The File on Thelma Jordan isn’t a noir of the same caliber as Barbara Stanwyck’s more famous films. It’s not Double Indemnity, or Sorry, Wrong Number or even The Strange Love of Martha Ivers. But with Stanwyck as a femme fatale, you know you’re going to enjoy yourself.
***Slight spoilers, but far fewer than in the trailer.
Of the 1,00000000 things I love about Stanwyck, one is how adult she always is. She doesn’t play twee or girly–even on the rare occasions she uses baby talk to get her way. She’s sensual and knowing, fiercely intelligent and wry. You can never discount her. And you know–even if you don’t admit it to yourself–that she has the upper hand–or will soon.
In The File on Thelma Jordan, she finds herself an easy fall guy, Assistant District Attorney Cleve (Wendell Corey). Cleve has a lot going for him: a loving family, a beautiful wife. But his wife is a daddy’s girl, and he doesn’t like that daddy. It doesn’t help that his father-in-law has all the wealth and power Cleve doesn’t–or that Cleve owes him.
That’s why Cleve drinks and feels sorry for himself, and he’s doing just that when Thelma (Stanwyck) happens upon him in his office while seeking his boss. She wants to report attempted burglaries to her wealthy Aunt Vera’s home, but instead agrees to get a drink with Cleve. She’s game, agreeing to be his buddy during his troubles. Of course, a sexy, sympathetic buddy is what every Cleve desires.
You can guess what happens: a secret affair, the aunt’s house being broken into, a murder. With Thelma, there’s no question of innocence. The question is HOW guilty is she? Did she commit the murder, did her shady ex, or did some third involved party? Whoever did it, poor Cleve is complicit, and ends up having to prosecute Thelma in a not-so-effective, likely-career-killing kind of way.
I don’t find Wendell Corey that appealing in the role, but there’s a sincerity to him; you believe this is a good, usually bright guy doing dumb things. Cleve is a smarter version of Henry Fonda in The Lady Eve. He’s not all that wary, but he’s intelligent enough to know he’s been had.
But of course, who cares about Corey, or anyone else in this film noir? This is Stanwyck’s show. And though the storytelling never rises to her abilities, every minute with her on the screen is a joy. Whether she’s acting as Cleve’s relaxed buddy, his maybe-smitten love, a wary defendant, or a hardbitten woman of the world, Thelma is riveting. Don’t miss her in action.
Burning (2018) is the kind of film that rides on a great premise: Guy meets and falls for elusive girl. He loses elusive girl to rich guy. Elusive girl disappears. Is she just following her elusive nature, or did rich guy do her in?
None of the characters but the rich guy–Ben (Steven Yeun)–are compelling. The elusive girl, Hae-mi (Jeon Jong-seo), is annoying and so fragile. Her allure to hero Jong-su (Yoo Ah-in) is more about his own desperate unhappiness than any charm.
But it’s that very lack of charm that makes Ben’s attraction to her suspect. We see him yawning during one of her sad attempts to gain attention. WHY is he with her? He is too suave, too handsome, too lucky, too cool, too mysterious to be be seduced by her.
Also, his self-confessed hobby is arson, which is not exactly innocent. But is Ben really an arsonist, is he fabricating felonies to mess with Jong-su, or is he disguising his murders in metaphors?
Jong-su is that rare hero in noir who does NOT make possible killer Ben feel the need to murder him in self-defense. There are no flamboyant public or even private accusations. Jong-su shores up clues about Hae-mi’s disappearance and Ben’s potential involvement. But he says little and deflects when Ben tries to discover what he’s up to. Jong-su is, in fact, a pretty good amateur detective.
The film does a beautiful job putting you in this detective’s place: What would you do if you suspected foul play, but couldn’t prove it? What if everyone in a missing woman’s life dismissed her (and thus would not be filling out a missing person report)? Would you keep trying? The uncertainty haunts you as you watch Jong-su’s growing desperation.
