Humor

Kimmel & the Great Gaffe: Why Comedians MUST Host the Oscars

10 Comments

Here’s the typical Oscar hosting scenario:

Year 1: A comedian hosts, performs well and with confidence, then is trashed in the press.

Year 2: The Academy chooses an actor/actors for the hosting gig. The script fails; the actor (not being a writer) panics and keeps trying the script anyway/hides backstage/whoops. We all flinch in sympathy, long for the ceremony to end.

Year 3: One of the previous comedian hosts is asked back, and is trashed a little less.

Year 4: The Academy chooses an actor/actors…..

Strangely, the Academy fails to recognize exactly why comedians perform better. Not being comedians themselves, Academy members mistake comedic actors for comics, assume song-and-dance types can roll with the inevitable botched entrances and exits. They’re forgetting the obvious: comedians IMPROVISE; actors PERFORM THE SCRIPT. And last night, the difference was written out so plainly I’m hopeful that they will finally, finally get it.

Let’s review:

Something unexpected happens (say a wrong card is given out):

  1. Actor’s response: panic, stare at the other actor next to you, read out/let your partner read out something you suspect is wrong, cast blame, ruin the Oscars for the mistaken winners and the real ones.
  2. Comedian’s response: riff on a another comic’s similar mistake, cast all blame on yourself in such a way that it diminishes the gaffe, makes the audience (and comic) laugh, and earns you thanks from the company that blew it in the first place.

Kinda obvious, isn’t it? A host needs to respond to the crowd, alter/rip on jokes if they don’t work, recover from mistakes by oneself and others, and relax. Comedians have suffered through brutal NYC stand-up crowds; Oscar crowd judgment? Easy. That’s why comedian hosts will often return to the gig even if unfairly attacked the first time around.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying what happened is Beatty’s fault; I’m saying it’s to be expected. Improvising is simply not a required skill for an actor (though arguably, more so for a stage performer). But let’s envision if instead of Kimmel, Neil Patrick Harris or James Franco were hosting. Imagine how much MORE botched that conclusion to the night would have been.

Jimmy Kimmel nailed it last night. As usual, the critics are already nitpicking, as they are wont to do. Were The Lion King bit or the name jokes the best calls? No. Though they weren’t nearly as offensive as some claimed (he’s no Seth MacFarlane), they were ill conceived. Comedians always struggle with that sensitivity vs. humor pull, especially when improvising. But the humorist who tries too hard to be PC is never going to make us laugh. (Would someone remind the critics please just how often they have attacked every previous host for being potentially offensive in one/more of his/her jokes?) No one will remember those comments/bits anyway; they weren’t funny.* But his Meryl Streep-talentless-Trump reference? His conscientious objector Mel Gibson slam? The Matt Damon attacks? Oh yes. We’ll remember those.

Kimmel was sarcastic and charming: the snark of Jon Stewart or Chris Rock with Billy Crystal’s crowd-pleasing style. And so confident. The crowd there and the audience at home both seemed to enjoy themselves, even during that halftime lull. Kimmel can be the host we’ve been waiting for, if the Academy just gives him the chance. Hopefully, they’ll beg him back despite his hilarious parting promise never to return. For those of us still vainly attempting to have faith in a show that so often blows it, let’s hope Oscar planners catch on.

*For a great spoof on white people’s mispronunciation of minority names, check out Key and Peele’s brilliant role reversal clip.

Share

Defeat Future Trumps: Teach Humor

4 Comments

davechappelle-electionparody
“The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.” —Mark Twain

When Trump clinched the nomination in Indiana, I felt betrayed not by my fellow citizens, but by my art. I teach humor, write humor, believe in humor. And I couldn’t deny it: Trump’s skill with a joke was exactly what had enabled everyone to dismiss his threat, to not take (or pretend not to) his words about minorities and women as genuine. Humor had concealed the truth of Trump, like some fearsome Larry “Lonesome” Rhodes without Patricia Neal.

Of course I have always known there’s a brand of humor that’s not about empathy, but divisiveness: Tina Fey’s evil stepbrother. It’s the kind we learn the first time a bully mocks an outsider on the playground, and we laugh along. But I’ve always believed the most effective humor stems from the truths of being human: our common insecurities, foolishness, fears, and faults. In American, of course, humor is also about optimism, the kind of self-delusion that fills gyms January 1st with those who actually believe they’re going to change—this time.

What I’d never recognized was the danger of the appalling lack of empathetic humorists in the conservative camp. I’d gloried, in fact, that I could claim all the Jon Stewarts and Stephen Colberts and Chris Rocks and Tina Feys. And conservatives had only the worthless, sniping, sexist Bill O’Reillys and Rush Limbaughs, the ones who enjoyed belittling others.

The Daily Show got me through the horror of November 2004, gave me release in laughter and hope. It’s a power humorists have always provided: enabling us to cope, cutting the anger, making us believe again. The show gave me exactly what it was clear Trump supporters have not gotten: relief—and power.

As Twain recognized, laughter is a weapon, whether it’s used for bonding or separating. Give a man or woman who feels hopeless a way to laugh, and triumph comes with it. But when there’s no unifying humor, and a cruel substitute takes its place, what weapon is there to smash it out?

For many years colleagues have told me humor is “tricky” to teach, that only certain students “have it,” and I’ve grumbled under my breath, and kept teaching it on my own. But it’s exactly this kind of thinking that has led us to where we are now, with humor represented by the few, and so many feeling voiceless. No wonder Trump felt so fresh and empowering to so many.

