Ξ September 28th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Movies |
1941. Starring Joel McCrea, Veronica Lake. Directed by Preston Sturges.
Preston Sturges deserves a national monument. I doubt that he’s going to get one at this point, so maybe I’ll just suggest that his films deserve a renewed round of appreciation. Sturges was a screenwriter and director who packed his scripts with wit, packed his scenes with his stock players, and filled his films with anarchic slapstick, comic misunderstandings and exaggerated reactions. Maybe the best place to begin with him is his masterpiece, “Sullivan’s Travels.”
Joel McCrea stars as successful director John L. Sullivan, much beloved for his box-office hits “Hey Hey in the Hayloft” and “Ants In Your Plants ‘49.” He wants to use his success to explore more serious subjects through a picture that’s “a commentary on modern conditions. Stark realism. The problems that confront the average man!” But, as his studio boss implores, “with a little sex in it.” His dream project is “O Brother Where Art Thou,” an examination of the challenges faced by the down and out, the transient and poor. The only problem is, he’s never experienced anything close to desperation or poverty.
Sullivan decides to throw on some tattered rags and hit the road, but the studio, with its valuable asset risking his life and career, send a luxury-laden bus to follow him. His attempt at losing the well-intentioned tail results in meeting the very lovely Veronica Lake, who has given up on a Hollywood big break and is heading out of town. To keep her from leaving, he reveals his real identity and returns to his palatial Hollywood estate.
The pair make another attempt at a hobo’s life, and soon, finding it too rough and unpleasant, return to the comfort of Hollywood. When McCrea returns to the railyard to thank the bums with $5 bills, he’s knocked out and thrown onto an eastbound train. The bum who steals his money and ID is run over and killed, his entourage believes that it’s he who has died. Arrested and thrown onto a chain gang, the great director finally gets to experience the tough life he’s dreamt of filming.
Sturges injects a lot of screwball into this comedy, but has a bigger point to make about show business — namely, that there’s value in entertaining people, even if you don’t make them think. As McCrea realizes, “There’s a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that’s all some people have?”
Many of Sturges’ films involve the confused generosity of strangers who intervene on the lead characters, allowing them a chance to emerge from an ordinary life to a miraculous one — perfect for those who survived the 1930s and used the movies as a means of escape from the daily grind. He made much more screwy comedies — “Hail the Conquering Hero,” “The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek” and “Easy Living” are all giddy with surreality — but “Sullivan’s Travels” has a lot of heart to go with the chuckles.
Ξ September 28th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
A five-song preview available on the Lost Highway site:
http://www.losthighwayrecords.com/lucindawilliams/amazon
Remember when she took so long between records? Now that she’s in a groove, I hope she keeps ‘em coming. . .
Just weeks ago, I wrote in a review of Hud that there’s no other actor I’d rather be than Paul Newman. I guess I hadn’t heard much about him for a while, and that usually means one thing for a celebrity his age. I knew it was coming, and yet it depresses me.
There are fewer and fewer of his type: men who provided unreproachable role models and examples of how to live one’s life. A comment that I’ve read in several tributes this morning quote him explaining why he was faithful to his wife, the beautiful actress Joanne Woodward: “Why go out for a hamburger when you’ve got steak at home?” Very un-player-like, and not helpful if you want to get your face on Inside Edition. What was beautiful was that he didn’t care — he had other priorities. Best-known was his “Newman’s Own” line of salad dressings, spaghetti sauce and other food products, which has donated nearly $200 million to charity, much to his camps for children with cancer and other life-threatening diseases.
His movies and characters were well-chosen and well-performed: Hud, The Hustler, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, The Color of Money, The Verdict, and Road to Perdition were among the best. And the iconic lead role in Cool Hand Luke (which I’m going to review soon, so I’ll keep it brief here), which any young actor would kill for today. That’s quite a career, and it’s not even counting his dozens of other solid performances.
Everytime we lose a Jimmy Stewart or a Johnny Cash, I feel robbed. Partially because we won’t experience more their great work, but also because it feels like there’s a little more room for the toxic ooze of someone like Howard Stern or Rush Limbaugh in our daily life. I hope that’s not the case. I hope someone who seen and admired the work and life of Paul Newman will come along and try to emulate him. It’s going to take someone special, though. They just don’t make them like that anymore.
RIP Mr. Newman.
Ξ September 22nd, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Movies |
1959. Starring Pierre Brasseur, Alida Valli. Directed by Georges Franju.
This Criterion Collection release includes among its features a mixed trailer of this film (albeit an English-dubbed version) and a two-headed-man low-budget horror film called The Manster. I guess they are kinda thematically related. . .but it must have been a surprise to drive-in horror fans who stayed awake for both movies. Les Yeux Sans Visage, as the French prefer, is a haunting and sad examination of medicine’s inability to repair the past. The Manster, in comparison, looks like a hoot.