At first, it seems Burning is a bit of a misnomer. Maybe “Slow Burn” would suit it more. The film creeps up on you. In fact, it teeters on the edge of boring until Ben enters the picture. It then becomes relentlessly disquieting. While the triangle is supposedly between the woman and two men, it’s Ben and Jong-su who play a fascinating dance with one another, with Ben seemingly befriending Jong-su, far more interested in him than he ever seemed in Hae-mi–or in the woman he may be targeting next.
The question is about the nature of Ben’s interest. Is killer Ben trying to discover what Jong-su knows? Is he innocent and just curious why a man of Jong-su’s intelligence is so fascinated by this girl who intrigued him for mere minutes? Or is this all about class, Ben wondering what makes a poor man tick? (All Jong-su has are a mother who abandoned him, a father going to jail, and one cow he needs to sell.) Ben might be seeking what drives Jong-su, what story he wants to tell or live.
But Ben’s interest in Jong-su could be more sinister: a combination of all of these possibilities. Perhaps he DID kill Hae-mi, and is genuinely curious why Jong-su would care that this poor, lackluster girl would be snuffed out.
I would have liked the movie more had the time before Ben been shortened, and the time with him lengthened. I could have used a whole movie devoted to this potential villain. It doesn’t hurt that Steven Yeun owns the role. He performs so well on that edge: not quite creepy, not quite innocent, darting from judgments. Ben has all the luck–and personality–on his side the whole time, so Jong-su’s increasing frustration at his impermeability makes so much sense. This is not an equals fighting one another situation; Ben holds every card.
The film is worth the watch. After spending the whole movie wondering about the title, I walked away knowing how suitable it was. Some conclusions are reached at the movie’s end, but so much more is still tantalizingly out of reach.
I’ve always been curious about the film that united director Roberto Rossellini and actress Ingrid Bergman in their illicit romance. How red-hot would an affair have to be to lead to a public censure in the US Senate and a six-year ostracism from Hollywood?
I was prepared for something akin to Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005), where the chemistry of actors (and new lovers) Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt inflamed the screen.
Of course, I neglected to consider a few things before viewing: 1) the absence of the director as an actor in the film, 2) the film’s very un-Hollywood use of everyday people as actors–in this case, fishermen in Stromboli, a small island off of Sicily, 3) the plot.
The Keystone Cops would have been just as likely to show up as a red-hot romance.
But in one way, I was still on the right track about Stromboli (1950): you can’t keep your eyes off of Bergman, and she IS unbelievably sexy in the film.
The nature of that sexiness is curious because this is a very, very odd movie. I found myself siding with early American critics, who called it dull. I agreed; it was dull. But it was also haunting, with a grim take on marriage quite unusual for its time.
Bergman’s character, Karen, is fascinating because she is one of the least sympathetic, most selfish brides I’ve ever witnessed onscreen. She marries a poor but handsome ex-POW, Antonio (Mario Vitale), to get out of a displaced persons camp.
When he brings her home to his fishing village, she doesn’t even try to be civil–to anyone. She attacks her new groom for taking her there. She tells him this place is terrible, that she’s too refined for it and can’t stay. Kind of harsh right after his release from a camp, huh?
In fairness, the village does suck, at least for Karen. There’s an active volcano that can erupt at any moment. Their house is a shack. There’s little to do or see. The townspeople are super judgy and foreigner-averse, which doesn’t make Karen, a Lithuanian, feel very welcome.
But it’s hard not to pity (at first) the poor husband who just takes Karen’s verbal abuse and hostile glances–especially when he quietly accepts an underpaid fishing job to buy her a better life.
She starts filling the home with the worst decor I’ve ever seen–and hides away her husband’s family photos and religious icons, which she despises. Apparently, this process gives her some pleasure. She’s appalled when he doesn’t love what’s she done, including the weird flowers she’s painted on the walls, kindergartener style. (I told you this film was bizarre, right?) She decides to use a sewing machine in the home of an apparent madam, despite warnings. Then she’s mad at others for thinking she’s loose.
But just when I’m ready to care only about him, her husband proves he’s brutish, like she’s claimed: he beats her for making him look like a cuckold. Now, we audience members don’t have anyone to like in the film.