I regret all the years I didn’t push humor, didn’t at least teach it to my own graduate students. Because what we need now are empathetic conservative humorists—not only to fight those bullies out there, but because let’s face it, liberals: we need to be mocked too. And it’s only in seeing what we have in common—especially our flaws and fellow suffering—that we can unify again. (In fact, Trump’s lack of ability to laugh at himself was what scared me most.)

So teachers, let me assure you: Humor is EASY to teach. And talk about making students like writing! I once taught a section of creative nonfiction focused on humor. Several students realized they’d signed up for it by mistake; some, who stared at me in horror, dropped it immediately; others took a chance. Very few actually thought they’d be any good at it. But by semester’s end, every one of those self-proclaimed unfunny people was writing humor with confidence and pride. Students LOVE writing comedy if you give them just a little encouragement; for many students, you have to do little more than give them permission. My students reflected that being funny was just being honest about what they felt and observed: their thoughts when stuck in a class or on a date they didn’t enjoy, the horrors of parking etiquette.

Most of all, my students had discovered that humor is about owning your own vulnerability, or as Carol Burnett puts it, “Comedy is tragedy plus time.” Instructors, if you can teach drama, why can’t you teach humor?

In most courses, I just teach humor for one class period. I screen a table on the board, showing that most humor is about contrast: inflated expectations versus realty, hopes for the self versus how things turned out, lessons you should have learned versus ones you did, how you hoped others would act versus how they did. This subject matter can be tragic or comic. Those of us reeling from last Tuesday are focused on the tragedy. But Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle took the same subject matter and spun it into humor. They used contrasts; they used truth. I know they made me laugh, really laugh, for the first time since I woke up to Trump’s win. Would you really want to deny your students that kind of relief? Consider carefully before you do: Comedy is power. And dismissing it—as we all have so painfully learned—can be anything but funny.

Share

Mae West’s Lessons for Groundbreakers

20 Comments

MaeWest-SheDoneHimWrongx
A woman approaches a building, greets men outside, enters. A common occurrence. But when that walk is Mae West’s, the arrival of Maudie into Night after Night is transgressive. West’s entrance into film guaranteed the influence she’d already built on the stage would reverberate far beyond the audiences lucky enough to catch her plays, and shockingly, her actions in front of and behind the camera are STILL groundbreaking. Here’s why:

  1. She Wrote Her Own Material

It’s no accident that the successful comic performers we see on film and TV now were frequently stand-up comedians. Interestingly, it would take the break-thru performances of these stand-up stars to start seeing funny, powerful women in film more frequently, women writing for themselves and other women. (Face it: Tina Fey would just be an anonymous character actress without that pen.)

Like the vaudevillian, Mae West, before them, these women honed their comedy chops through painful competitions with others. They found their voices through observing and picking up on others’ ideas as well as their own. West honed her persona in vaudeville, then began to write and frequently star in famous, scandalous plays (Sex, The Drag, Diamond Lil), even got thrown in jail on obscenity charges (an occasion she milked).

Men weren’t going to write parts for women like the one West crafted for herself. And we’re still talking about the need for more women to write for women. West could have told us that almost 100 years ago, if we’d only listened.

  1. She Busted through Sexual Stereotypes

Newspaper reporters describing West often make a key error, their own opinion of her attractiveness determining how they characterize her influence. If they consider her sexy, they emphasize her sensuality; if they don’t, they call her actions camp. Of course, her performances were both at once (seriously, have they never seen female impersonators—who, of course, adored her?) Either way, they are dismissive because, sigh, they still are just thinking of her as bombshell or not, rather than looking at her tremendous impact. The point is her sexual aggressiveness, despite being a woman; the point is that her plots didn’t end with her lost and alone for pursuing and being hounded by conquests. The point is that a woman could be sexy even if she wasn’t skinny, even if she was older than 35. Amy Schumer is trying to tell us that now.

  1. She Built Her Own Brand

The role of Maudie in Night after Night was initially a dull one, a sad ex-lover type, according to biographer Jill Watts. But Mae West wasn’t about to take on the part of a sad sack moping about her lost man. She didn’t have to. Paramount was hungry for her play, Diamond Lil, which would become the smash studio-saving hit She Done Him Wrong. So when she said nah, they listened. They threw more money at her AND gave her the script. And what she made of that little part changed movie history. West was in her late thirties by then, had spent a career in vaudeville honing her persona as a sexually powerful, wisecracking woman coveted by men. Part of that persona was costuming. Edith Head, wowed by West’s understanding of design, apparently thanked her for “all I know about sex, clotheswise” (153). Even the walk had been long established. According to Watts, “The infamous Westian gait…was a slow, strolling shimmy” (53). Guess what dance move West was advertised as perfecting?

Like the stand-up stars after her, she kept honing her favorite character, one who didn’t pay or suffer for her sexual transgressions, but relished them. West’s devotion to this role of hers was so consistent that it was hard to penetrate it enough to see the actress and writer behind it. But such consistency explains her success. Today we can see Martha Stewart, Madonna, and Beyoncé learning from this lesson of brand control. Beyoncé is now using that well-established female-power persona of hers to take on race. Without that persona in place, would “Formation” have had such impact?

  1. She Asserted Her Power

The old Hollywood studios made other women take the parts given to them. A good actress would have to agree to terrible parts if the studio needed to sell junk her name might help. And few women had the power to resist. West’s refusal to give into this system, or to the censors some argue that the movie studios actually courted, helped set the stage for Bette Davis’s and Olivia de Havilland’s later film-changing battles. Was West the first to balk at the studios? No. But she began to chip away at their power. And, of course, demanded high salaries too.