Pierre Brasseur plays Dr. Génessier, a surgeon whose daughter has been reported missing after an accident. In reality, he is responsible for the accident and her disfigurement, and has hidden her away. He has the assistance of a devoted former patient (Alida Valli) in kidnapping other young women, whose faces he will attempt to transplant to his daughter. He practices on stray dogs that he keeps penned up in the garage.
The daughter, Christiane (Edith Scob), is a sympathetic character, but is revealed slowly to maximize the horror. Scob is an interesting-looking actress, with a long neck and an odd floating-arm manner of walking, accentuated by the expressionless mask her character wears. She is promised the chance to “live again,” through the face transplants of her father’s victims, but it also means that her current life has ended, including the love of her former fiancé. She wants to live less than her father wants to succeed in his transformative surgery.
The police investigating the disappearance of several young women eventually connect the dots, and involve an unsuspecting young shoplifter in one of the most irresponsible undercover operations that cinema has ever conceived.
Eyes Without a Face is a quiet, creepy horror film, with a twist ahead of its time: I couldn’t help thinking of that French woman who underwent the successful face transplant a few years ago. The idea of physical identity is touched on here, as is the perversion of medical technology, but it takes a backseat to the horror aspect. While the film’s gore has been surpassed long ago, it’s still unnerving — although it’s almost humorous to watch a surgery to remove a face that takes less time than it takes me to make a sandwich.
Speaking of horror, the Criterion DVD includes director Franju’s short film Blood of the Beasts, a stark-but-poetic film about French abattoirs — not recommended for dinnertime viewing. The director explains that, as a realist, he believes that all truth is beauty, but concedes that if it had been filmed in color, as some have suggested, it would be repulsive. I think so too.
(If you’re still not freaked out enough. . .a link on another blog led me recently to YouTube videos of Russian experiments in the 1950s that transplanted the head of a dog to the body of a second dog. You really have to see it to believe it, and if you can bear the sadness of those videos, you are a more stoic person than I.)
Ξ September 22nd, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
New West Records is preparing for the release of new recordings by original Jayhawks members Mark Olson and Gary Louris, and feature three of the new songs on their site. If you long for the days of Blue Earth and Tomorrow the Green Grass, this sounds like pretty good stuff.
No word on a new version of “Sixpack on the Dashboard.”
New West Jayhawks page: http://olsonandlouris.newwestrecords.com/
Ξ September 21st, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Movies |
1950. Starring Barbara Stanwyck, Walter Huston. Directed by Anthony Mann.
There are movies that have used the Hollywood western as a package to tell a different story — The Magnificent Seven is the Hollywood western version of Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai, for example. And there are those Hollywood westerns that transformed the genre — The Searchers would inspire Taxi Driver, for example, or The Wild Bunch’s violence would soften up audiences for the blood supplied by Bonnie & Clyde and Tarantino. The Furies accomplished a bit of both, mixing Greek tragedy with Douglas Sirk soap-opera complications, and setting it all on a New Mexican ranch.
Barbara Stanwyck plays Vance Jeffords, the favorite daughter of T.C. (Walter Huston), owner of The Furies, the family ranch, which stretches as far as the eye can see. The ranch is coveted by squatters, including former land owners, the Herraras, led by Vance’s childhood friend and secret love Juan, who very much does not meet with her father’s approval. In steps Rip Darrow (Wendell Corey), the dashing owner of a gambling house whose father, coincidentally, was killed by T.C., and whose property was incorporated into the Furies. T.C. offers him $50,000 to walk away from his daughter, and Rip shows his true colors by taking the offer.
Vance Jeffords has plenty of heartbreak to endure — her mother dies, her lover Juan is run off the land and killed, Rip Darrow rejects her charms — but she does look forward to inheriting the ranch. (Her brother isn’t entrusted in the ranch or interested in the family fortune, for reasons I didn’t quite understand or believe, but nevertheless. . .) But the biggest obstacle to her control is T.C.’s newest companion, a San Francisco widow (Judith Anderson), who starts moving in and making herself at home.
Stanwyck is great in the role, as she almost always was, playing the tormented woman who alternates between taking control and losing control. The manner in which she diminishes Anderson’s character is shocking, mostly because Stanwyck is desperate and lashes out. When her character is cool, as she is when plotting how to seize back the Furies, she is much more dangerous.
This was Walter Huston’s final performance, and it’s a great one. His portrayal of T.C. mixes the ranch owner’s confidence and con-man smarts — he pays everyone in self-issued “TCs,” instead of real money — with the toughness of an experienced cowboy. The scene where, inspired by a ballad about himself, he chases and wrestles a bull to the ground is my favorite scene.