As for Karen, it’s not long after the house decorating that she begins to plot her escape. Her method is to throw herself at every man who might get her out of there, including–wait for it–the village priest. And the seduction act Bergman pulls is something to witness. I’m not sure how anyone resists it, transparent as her motives are, because this is Ingrid Bergman throwing herself at you, men!! And she has moves. (Narratively, it would have made sense to choose a less attractive actress, but I fully enjoyed full-seduction Bergman. It’s easy to understand how Rossellini fell for her while filming.)
But it’s not just her sensuality that has the audience enthralled by Karen. Her breathless confidence in herself in the face of hostility and discomfort and abuse and foreignness is something to witness. You can’t help but root for her even as you question her decisions. Bergman displays confidence not just through her voice and expressions, but through a kind of ease with her body typical of athletes and dancers. In another world and in another time, you think, what couldn’t this single-minded woman do!? No wonder she’s so angry about her lot!
Unfortunately, Karen soon proves that her poor judgment is not limited to her words and decor. On a lark, she stops by her husband’s job while he’s fishing for tuna with his crew in a ploy to earn his affection. WHO DOES THIS???
This choice is one of the plot devices that seems to be an excuse for Rossellini to include a beautiful neo-realistic scene. It’s easy to understand Rossellini’s reputation as a director when it comes to cinematography. It was fascinating to watch the brutal and dangerous process of catching these huge, gorgeous fish and killing them as the refined wife looks on, horrified.
Later gorgeous scenes include when the volcano erupts, and the town flees for the sea. The escape is fascinating and frightening to watch, and beautifully rendered. (In typical fashion, Karen is only concerned about her own rescue when she sees motorboats.)
**Spoilers coming**
Stromboli is most famous for its ending. Fresh from volcano PTSD, Karen takes off, despite being pregnant. She heads over the still-active volcano alone to get to the side of the island where she plans her escape. She dumps her suitcase in exhaustion after breathing in copious amounts of smoke. She passes out after admitting defeat.
But when she wakes, she calls aloud to God, asking for strength, proclaiming that her experience has been too awful to endure and that she must depart. Whether she really means awful for her or for her unborn child (or for both) is unclear despite her words. Hollywood later added a voiceover suggesting she returned to her husband, a disturbing “happily ever after,” given his violence and decision to forbid her exit by nailing the front door shut while she was inside.
But I don’t buy Hollywood’s interpretation. Karen seems more intent on the birds above her, on the flight still possible with God’s help. The end is ambiguous, it’s true–I can’t be sure I’m right. What ISN’T ambiguous is how miserable Rossellini makes marriage look–which is interesting as he’s breaking up Bergman’s and his own.
Regardless of what anyone makes of the film, Bergman’s performance is unforgettable, and not to be missed by her fans. The extended final scene of her climb and pleas is breathtaking: her resignation, her desperation, her anguish, her hope. This woman deserved all of her three Oscars and then some, and it’s a pleasure to watch her commanding the screen in this stunning finish. If nothing else, watch that.
This post is part of The Wonderful World of Cinema‘s 6th Wonderful Ingrid Bergman Blogathon. Check out the other celebrations of Bergman here!
How ridiculous is the amount of talent in Stormy Weather (1943)?
You’ve got Fats Waller and Ada Brown performing “That Ain’t Right,” a scene that obviously inspired Aretha Franklin’s “Think” in The Blues Brothers (1980).
My favorite lines in a hilarious call and response song about his greed for her money are Ada’s: “I took you to a nightclub. I bought you pink champagne. You rode home in a taxi while I caught that subway train, that ain’t right.” His responses include admissions that she’s correct; he does just want her money.
And as if that weren’t enough of a cameo, jazz legend Waller follows it up with a rousing “Ain’t Misbehavin.'”
The movie stars the dazzling Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, perhaps best known now for his tap sequences with Shirley Temple. Lena Horne costars. Her performance of “Stormy Weather” is only slightly lovelier than her duet with Robinson of “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” She’s at the top of her game, and he’s in the late stages of his career, but his magnetism and skill are still impossible to ignore.
And then there’s the dance sequence during “Stormy Weather” by Katherine Dunham and her troop, which is both mesmerizing and marked by a degree of smoking sensuality I can’t believe made it past the censors. (Seriously, how did anyone miss those gyrations?)