Few would argue that the censors diminished her post-Production Code films. But her fascinating efforts to subvert their influence, even within the films themselves, helped her defy the whole idea of artistic censorship. As she famously said, “It’s not what I do, but the way I do it. It’s not what I say, but the way I say it.”

  1. She Wrote Fantastic Lines—and Knew She Needed to State Them

When we talk about West, her film presence dominates the conversation. Of course. Few women then or since have been so riveting onscreen. But she would never have made it where she did without that gift for writing and the hard work she put into finessing her every line. We often say comedy doesn’t wear well with time. Too many films once considered funny can feel dated, their appeal no longer clear. Yet look on a list of famous quotes, and West’s name is one of the most frequent female appearances. Watch a West film and try not to laugh. West did what only the best comedy does: captured the truth of human nature. She got people, and had the wisdom to know what a difference that made.

I often think about Sylvester Stallone’s script for Rocky, how he refused—despite the risks—to let another, better-known actor take the now-famous role. He knew what he had, what it could mean. West knew not to cede control over her lines; she knew she would have the impact if she pronounced them—and she would get them right. We often celebrate writers-directors now, who have the same impulse to protect and own their material. But too few of us know the women who penned some of the best early material (including writer-directors). West must have known this too, and acted accordingly. Her larger-than-life performances guaranteed her writing legacy.

I wish West’s name were more frequently cited as an early example of script ownership. While her rebuke to censorship is justly famous (seriously, in how many ways was she a pioneer?), her talent–and embracing of that talent–should be just as well known, just as valued. She was many, many things, but personally, what I value her most for is her writing. Who, then or since, could write a killer line like Mae West’s? To celebrate West and not end with one of her lines is a mistake, so let’s go back to that entrance, to the hatcheck girl complimenting Maudie in Night after Night: “Goodness, what beautiful diamonds!” And Maudie’s (aka West’s) beautiful retort: “Goodness had nothing to do with it, dearie.”

This post is part of the Classic Movie Project blogathon. Aurora is featuring groundbreakers on her wonderful site, Once Upon a Screen. Check out posts on her site and on the sites of the other marvelous hosts, Movies Silently and Silver Screenings. Flicker Alley has been kind enough to sponsor the event.

For more of my Mae West love, see my Mae West Moments series.

Share

The Good Stuff: What’s to Love about Fights in Film

9 Comments

Spartacus-fightscene
Talented poet and screenwriter, martial artist, and classics enthusiast Brian Wilkins agreed to guest post for me as part of The Sword and Sandal blogathon, hosted by Moon in Gemini. Check out his wonderful tribute to fight scenes below.

Sometime in 1998, I sit on the floor in my living room watching John “Kickboxing is the sport of the future” Cusack eject Benny “the Jet” Urquidez into a wall of lockers. He then proceeds to tattoo those locker numbers into Benny’s back several times with his foot. After some athletic grappling, the two fumble at each other’s skinny ties and Cusack jams his pen into Benny’s throat. I am overjoyed: Grosse Pointe Blank is everything a boy could wish for.

“Mom,” I say to the horrified woman behind me folding laundry who thought “light action comedy” would be a great choice for family movie night, “I think I want to do that. “

“I would pray you out of it,” she snaps. Mothers in the south can definitely snap and mention prayer in the same breath.

“What? Why?”

“You tell me you want to be an assassin because of a movie and you think…”

“Not an assassin, Mom! Geez. A fight choreographer.”

This comeback mollifies — but not much: “As long as you finish college.”

***
I finished a lot of college and never became a choreographer for anything beyond amateur productions of Shakespeare, but it’s hard to say who I would be without fight scenes in movies. I fenced because of The Princess Bride. I fell in love with Karate after watching Daniel-san wade through a series of talented black belts who inexplicably led with their faces. I even tried to land a crane kick at a tournament: once. I studied epic poetry in grad school because of 13th Warrior.

So when my friend Leah asked me if I’d like to contribute something for this blogathon, I jumped at the chance to look at the fights in gladiator movies. And not just any fights, but material from before Bruce Lee one inch punched his way into America’s heart and everybody was kung fu fighting. What did fighting look like in classic sword and sandal flicks?

Awful. It looks awful. It looks like America (except for James Cagney) couldn’t take a cardboard cutout prior to 1968. Honestly, watching films like The 300 Spartans must have given comfort to our enemies. I don’t know why the Russians didn’t invade.

And while I think even Alexander the Great couldn’t drink Spartans into being entertaining, it actually provides a solid rubric for what makes a good fight scene. It just doesn’t know that’s what it’s doing. Seriously, folks, I don’t think the director had ever heard the word phalanx. The best fight scene in the movie is when Diane Baker judo flips an overly amorous Greek shepherd.

***
Early in Spartans, Persian King Xerxes (David Farrar) argues with traitorous Spartan king Demaratus (Ivan Triesault) over Spartan valor. When Demaratus defends it, Xerxes suggests a fight to the death between Demaratus and a Persian swordsman. I suppose this is because Demaratus is so tiresome Xerxes would rather have him killed and be lost in Greece than listen to him flap his cheeks anymore about Spartan values. I felt that way. The two champions draw their blades in what seems an interminable fight with bowie knives. Xerxes demands, along with the audience, that they hurry it up. Quickly, death comes for the Persian, and Xerxes concedes, much to his boredom, that Spartans can fight.

Let me check my notes for this scene…oh, I just wrote, “WHAT?” about 15 times.