The “Furies” are, in Roman mythology, female spirits of the underworld embodying anger and vengeance, entities that punish those who violate the natural order, such as murdering a father or brother — if I understand it correctly, which I doubt that I do.
In any case, although the Furies is beautifully shot, capably directed and features a couple fine performances, the western as a soap opera showdown only gets an OK in this reviewer’s corral. Oh. . .that was nearly as hard to write as it is to read.
Ξ September 17th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
Kitty Wells is one of country music’s queens, as the first female to top the country charts (with 1952’s “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels”), and has reigned a good long time, having just turned 89. Wells’ long career was very successful and consistently good, right up through the 1970s, with many hits, including “Making Believe” and “Heartbreak USA.” Wells surely provided inspiration for assertive female artists like Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton, who recorded their own statement songs in the 1960s. I’ve got numerous favorite Kitty Wells songs, but none is better than this one, as she throws down the guilt card in a kiss-off to a divorcing spouse.
Will Your Lawyer Talk to God (performed by Kitty Wells)
Written by Richard Johnson and Harlan Howard.
Your lawyer called and said he had the papers all prepared
To sign your name was all you had to do
He’s seen the judge, now he’s seen me
There’s only one thing left,
Will your lawyer talk to God for you?
Will your lawyer talk to God, and plead your case up on high
And defend the way you broke my heart in two
Man made laws to set you free on earth
But is God satisfied?
Will your lawyer talk to God for you?
We all face that final judgment and it’s very strict they say,
When your time comes, I wonder what you’ll do
Will you bow your head in shame or will you turn your head away
Will your lawyer talk to God for you?
Will your lawyer talk to God, and plead your case up on high
And defend the way you broke my heart in two
Man made laws to set you free on earth
But is God satisfied?
Or will your lawyer talk to God for you?
Wells married Johnnie Wright (of country-duo Johnnie & Jack fame) in 1937, and the couple celebrated their 70th anniversary last year. Luckily, Johnny Wright won’t need his lawyer once he shuffles off this mortal coil.
Ξ September 17th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Women |
Those who write about Neko Case are usually overwhelmingly adoring of her work and her performance; I’m not any different. From the first listen to Furnace Room Lullaby, hearing that unbelievable voice, I’ve been hooked. If you start to write about her gothic country sound, you’ll be forced to repeat favorite lines from her songs: “The girl with the parking lot eyes,” “looks a lot like engine oil and tastes like being poor and small, and popsicles in summer,” “you be my guest, and I’ll let you stay, leave me the check and I’ll pay with the rest of my life.” You can’t talk about the quality of her songwriting without noting the darkness of her best songs.
Her records (I’m not including the fine work she’s done as a member of The New Pornographers, or her other collaborations) are worth listening to with headphones: The Virginian, Furnace Room Lullaby, Blacklisted, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, and the live The Tigers Have Spoken all feature those dark, pretty melodies and lyrics — all demand your attention. But you’ll want the headphones to soak in that voice. Capable of transfixing you with its sheer power, like on the Furnace Room’s title track, or with a delicate phrasing, which fills Fox Confessor’s Edward-Goreyesque opening track, “Margaret vs. Pauline.”
I know she’s great live — as she demonstrates on her Live From Austin, TX (Austin City Limits) DVD — but I’m not planning on seeing her as she performs in Minneapolis tomorrow night. Although I’m sure she’ll be enchanting, I just can’t bear sharing the intimacy of her songs with a roomful of chattering drunks. I think I’ll just listen to her, alone in the dark.
Thank you Lord for Neko Case:
- For “Hold On, Hold On,” which (and I know I’ll never describe it exactly the way I want) sounds like the sweetness and the horror of the 1960s mixed together in a potion that you want another drink of. Like the Mamas & the Papas joining the Manson family and recording a single.
- For “Thrice All American,” a tribute to Tacoma, WA. “People they laugh when they hear you’re from my town, they say it’s a sour and used-up ol’ place,” she sings over a waltz, “There was no hollow promise that life would reward you. There was nowhere to hide in Tacoma.” Every teenager I’ve ever known — including me — was embarrassed about their hometown but looks back (or will look back) with sentimental fondness for the lameness and isolation that produced as a restless soul.
- For “Star Witness,” a poem, apparently about a murder. “Hey pretty baby, get high with me — we can go to my sisters’ if we say we’ll watch the baby, the look on your face yanks my neck on the chain, and I will do anything to see you again,” sung like a lullabye, with the gentlest round as a chorus. “Go on, go on, scream and cry, you’re miles from where anyone will find you,” she taunts as the song nears its conclusion, and you’re still unsure who’s holding the knife. But it’s so pretty, you’ll be surprised you don’t care.