Cab Calloway is his usual charismatic, velvet-voiced self, especially in the exhilarating “The Jumpin’ Jive” (years before he’d charm Gen Xers with the rendition of his hit “Minnie the Moocher” in The Blues Brothers).
And then of course, we have the coup de grâce during “The Jumpin’ Jive”: the Nicholas brothers’ awe-inducing dance number, which Fred Astaire called the best dance performance on film.
Fayard and Harold Nicholas would wow such luminaries as George Balanchine, Gene Kelly, and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Their students would include Michael and Janet Jackson. (If you get a chance, watch fan Gregory Hines’s befuddled description of their impossible dance sequence in Stormy Weather. You can understand. Can two humans DO that???)
Sadly, it’s easy to guess why Stormy Weather is so chockfull of those at the top of their field: there were so few leading roles for black musicians, actors, and dancers in the 1940s. You can imagine why casting directors would stack that film and the other 1943 all-black musical, Cabin in the Sky, with all the big names they could get.
But that knowledge doesn’t stop you from experiencing shock the whole way through: At the flood of famous people you’ve heard of showing up on the screen. At music and performances that are far too good for a Hollywood musical. And by dancing that would have you in tears if you weren’t so busy smiling. The Nicholas brothers’ breathtaking grace and athleticism are nothing short of miraculous. And watching geniuses fully enjoy their art with that level of exuberance?
If I could bring any film characters with me to the Barbie movie, this crew would come along. We would shout, complain, and advise (quite loudly), and so an empty theater–and an earlier viewing by me–would be critical. But just try to imagine with me, how perfect this party would be….(Mild spoilers ahead.)
1: Megan (Melissa McCarthy) from Bridesmaids (2011)
This confident, hilarious, non-nonsense woman needs to give Barbie a pep talk. I did love Gloria (America Ferrera)’s speech, but Megan’s would be one for the ages.
2: Ida (Eve Arden) from Mildred Pierce (1945)
What Megan can do with yelling and pounding, Ida can do with an eyebrow. Ida’s dry, blistering one liners about Ken’s power grab would be epic.
3: Oda Mae Brown (Whoopi Goldberg) from Ghost (1990)
I’ll be honest–this may be just because I want her to say, “Barbie, you in danger, girl,” when the doll puts on fluorescent rollerblading gear.
4: Tira (Mae West) from I’m No Angel (1933)
Tira’s running commentary on Ryan Gosling’s abs and what she’d do to his character on the beach would have everyone in the theater howling with laughter. I’d love to hear her tell Barbie to keep relishing that many Kens in her life. And how much I’d anticipate her reaction to the ending!
5 & 6: Stage Door (1937) Roommates Terry (Katharine Hepburn) & Jean (Ginger Rogers)
Obviously, I’d want the ENTIRE Footlights Club to accompany me, since there simply is no wittier all-female repartee on film (the famously catty TheWomen ensemble can’t compare). Don’t believe me? Lucille Ball is in the supporting cast. These sexual-harassment-fighting, badass feminists would be FABULOUS commentators, and I’m so sad I can’t follow their pop culture podcast right now.
7 & 8: Adam (Spencer Tracy) and Amanda (Katharine Hepburn) from Adam’s Rib (1949)
What could be better than to hear a brilliant couple with perfect dialogue critique the work of screenwriting couple Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach? And with the way Amanda just slays in arguing women’s rights in the courtroom, I long to hear what she’d say to those fools in the Mattel boardroom.
There you have it. My eight favorite Barbie movie companions. Who would yours be?
Most film noirs are cautionary as well as bad luck tales. But there’s a particular type that seems to be created by untrusting husbands and wives, the “you’ll be sorry if you cheat” noir. The most memorable for many of us are Fatal Attraction (1987) for the disloyal husband, Unfaithful (2002) for the straying wife. But the genre has a long history. The Prowler (1951) stands out in this list because it stars Van Heflin, whose charisma highlights just how easy the tumble into marital infidelity can be.