Two guys in tunics rolling around on dinner tables with plus-size steak knives isn’t an epic scene. There’s nothing to distinguish their fighting styles from each other, no real costuming, nothing resembling martial talent — if a fight scene looks like your kindergartner was filming themselves after raiding your closet for costumes, something has gone awry.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not advocating for historical accuracy, but just the exotic fantasy of history. I don’t care, nerds, that Russell Crowe stepped into a stirrup in Gladiator, so long as his wolf skin cloak looks really fabulous while he does it.

But just as important to style, there must be stakes for the viewer. Demaratus is a cowardly traitor: why do we care if he dies? Even this dude’s Spartan mother would spit on his corpse rather than shed a tear over not hearing more of his mind numbing dialog. Nameless Persian Thug #1 is no better. If I can’t feel passion or fear or even a soupcon of lust, why am I watching?

The plot must motivate the action as well. We have to learn something about character in this scene and the logic of the movie must give impetus to the conflict. It’s a bit like a song in a musical: the truth that can’t be said must be expressed and it must change the world we’re seeing. The correct ending in this fight scene was to have the Persian kill Demaratus. Instead, we’re now convinced the Spartans are being underestimated by Xerxes and that they’re nearly invincible. I found myself rooting for the Persians, underdogs that they were.

***
Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954) is like all of the strange pseudo-christian elements of Ben Hur wrapped up in one hell of a bogged down film.

This sequel to The Robe continues in that proud tradition, peppering in a few action scenes with Victor Mature to prod the viewer awake. It made the studios a lot of money, but I can only hope that was due to a paucity of action films…what’s that? Seven Samurai came out the same year? Well, screw it, 1950s America just loves misogynistic Christianity. Shame on you, 1950s. Shame.

Still there are elements in the fights in Demetrius that have potential. Take this clip, where Victor Mature’s Demetrius is throwing away his Christian values to avenge his girlfriend who was accidentally killed (but not really, there’s a magic robe that brings people back to life) by knuckle dragging gladiators at a party. Now that those “turn the other cheek” gloves are off, we can get some real fighting! Good thing her (apparent) death paved the way for some real entertainment! Or something like that.

You may have noticed that Mature uses his shield like a kid with a trash can lid storming the kitchen. I put that down to the vices of the choreographer, Jean Heremans, a fencing champ most noted for choreographing Scaramouche (not just a line from Bohemian Rhapsody, folks). His refined modern fencing style makes perfect sense in that 18th century setting, but it fails the style of the sword and sandal motif. Treating fighting as if it is fencing is the real dereliction of this period of choreography. I can only assume it comes from the same instinct that yearned to put a steak dinner into a pill: progress knows best.

Notice also the curious way of holding the sword with the palm down and the sword to the side, almost a foil fencer’s seconde parry. It feels out of place as a guard with short stabbing weapon and will likely get it smacked out of your hand — just in case you have to fight someone with a trident who knows what they’re doing. Despite a nice moment of dual wielding, the style doesn’t offer much excitement or novelty.

However, in terms of stakes and spirit this fight actually picks up the pace a bit. While I would have preferred any other reason for Demetrius to throw away his values and dig into fighting, his existential crisis adds a tangy zip to the clashing shields. This fight will change his destiny as a character, adding a thrill to what we’re watching. Revenge giving permission to the viewer to sanction violence, while also showing a character’s descent after the fact, and redeeming the character with a deus ex machina (almost literally) reeks of cliché, but that doesn’t mean it’s toothless. And when Demetrius actually gets clobbering a guy like Ty Cobb on opening day, we feel relief because the action initiates the structure of the story. And we like it because the choreography matches the moment and the weapons a bit more: freer and more direct.

But if you’re looking for a more nuanced examination of violence, watch Seven Samurai. Actually, if there’s one lesson you should take from this review, it should be “watch Seven Samurai.”

***
For a taste of a film that lets style guide the way, there’s always Jason and the Argonauts (1963). Ray Harryhausen’s special effects are legendary, precisely for their ability to create a world that, despite having a giant bronze statue really need a hair pin, feels real. In fact, unlike much modern CGI, it’s the actors that feel less real than the animations: a testament to the quality of both.

This clip is so iconic it really needs no introduction.

There are a lot of things to love about this scene, but there are certain moments that stand out for me.

  • The war cry the skeletons give just before charging after Jason and his compatriots: it immediately moves the bony little bastards out of the realm of slouching zombie and into something else entirely.
  • The skeletons get into fighting stances and even seem to relish stabbing the heroes. Their stances are better than anyone else on screen: hunched, menacing, preparing to do ill to the enemy. Jason looks like he just discovered swords over breakfast.
  • The skeletons seem to know how to use their shields. One even hooks a shield into the sea.

But most of all, this scene understands the equipment being used. You can’t stab a skeleton risen from the sown teeth of a hydra! Everyone knows that! Except Jason, who tries it at 3:36 in the clip. And that’s the core of why this scene is great: the heroes have to improvise and start using dodges, feints, throws, and even clubbing the skeletons with the shields (although why no one can seem to stab and block simultaneously is beyond me. I guess we’ll have to wait for Troy).

Though we learn little about the spirit of the characters beyond the fact that Jason is quite content to flee and let his friends die, the stakes in this scene feel high. Perhaps it’s just that as humans we must root for those of us still covered in skin. Perhaps it’s that this idea was fished out from the Hieronymous Bosch corner of the unconscious. But either way, Ray Harryhausen was a genius I wouldn’t have wanted to fight in any place with a sandy floor.

