slaughter of animals, laughing at the strange choreography (whether clearly influenced by the filmmakers or apparently "natural") and commenting on the voice-over's bland, Euro-centric narration. Overall, I found the aura of the "shocking" surrounding the film entirely false; animals are killed en masse everyday, and people in other parts of the world are, in some ways, different from the Jones. 

The film's real high point is in the depiction of a destitute, confused wildlife in the Bikini atoll still suffering from the persistent effects of the atomic bomb. The camera moves along a trail of little white bits floating on the surface of a very, very blue water as the narrator tells us that these are the corpses of white butterflies killed by the toxic water. The first response may be to ask why the filmmakers didn't interfere as the large, sad-eyed turtles wandered not towards the water after laying their eggs, but instead to their land-bound deaths in the hot sun of the desert, having lost their sense of direction in the cloud of radiation hovering over the beach - and the second to realize the true meaning and importance of a different kind of intervention. The birds burrow into the earth to lay their eggs, and end up staying - it is better, they have realized, to bury your face in the sand than to face the horrors of "civilized" human behavior. 

Equus

Sidney Lumet's 1977 film Equus sticks perhaps too closely to the original script - which isn't to say that I've read it; merely, the film is sometimes too long-winded and seems to swing from an effort to maintain the feeling of a play (in the manner of speaking, for example), a convincingly "realistic" portrayal, and a uniquely cinematic interpretation of the text. The concluding slow-zoom into Richard Burton's face is quite a let-down after the drama of the preceding sequence. 

The word "pain" is repeated throughout; the pain Hesther sees in Alan's behavior, the emotional and corporeal (or both) experiences Alan has throughout, and the doctor's equation of pain with passion and the political meaning of "healing" this pain. A frustrating muddling. The word, concept, idea is troubling; Sontag and Scarry immediately jump to mind. The distinction ought to be maintained - the elements of choice and awareness and self-consciousness must be taken into account.