Van Heflin isn’t a name that stands out to any but classic movie fans despite his 1942 Oscar win, but his films do, particularly 3:10 to Yuma (1957) and Shane (1953), in which he plays steady husbands who can’t compete with the glamour of flashy gunslingers. In these films you feel the stamped-down passion of a man who has been worn down by hard work and harder luck. I prefer the roles in which Van Heflin plays lighter characters, like the gambler of The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946), the adventurer in Green Dolphin Street (1947), or Althos in The Three Musketeers (1948). These roles capture the sexy quicksilver nature and physicality of a man who once left acting to be a sailor.
***some early spoilers ahead***
It’s that impulsiveness that makes Van Heflin so alluring as a cop in The Prowler. He might return to check on the lonely wife (Evelyn Keyes) who calls to report a peeping Tom, or he might not. He might call her back or pretend he doesn’t get her calls. He sets her at ease by sharing the Indiana roots he holds in common with her. But it’s his carefree manner of walking through her house that makes her prefer him to her older, stodgier husband, who–coded as the reference may be in a 50s film–seems to be impotent.
Unfortunately, the wife doesn’t notice the cop checking out her husband’s will in between visits to her bed. And so she doesn’t know for sure when he pretends to be the prowler in order to kill her husband whether it was an accidental killing (as the inquest claims), or not. When she marries the cop, she takes it for granted he’ll be pleased with her too-far-along pregnancy instead of seeing it as the danger it is. But as noir-aware audiences, we wonder, what happens when that bump gets bigger? I had eerie Fargo flashbacks as I watched the cop go about his plans. Will bystanders suffer the fate of those poor drivers in that Coen brother masterpiece? What about this new wife, who is now a liability? Suddenly, the unpredictability that attracted the now-widow looks less like sexiness, and more like the danger warned in the Coens’ own infidelity noir, Blood Simple (1984).
The Prowler plays its potential endings close to the vest, and the movie is bare and streamlined, as a good noir should be. It seems, in fact, like the film could have been written yesterday with a few tweaks. We audiences don’t know what the cop will do, but we are remindedthat cheating is a risky game, especially for a woman before her biological clock runs out. So beware of the sexy Van Heflins of the world, men with quick smiles and chips on their shoulder. Beware of the man who acts casual as he rifles through paperwork in your home. Beware–the jealous spouses of the world warn we viewers–and keep him safely outside of your door.
Perhaps you’re choosing to honor your cat by naming her after Mae West. (And can there be a greater honor?) You can’t go with Mae. It’s too delicate.
And you can’t go with Mae West. Too hard to say when your cat is jumping on the counter.
But you have to name her for Mae West: your feline is feisty, unrepentant, the center of her universe. So you scroll IMDB for Mae’s movie character names and land on Marlo from Sextette (1978). It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? You haven’t seen the film and don’t have time for it, so you watch a clip. Mae being Mae. It tracks. You name your little palm-sized kitty, and every time she flashes those bold eyes at her prey, you know you chose well.
Then, shortly after her third birthday, you watch Sextette, and think, “What have you done?”
Seriously, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
This is the hot mess to end all hot messes. When Ringo Star gives one of the best performances in the film, you know something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Who sees Mae West act and thinks, “You know a good person to cast in her picture? Dom DeLuise”? It’s so hard to watch a madcap, hijinks story with Mae performing her signature slow delivery like she’s in a different film. Then there are sudden, unnecessary musical sequences–and not unnecessary in a fun way, but in a do-we-have-to-do-this? way. And is Tony Curtis playing a Russian? And what the hell is Alice Cooper doing in this mix? The whole film is jarring and weird and utterly wrong.
The strange thing is, the critiques are wrong too. Sure, you heard it was bad–that’s true. But you also heard some sexist junk about how could this older woman be attractive to this young man (Timothy Dalton)? (As if 70-and 80-year-old men will ever stop presenting themselves as attractive to young women.) The age difference is extreme, and thinking of Mae West’s character as a global sex object in her mid-eighties might be a stretch, but here’s the delightful surprise: she is the ONLY sexy person in the film. She’s so confident and brash that you can’t take her eyes off of her, same as ever. And she’s the only one who looks like she’d know what she was doing in that bed.