***
There’s no mystery in my mind about the best of the sword and sandal genre. It’s Spartacus, hands down. Ignoring the politics, history, and its place in film for a moment, though, it’s a damn fine fight film. It even has a great training montage! Look, a spinning practice dummy with a mace on it! And there, a spinning blade of death machine! Even face painting!

To set up the scene: Spartacus (Kirk Douglas) has been paired with the more experienced gladiator Draba (Woody Strode), to fight to the death for the amusement of visiting nobles, particularly Crassus (Laurence Olivier).

Good movies work as fractals: little gems of the overall message replayed again and again to make one larger, faceted meaning. This fight tells you all you need to know about the movie, and the tragic but worthwhile attempt of compassion and brotherhood to fight back against a rigged system. It teaches you to ask who the enemy really is. This is a fight between Drapa and Crassus, first and foremost. And the mild annoyance with which Olivier kills Strode, with his distaste for the blood spatter rather than the action of murdering a human being, drives the nature of that character home.

But that moment is preceded and earned by some rather decent fighting. Strode was far too athletic to not take advantage of his size and is a perfect pairing with the trident. Douglas is a little too lightly armored, actually. He should have at least a helmet. The lack here is better than just artistic license and wanting to see the actor’s face: it shows even more how dangerous this fight is for Spartacus, making the act of compassion even greater.

Though he does hold his own. He’s always driving forward, trying to cover the distance and his lack of technique with enthusiasm. And while it ends with a rather spectacular boot to the ribs, Spartacus fights with just enough skill to lose well, which helps momentarily suspend our belief that just because the movie is called, “Spartacus”, he’s unlikely to die at the first real fight.

Though you could wonder if the Romans care at all. The audience talks over the two men fighting to the death at first, allowing us to condemn the Romans for being that annoying couple at the movies who explain the plot as the movie progresses. The inclusion of the audience into the scene makes the points of the movie so well, and asks us to question our own participation. It calls us to act with mercy and courage.

***
The complaint you’ll hear most often about these fight scenes is that they aren’t realistic, by which most people mean gritty or brutal. Fights in real life aren’t as spectacular, they argue, or as technical, and they don’t tell us much about the nobler parts of our role to play as humans. This lack of realism somehow damages the truth a fight may offer. Sometimes they’re right: the samurai master is killed by a punk with a knife at dinner, people windmill at each other over bar stool rights, and most fights are just attacks by predators or drunks.

But that’s why we come to the screen in the first place: to dream our better selves into being. A fight, even a silly one against skeletons, can show us how to be brave, to stand against impossible odds. When asked to surrender by the Nazis during the Battle of the Bulge, Gen. Anthony McAuliffe sent back a telegram with a one word reply: “Nuts!” You can’t write better dialog than that. And that’s what I say to folks who can’t see the beauty in the ringing steel, the athletic achievement, and most importantly, the spirit of laying it all on the line. Except I want to add “you,” and “are.”

by Brian Wilkins

This post is part of the Sword and Sandal blogathon. Check out the other entries here.

Share

Sympathetic Liars: The Book of Mormon & Beat the Devil

2 Comments

BeattheDevil-JenniferJones
Kooky. Bizarre. Silly. Odd. Original. It’s difficult to sum up the strange charm of Beat the Devil (1953), that Truman Capote-penned film* that fits no genre and makes no sense. You have the feeling as you watch that Capote must have been tripping, but his quirky personality, not to mention the strange antics that took place on the set–arm wrestling competitions between him and Humphrey Bogart, celebrity drop-ins who dictated costuming, etc.–may do something to explain its odd mishmash of mystery, comedy, and social commentary. I’ve never been a fan of Jennifer Jones, but she won me here as Mrs. Gwendolen Chelm, a seemingly ordinary wife who has the imagination of Capote, and no compunction about confusing her fantasies with reality. She is truly the director of the show. Just ask this question: “What would a film be like if a compulsive, whimsical fantasist got to rule the plot?” Your answer is Beat the Devil.

The film’s heroine reminds me of Arnold from the hilarious musical The Book of Mormon, and his twisting of the Mormon faith to convert Ugandans. (Minor spoiler: If you haven’t seen it, Elder Arnold Cunningham adds Boba Fett and some unfortunate AIDS-curing frogs to his faith’s origin story.) While an everyday liar provides little narrative interest, Chelm’s degree of imagination, as with Wes Anderson’s many heroes, seems to color the world with such an enormous brush that it’s hard not to become enthralled by her, as Bogart’s character is throughout Beat the Devil.

I dare not attempt to explain the plot to you, what little there is of one. It’s better if you simply start watching and see where it takes you. That’s clearly what Capote intended, and as any casual reader of his life knows, hanging out with Capote on a boring, rainy Sunday was probably thrilling. Watch the film. It’s as close to experiencing the mind of that fascinating socializer and entertainer, that creator of world-famous parties and disastrous scandals, as any of us are now likely to get.

*According to Gerald Clarke, Truman’s biographer, John Huston’s screenplay contribution was probably negligible.

Share

The Dark Humor of High Noon (1952)

6 Comments

HighNoon
**Contains spoilers**

When I watched High Noon many years ago, I was struck by its pacing, its intensity, its seriousness. This time, I kept laughing. There’s something comic about watching Marshal Will Kane (Gary Cooper) aimlessly tread around the town, waiting for someone, anyone to assist him. I found myself curious (having forgotten most of the details) not whether he’d find aid, but just what methods of bailing on responsibility his fellow townspeople would employ.