- For “Hex,” Case’s cover of a song by her friends the Sadies Catherine Irwin of Freakwater, the sexiest siren song ever recorded. She stands in the woods, just outside the window’s glow, casting her spell. “Will you know, or must I tell you, this is my lover’s spell you have fallen into?” she whispers. “My voice is all you’ll hear.”
Neko Case official site: http://www.nekocase.com/
Ξ September 10th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Movies |
1961. Starring Allen Baron. Directed by Allen Baron.
I would have never know about this film without seeing the Criterion Collection logo on its cover. A late US film noir, it is quite apparently a labor of love for Baron, who not only wrote the screenplay and directed the film, but stars as lonely hitman Frank Bono, after original lead Peter Falk dropped out. It has all the elements of an auteur favorite — many scenes were filmed on the streets of Brooklyn and Harlem by a car-transported camera, and it features a hard-boiled but flowery narration (provided by the blacklisted screenwriter Waldo Salt, under a pseudonym), and a bleak, despairing main character.
Bono has been hired to kill a low-level gangster with “too much ambition.” The hit is expected to take place around Christmas (which allows for some really great scenes of outdoor holiday scenes in New York) and Bono does his due diligence, following the target, watching for a vulnerable moment, plotting the perfect hit. But the holidays also give him some time off, and a chance encounter with an old friend leads him to that friend’s sister, who has found the vulnerable place in him. Too much time setting up a hit causes the mind to wander. . .
The first step is getting a gun, and Bono’s connection is one of the highlights of the film: meeting with the supplier of untraceable weapons, Big Ralph (played by actor and producer Larry Tucker), a sloppy mountain of a man who dotes on his caged rats, and gets a little greedy when he figures out who Bono is supposed to take out. Another encounter between the two takes place at the Village Gate, home to hipsters, bongo drummers and young Dylanesque songwriters.
The narration reflects Bono’s thoughts as he almost backs out of the job, reminding him that he’s decided this would be the last one, promised himself that this would be the last. His desire for a better kind of life grows stronger, thanks to what he believes is the new woman in his life, one that he doesn’t have to view “with the lights off,” who can know his name. The final scenes were filmed during a hurricane in a marshy urban area infamous as a mob dumping ground.
There are many great scenes in this film — so many storefronts, empty sidewalks, decrepit apartments all provide the noir backdrop. Baron’s background as an artist served him well as a director. This seems like an unlikely Criterion selection, but Blast of Silence has been difficult to view until now. It deserves to be better known.
Ξ September 9th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Music |
Where did the concept of “outlaw country” come from? I know about Waylon and Willie, but I remember when they smelled more of bourbon and aftershave than leather and weed. When I think about the term, “outlaw country,” I picture big hairy guys in vests, playing pool and listening to weepy tunes about how they used to be tough, but got old. And it’s not a thought I want to think about for very long.
I think “outlaw country” began with the clean-shaven and talented Roy Hogsed and his perky, homicidal song, “Cocaine Blues,” much better known as a hit for Johnny Cash. But I like Hogsed’s version, a propelled but spare version, featuring an accordian solo. Closer in style to Western Swing, Hogsed’s tune is probably the happiest song you’ll ever hear about drug abuse, murder and extradition.
Cocaine Blues (recorded by Roy Hogsed)
Written by T.J. “Red” Arnell
Early one mornin’ while makin’ the rounds
I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down
Went right home and I went to bed
I stuck that lovin’ 44 beneath my head
Woke up next mornin’ grabbed that gun
Took a shot of cocaine and away I run
I made a good run but I went too slow
They overtook me down in Juarez Mexico
Late in the hot joints smokin’ the pill
In walked the sheriff from Jericho Hill
He said Willy Lee your name is not Jack Brown
You’re the dirty hack that shot your woman down
Yes oh yes my name is Willy Lee
If you’ve got a warrant just read it to me
Shot her cold cause she made me sore
I thought I was her daddy but she had five more
Put me on the train I was dressed in black
Came the sheriff and he brought me back
Had no one for to go my bail
They slapped my dried up carcass in that country jail
And next morning along about nine
I spied the sheriff coming down the line
And he coughed as he cleared his throat
He said come on you dirty hack into that district court
Into the courtroom trial began
Where I was panelled by twelve honest men
Just before the jury started out
I saw that little judge commence to look about
In about five minutes in walked the man
Holding the verdict in his right hand
The verdict read in the first degree
I hollered Lordy Lordy have a mercy on me
Judge he smiled as he picked up his pen
Ninety-nine years in that old San Quentin pen
Ninety-nine years underneath that ground
I can’t forget the day I shot my woman down
Come all you hots and listen unto me
Lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be
I don’t know: a cautionary tale or a hardcore criminal bragging about his exploits? Maybe Roy Hogsed is an original gangsta, as well?
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