The single male character who has ANY sex appeal in the film is one of Marlo’s ex-husbands, played by George Hamilton. Hamilton is acting as a—wait for it—gangster. (Because when you think gangster, you think, Where the Boys Are.) But unlike the virginal character played by Dalton, the histrionic Russian played by Tony Curtis, or the flashy director played by Ringo Star, George Hamilton seems like he might pause his movements long enough to actually have sex, which puts him a long stretch ahead of his competitors, sex appeal wise.
Mae manages to share several very funny one liners along the way, especially in a scene full of athletes who look like the hunks in her former shows. Too bad there’s so much noise and chaos around her that you can barely absorb them.
Sure, you despised the film. You really did. And yet….There was something poetic in it all. That George Raft was in the cast. That she didn’t take herself seriously in the film. That the plot–like all of her plots–was really no plot at all. That she refused to change one iota to the last.
She just kept on being Mae. 70s film fashions? Why bother? She’s going to wear that full-length gown if she feels like it. She’s amusing and charming and delightful and so much fun. And just as sassy and unwilling to change as that cat peering at you from atop the shelf on your wall.
I adore that Columbo is experiencing a renaissance with younger audiences. Gabrielle Sanchez attributes it to youth’s “clamor for more murder mysteries that skewer the rich.” Not hard to believe given the dominance of The White Lotus and Succession.
Columbo’s viewership had already been climbing steadily during quarantine, thanks to its soothing appeal. Then Rian Johnson embraced his own Columbo fandom with the Natasha-Lyonne helmed tribute series, Poker Face, this year, guaranteeing that his many young Knives Out fans would follow his wake back to the short man in the long raincoat the rest of us have been loving for decades. (I knew anyone who created Brick would be a classics fan.)
All of this fervor in turn brings new audiences to the classic movie stars we bloggers love, from Janet Leigh to Faye Dunaway to Myrna Loy to Celeste Holm. Even Don frickin Ameche (I’m a big fan of 1939’s Midnight). And of course, this fervor brings us to the suave, compelling Ray Milland, who appeared in two Columbo episodes—both early in the show’s run, when it was at its best.
I’ve often been curious about Milland. “The poor man’s Cary Grant” I read once in reference to him (though it might have been Melvyn Douglas). The dig was especially unfair since Milland was sometimes preferred to Grant: in the casting of Bringing Up Baby, for example. He was chosen over Grant for Dial M for Murder, due to salary or villain-casting worries. But the dig is fair in one sense: Grant was an icon everyone knows still today, and Milland?
“Who is that?” said my mother (echoing every other person I asked).
And yet, even those who don’t know Milland will catch a whiff of Grant. Close your eyes when watching a Ray Milland film, and for a minute, you’ll mistake the Welsh actor’s Mid-Atlantic accent for my favorite Bristol-born actor’s. Watch, for a moment, Milland move, and his easy grace and debonair expressions will trick your eyes too—as will his sharp wit and self-amusement.
And his slim build, height, dark hair, and air of confidence and wealth will throw you. As a Matinee and Mustache tumblr poster brilliantly put it, “Ray Milland looks like if Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart had a son together after the Philadelphia Story.”
No wonder when The Awful Truth was remade as a musical in 1953, Milland was chosen to play Grant’s role.
But the Oscar-winning star of The Lost Weekend deserves to be remembered for more than just a Grant resemblance. I’ve never thought he ought to be appreciated as much for the good, but miserable-to-watch film that won him his greatest honor as for the comedies and dramas to which he leant such a light comic touch or thrilling suspense. I loved him in The Major and the Minor (1942) with Ginger Rogers, despite the issues with that subject matter. I loved him in The Uninvited, where he’s a charming, funny companion to sister Pamela (Ruth Hussey), grounding a gothic tale that otherwise would have gone too far off the rails.
And of course, I love him as the coldblooded plotter in Dial M for Murder. In fact, that film is one of my least favorite Hitchcocks but for his performance. The superiority and cool assurance he displays in that story make him an especially riveting villain. I particularly admire his character’s appraisal of the hitman’s situation, and how coolly he explains to the poor man that he simply has no choice but to kill his wife.