The judge (Otto Kruger) is, of course, is my favorite. Having passed sentence on Frank Miller (Ian MacDonald), a killer who has now been freed and is headed to town for revenge, the judge opts for exiting pronto. He tells Kane, the marshal who caught Miller, to do the same. His advice is a cynical history lesson about how little one can rely on civilian ethics when danger is afoot–an account of Athenians who welcomed a tyrant they’d once banished, and watched as he executed their government; an incident much like one that recently occurred in a nearby town. The judge shares these accounts as he casually packs away his flag and scales of justice.

ScalesofJusticeOttoKruger
His assessment about the value of the people he’s leaving to the mercy of an outlaw is almost as breathtakingly cold as the clock speech in The Third Man: “This is just a dirty little village in the middle of nowhere. Nothing that happens here is really important. Now get out.” The former marshal (Lon Chaney, Jr.), Kane’s mentor, is likewise a ray of light: “People got to talk themselves into law and order..down deep, they don’t care. They just don’t care.” Poor Kane is asking for just a bit of support before he takes on a posse, and these are his cheerleaders.

Of course, it’s hard not to love Kane, even as you wonder whether there’s a better way to overcome Miller than the one he’s devised (i.e., shoot it out).

Cooper-HighNoon
“I’ve got lots to do,” Kane keeps saying as the minutes creep by. But really, he doesn’t. He has to warn Helen Ramirez (former lover to both him and Miller), ask for volunteer deputies, and write a brief will. But this is a small town, easily navigated, and these tasks are quickly accomplished. What he really has to do is busy himself to avoid dwelling on the cowardice of his companions and his own slim chances for survival if he stays in town until noon, when Miller is arriving.

While Ramirez (Katy Jurado) is the most interesting character, it’s clearly Kane’s new bride, Amy (Grace Kelly), who brings on the dark humor.

JuradoandKelly
First, there’s the fact that she’s just had the biggest bummer of a wedding day ever. Then there’s the small detail that she’s a Quaker who has married a marshal. I don’t think I have to tell you that she may not be the wisest of women. Sure, he’s retiring; the new marshal is arriving the next day, and the newlyweds are planning to leave town and to run a store elsewhere before they hear about Miller. But surely five minutes of Kane’s obdurate behavior during courtship would have enlightened Amy that this whole conversion business–of both faith and career–wasn’t going to work so well. (Admittedly, given the pickings we see of the townspeople during the film, she may still have made the best choice of a mate she could.) And of course, it’s quite amusing that a woman who has to overcome her beliefs–not dodge them–is the only helper Kane receives. No wonder Kane throws his star on the ground after besting Miller.

That the film would include such darkness isn’t surprising from a screenwriter (Carl Foreman) who had been blacklisted before High Noon even came out. What he was witnessing of former friends and those he must have once respected couldn’t have led to idealism. Apparently, John Wayne scorned the film as anti-American, and Rio Bravo is a reinterpretation, with more admirable townspeople. While I agree with the movie’s distance from Wayne’s optimism, I think Foreman’s (and the original story’s) cynicism goes much deeper than any individual country, any specific belief system. It’s a simple, sadly humorous morality tale about human nature: while there may be rare moments of heroism (like Kane’s), typically, when the going gets tough, the “tough” scatter.

Share

New TV Show on Bette Davis and Joan Crawford!!

2 Comments

BetteandJoanWhateverHappenedtoBabyJane
FX is bringing classic movie buffs’ favorite sparring partners, Bette and Joan, to the screen. And the leads for the pair? Susan Sarandon and Jessica Lange. How lucky are we? The show, aptly titled Feud, will also feature some amazing costars. The only downside? We have to wait until 2017.

Join me as I watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? on repeat to rev up excitement for its debut!

Share

Surreal Reproduction: When Bette Met Mae (2014)

Leave a Comment

WhenBetteMetMaeOn November 13, 1973 Wes Wheadon was the bartender for a party that joined  superstars Mae West (Victoria Mills) and Bette Davis (Karen Teliha) for the first time. He captured their encounter on audio tape, and then reenacted the event with lip-syncing actors, producing it more than 40 years later.

On the one hand, the film is fascinating–capturing the mutual admiration between these two strong female icons, particularly Davis’s for her hilarious predecessor. On the other, the poor quality of the audio gives me a skeezy feeling, like this recorder was hidden in a drawer and the actresses unaware, or the whole thing was faked or improperly edited for effect (not hard with such easily imitated voices). I know that the time period and recorder quality are likely responsible for the seeming sketchiness, but since both women are long dead and the event likely forgotten, it’s hard not to question even as you’re enjoying the interplay between these heroines of the screen.

I was fascinated by Davis’s descriptions of her battles for control and for actors’ rights, as with her recounting of Ronald Reagan’s tenure as SAG president. She suggests he sold out his fellow actors for the sake of his own future political gain.

Such blunt talk from Davis (who is drinking vodka and OJ throughout) is typical of the film. Her lines throughout are funny, and often outrageous:

“My enthusiasm is exhausting.”

“I tried to turn for years (into a lesbian). I thought it’d be so simple.”

(on the idea of marrying another man) “You kidding? End up supporting them?”

And some of West’s lines are equally fabulous, as in response to Davis’s question of whether she’d marry now (at 80):

“Well, I’d wanna see him first.”

But what I like best are West’s descriptions of the making of I’m No Angel, and her reflection that she’d always wanted to be a lion tamer (because of course she did). And her thoughts about her writing, as when she admits it could take her a day to come up with a great line. The studios besides Paramount, she claims, “were kicking against me too” during the Production Code years. She explains one of her methods to preserve her material. Originally, she says, the films would be shot and screened, and then the censors would shout out what they wanted eliminated. Instead, she had censors read and cut lines from her screenplays before they were filmed. She would add material before sharing the script that she knew they’d eliminate (“I start putting in stuff that I myself wouldn’t do”), hopefully preserving more of her actual lines in the process.