So it fits then, that in his Columbo appearances, Milland tries his hand at two different kinds of roles: in the second episode of season 1, he plays the beloved husband of the victim, displaying the charm and intelligence that made him such a draw to women in his movies.
And in the second episode of season 2, “The Greenhouse Jungle,” he’s a version of his scheming Dial M for Murder villain, killing his nephew after an audacious kidnapping plot.
These episodes are such fun to watch. The first, “Death Lends a Hand,” features Robert Culp as the blackmailing private detective who accidentally kills the cheating wife of an influential newspaper owner, Arthur Kennicutt (Milland), after she refuses to give into his schemes. Columbo is a DELIGHT in this episode, playing his usual, I’m-harmless game in some of my favorite scenes. In an early moment, he not only walks into a closet instead of out a front door, but pretends to be a big believer in palmistry with a straight face. Wonderful. We get hints of Columbo’s rapscallion past. And throughout, Milland plays the grieving widower with a dignity that makes us feel for his loss. His growing appreciation for Columbo is subtly shown. The quick, almost impressionistic shots of the killing and cleanup are cleverly done. And Culp is at his irascible best.
“The Greenhouse Jungle” is a bit lengthy for me, with too many shots of cars driving, but the plot is fun to watch and the humor intense throughout thanks to an ambitious young police officer who thinks he’s outsmarting Columbo. In a wonderful scene, the young officer shows off expensive tech equipment he’s bought himself, and our favorite lieutenant quips that he must be a bachelor. I also enjoyed Columbo’s hilarious ploy of disarming Milland, an orchid aficionado, by asking that he repair his wife’s 90-percent-dead African violet. Milland has a blast playing a supercilious, judgmental, superior snob who thinks he’s come up with a genius plot. He is not as clever as the Dial M for Murder schemer, but thinks he is. Milland approaches, but doesn’t quite veer into, hamminess in the role, which makes him riveting. But my favorite aspect of both episodes is–not shockingly–Columbo’s insight and empathy.
In “Death Lends a Hand,” he shows such understanding for the man who had an affair with Kennicutt’s wife. He is surprisingly blunt with him, admitting his suspicions about the relationship right away, but also assuring him he’s not a suspect (and this time, he means it). The golf pro seems like such a nice guy, and it warms us to see Columbo treat him with so much understanding. The lieutenant is also adorably kind to the villain’s minion, right after fooling him to expose his boss.
In “The Greenhouse Jungle,” the wife of the victim is in an open relationship–which makes Milland’s character despise her and his nephew. But Columbo says he admires her for her honesty about who she is, and we believe him. It’s this lack of judgment and lack of the kind of he-man attitude toward women so familiar in other cop shows (then and now) that make Columbo always feel so modern and fresh and lovable.
And how lovely it is to see Ray Milland, an underrated actor in this day (if not in his), playing on a show that is all about the dangers of underestimating others.
For those of you who love both versions of The Thomas Crown Affair (and why wouldn’t you?), it can be tough to determine which of these slick, funny, seductive films is superior. But today I’ll make an attempt. I’d love to hear your opinions in the comments–1999, or 1968?
The crime. This may be an unfair one, as there have been too many good bank robbery movies between 1968 and 1999 for me to give 1968’s crime its due. Still, I preferred the 1999 one–the heaters were such a nifty trick. But both films’ clever capers hold up.
Male leads: Pierce Brosnan is not as attractive as Steve McQueen (who is?). But Brosnan is more convincing as a rich dude who pulls a crime because he’s bored. Also, McQueen’s lack of affect starts to grate after a while. Brosnan oozes charm. That said, McQueen’s laugh when he pulls off his caper is phenomenal.
Female leads: I am a lukewarm Dunaway fan. I like her style, confidence, charisma. I found her mesmerizing in Network and Bonnie and Clyde. I loved her in Columbo. But I disliked her performance in Three Days of the Condor and thought her histrionics in Mommy Dearest insufferable. She fits this role, but Rene Russo just owns her film, and her range is fantastic in it. Russo is also really, really funny. Dunaway has a hard time pulling off humor that isn’t smug.