And, of course, one of the pleasures of the movie is when both women express their reactions to the male impersonators who’ve loved them so much over the years….

I can’t exactly recommend the film, as Wheadon’s narration is cheesy, and much of the interview is hard to hear, making its accuracy difficult to trust. But it IS a fun, remarkable conversation (true as experienced/not), and if you have Amazon Prime, it’s free.

This post is part of my monthly series on West.

Share

Big Fish: A Kettle of Oscar Snubs

4 Comments

EdwardandgiantBigFish
Director Tim Burton’s beautiful Big Fish was shut out of all Oscar nominations in 2004 but for original score (which it didn’t win). The director’s work is often dismissed as creative, but too weird, or lovely, but lacking in feeling. The same critiques, by the way, the Coen brothers and Wes Anderson hear often. Yet in Big Fish, Burton vividly renders the elusive, big-hearted whimsy of Daniel Wallace’s book, telling a father-son story that is sad, wise, and funny all at once.

Let’s discuss the many nominations it should have received, starting with the most egregious omission:

Best Actor in a Supporting Role

AlbertFinneyBigFish
Billy Crudup, not Albert Finney, is the star of the film. Will (Crudup) resents his father, Edward (Finney), for always traveling away from home while he was a kid, even suspects he had a second family. The yarn-telling skills that endear others to Edward annoy his son, who considers his father a liar. “You’re like Santa Claus and the Easter bunny combined,” Will says, “just as charming and just as fake.” The two haven’t spoken in several years, until Edward’s final illness draws his son home to resolve their issues. Edward prickles at his son’s anger: “I’ve been nothing but myself since the day I was born, and if you can’t see that, it’s your failing, not mine.”

Finney’s performance is magical. There’s no other word for it. How much personality and spirit he’s able to convey, even though he spends most of the film in bed! And Ewan McGregor exudes his usual charm, as he captures Edward as a youth, full of outsized ambition and enthusiasm. Burton lets us see Edward’s young adulthood not through the actual events, but through the imaginative way he recounts them: the boy spits out of his mother’s body like a cannonball when born, he sees his death in a witch’s eye, saves his town from a giant. When Edward leaves home and travels down a forsaken road, he spots a sign: Warning: Jumping Spiders. Edward’s description of this obstacle illustrates both the amusing cadence of his language, and his indomitable spirit: “Now there comes a point when a reasonable man will swallow his pride and admit that he’s made a terrible mistake,” narrates McGregor. “The truth is, I was never a reasonable man.”

In 2004’s Academy Awards, the supporting actors were Benicio Del Toro (21 Grams), Alec Baldwin (The Cooler), Djimon Hounsou (In America), Ken Watanabe (The Last Samurai), and Tim Robbins (Mystic River). I admire all of these actors, and have seen all but 21 Grams. I’d put Finney over them all, and Ewan McGregor (also supporting) over most. Baldwin was very good, but it’s not his most nuanced performance. Hounsou played a very one-dimensional role (as he typically does despite his skills), and I barely recall either Ken Watanabe’s or Tim Robbins’ performances.

But Finney’s? I’ve never been able to get it out of my head. As Edward, he is haunting and lovable, resentful and stubborn and inexpressibly sweet.

Had he been mistakenly chosen for a Best Actor nomination, Finney still should have been in the list, which included Sean Penn (Mystic River), Jude Law (Cold Mountain), Ben Kingsley (House of Sand and Fog), Bill Murray (Lost in Translation), and Johnny Depp (Pirates of the Caribbean). I would have been torn between him and Murray as deserving of the win.

By the way, Jessica Lange plays Edward’s wife. She wasn’t in the film enough to earn a nomination, I suspect, but what an impact she makes in her few lovely moments, capturing the endurance of the love affair that is at the root of 90 percent of his stories. (No wonder she doesn’t share her son’s anger.) Here are the sweethearts in a tub together, fully clothed:

LangeandFinney

Best Director, Best Picture
Nominees, Best Picture: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (winner), Lost in Translation, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, Mystic River, and Seabiscuit.

Nominees, Best Director: Winner Peter Jackson (The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King), Fernando Meirelles (City of God), Sofia Coppola (Lost in Translation), Peter Weir (Master and Commander), and Clint Eastwood (Mystic River)

Jackson and his film probably deserved the win among those nominees, as the weight of translating Tolkien to film was so daunting that the man deserved a medal simply for attempting it, much less succeeding. And Meirelles created one of the most riveting and best edited films I’ve ever seen. It must be the foreign language that knocked it out of best-pic contention, to the Academy’s shame (as it definitely deserved the win).

But I do quibble with the other best picture and director nominees. Lost in Translation was a creative film, but without Bill Murray at the helm, would have been forgettable. The unspeakably dull Master and Commander proved to me once and for all that male voters dominate the Academy. If “chick flicks” can’t be nominated, why do I have to put up with something that’s one step up from a video game? Seabiscuit was a winning story, but a bit too saccharine, and Mystic River, like everything Eastwood does, was overwrought and completely lacking in subtlety.

It’s hard to imagine many of the voters bothered to watch Big Fish, as surely it outranks Seabiscuit in sentiment, and manages to say something meaningful about the power of story, its capacity to help us not only overcome obstacles, but survive loss. Surely storytellers—i.e., those involved in film—would have gravitated to such a theme?