Music? Love “The Windmills of your Mind” song In both. 10/10.
Sexiest scene: Dance scene (1999) vs. chess scene (1968).
It’s a close one. Generally, I think Russo is sexier than Dunaway–plus thrilling music–and that dress!
That said, I’m not exactly on solid ground saying Russo is sexier in hers.
In terms of male leads, though, I know I’m right: McQueen out-cools Brosnan in every way, and is smoking hot in every scene.
However, I would still argue it’s Brosnan’s sexiest performance.
All told, I have to give it to 1968’s version for sexiest scene. First, because it deserves extra points for making chess seductive. Second, because Brosnan’s delivery of “Do you wanna dance, or do you wanna dance?” hurts me.
Other Characters. No one in the 1968 version is as fun as Dennis Leary or Frankie Faison. But Jack Weston is great at playing a sap.
The Fashion. A tie, I’d say. I prefer Russo’s impossibly luxe wardrobe and killer sunglasses.
I’m not a fan of fur, but that leather outfit in her break-in scene kills me.
Dunaway’s fashion is fantastic in The Thomas Crown Affair too, and those hats are amazing. Plus, the actress always looks like she was born in whatever she wears.
The Script. The writing is better in the 1999 film–though I will admit that many of the best lines are pulled straight from the original. But the characters are more likable and nuanced in the 1999 version. The inclusion of the sailboat crash scene nails Crown’s excesses. The 1999 film is funnier (which I prefer). And Russo’s Catherine is a more powerful feminist (with her smarts and savvy and outplaying everyone) than Dunaway’s Vicki is, though I think they make Catherine too vulnerable in the end.
Editing. I love the clever transitions and cuts in the 1999 remake, but the 1968 version is more streamlined. The 1999 one could use some trimming in the second half.
In-Jokes. Loved Dunaway as the snarky psychiatrist for Brosnan’s Crown. We assume her commentary on porcupines to be from her own experience (from her 1968 caper), right? That’s SUCH a fun twist.
The Ending. 1968 does it for me. It’s poignant, and far more probable than 1999’s.
Because of the script and Russo’s performance, I’d give it to 1999, but it’s a tight one! How about you?
I’ve now watched the Jon Hamm-helmed remake of Fletch three times. This may surprise those of you who adored the original Fletch series–and Chevy Chase’s performance in it–as much as I did. But the film is a different animal and defies comparison; it also contains enough quirky humor to create nostalgia for those earlier films while making you eager for a new franchise with Hamm in the lead–one that would resemble the original novels more than Chase’s version did.
Jon Hamm is BRILLIANT in this new version of Fletch, and I will watch the film again. And again. And again. The opening–which begins with a shocking discovery of a dead body–is magic thanks to Hamm’s deadpan delivery. But it’s the scene with Annie Mumolo that I find myself watching on repeat.
You may not recall Mumolo’s name, but you’ll know you’ve seen her somewhere. You have. She’s the nervous plane passenger from Bridesmaids.
She’s also the co-screenwriter of that film with Kristin Wiig, and has a host of other credits. And as in that short but indelible plane scene, this woman cannot say an unfunny line.
In my favorite Confess, Fletch scene, former investigative reporter, now art-journalist Fletch is asking his neighbor, Eve (Mumolo), about her relationship with his landlord/a murder suspect. Standing in her kitchen, Eve proceeds to create a blizzard of poor hygiene, kitchen appliance hazards, and ill-advised confessions, all with zero awareness of the consequences of her actions. Fletch looks on and responds to Eve with various levels of repugnance, politeness, and shock.
The scene is a master class on comic delivery from both actors, and if you don’t watch it, you’re missing out.
That’s just one scene in SUCH a fun film, one that didn’t receive enough fanfare from its studio, and therefore escaped everyone’s notice. Cameos abound, including an appearance from Hamm’s former Mad Men buddy, John Slattery; Marcia Gay Harden in an unexpectedly daffy role; and the always game Lucy Punch as an influencer who could use a dictionary.
Spoil yourself; we could all use a little Confess, Fletch time right now.