Best Writing, Adapted Screenplay
Nominees: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens, Peter Jackson, winners), American Splendor (Shari Springer Berman, Robert Pulcini), City of God (Bráulio Mantovani), Mystic River (Brian Helgeland), and Seabiscuit (Gary Ross)

This category was tough in 2004, but it’s clear that few voters read the novel, understood the challenge of translating it to film. Unlike Seabiscuit, for example, this was not a traditional narrative. It’s a recursive, poetic recounting of moments. It’s even divided into fragments rather than chapters. The book intentionally circles, the author explaining in interviews that myth does as well. And in truth, so do our lives: so many moments in our existence recall others. Our bodies may decline in a chronological fashion, but our minds, our experiences, don’t work that way at all. As the film’s script explains, “Fate has a way of circling back on a man, and taking him by surprise.”

The scene of Edward’s death, for example, is repeated multiple times throughout the book, each version telling readers something different. John August distilled the story, threaded enough of the moments together to form a comprehensible narrative, and yet retained the recursive, fanciful spirit of the original. His achievement, quite simply, is a triumph. And though I would leave those first three films on the list, I think Mystic River or Seabiscuit should have been bumped to include August’s work.

Best Art Direction-Set Decoration; Best Cinematography
I’ll confess that I feel in deepest water when I discuss the visuals of a film. I don’t think, however, that many would dispute that the enchantment of Big Fish is largely a result of its execution of Burton’s vision; it’s rare that I am so enthralled by what I see that I long to take a snapshot of every moment. I’m curious why this film wasn’t considered worthy of awards based on artistic merit, if nothing else for the images’ perfect cohesiveness with the storytelling. Edward complains that his son doesn’t tell stories well, that he gives “all of the facts, none of the flavor.” That certainly cannot be said of the art direction of this film. In parting, I’ll just leave you with a few of my favorite visuals:

JennycrushBigFish

Timestandingstill-BigFish

carintreeBigFish

daffodilsBigFish
This post is part of The 31 Days of Oscar blogathon, hosted by Aurora of Once Upon a Screen (@CitizenScreen), Kellee (@IrishJayHawk66) of Outspoken & Freckled, and Paula (@Paula_Guthat) of Paula’s Cinema Club. Visit their sites for all of the wonderful entries. Kellee is hosting the snubs.

Share

A Classic Christmas Romance for Any Day

21 Comments

RemembertheNight
How do you create a Christmas film that is sentimental, without dripping it in eggnog? Especially when you’ve agreed to make it a romance between a shoplifter and her prosecutor, and set it in *gulp* Indiana, which is  peppered with cornpone clichés in every cinematic portrayal? Miraculously, Remember the Night (1940) not only steers through these dangers, but manages to be fresh, original, funny, even moving, thanks to four very wise decisions:

1. Trusting Screenwriter Preston Sturges

Tone is a tricky thing, and Sturges was a master at it. He knew how long he could get away with sentiment, when to cut it with humor.

In trouble for trespassing

Caught trespassing

He developed complex leads. John, the hero (Fred MacMurray), is introduced to us as a wised-up NYC DA. He comes across as jaded and unfeeling in his treatment of the repeat shoplifter (Barbara Stanwyck). Yet we can’t help but laugh at his humorous take on the defense attorney’s silly ruses to win the trial, and admire his own tricks to postpone it. His decision to later assist Lee reveals a soft side Sturges further develops when the character is home with his relatives.

The shoplifter, Lee, is played by Stanwyck. I know I don’t really need to say anything else (see below), but during the trial, expressions–hope, disillusionment, amusement, anger–move quickly over her face, revealing that her hard life hasn’t completely hardened her. When John, feeling guilty about her jail time over the holidays, springs her until the second trial, she (thanks to the dirty mind of his bondsman) ends up at his apartment. At first, she assumes the worst. But when she discovers the mistake, she starts to enjoy John’s company, and the two end up traveling home to Indiana for Christmas–he, to see his beloved family; she, to visit the mother she hasn’t seen since she ran away.

In other hands, the plot wouldn’t have worked; I wouldn’t have even watched it had someone else written it. I am tired of portrayals of my home state, which is typically drawn as either the embodiment of (a) homespun happiness or (b) hickville. But Sturges avoids the trap by giving us a variety of Hoosiers. Stanwyck and MacMurray are both streetwise, smart, and sophisticated. While John’s mother and aunt initially appear to be simple souls, neither is a stereotype. Sturges gives each insight, making the scenes with them far more complex than they initially appear, and allowing us to enjoy the sentimentality of a homey xmas when it comes. Similarly, the scene with Lee’s cold mother, which could have played as far too maudlin, is beautifully understated and short.

True, Sturges does have some missteps. He makes the servant/helper Willie a rube (Sterling Holloway). He’s even an aspiring yodeler. Seriously? I decided that Willie was OK because he canceled out John’s simpleminded African American butler in New York, Rufus (Fred Toones, one of Sturges’ stock players). (I’ll take cinematic classism over racism any day.)

As the director, Mitchell Leisen doesn’t get enough credit for the film’s quality (nor did he get enough credit for Easy Living or Midnight). I’m particularly impressed with his choices of which look to linger upon, which face to highlight, in which moment. But more importantly, the story’s pacing–one of its chief charms–is due to Leisen choosing to cut some of Sturges’ script, according to Ella Smith. Given that there’s a breeziness to many of Leisen’s comedies, it’s hard to argue pacing is all to his writers’ credit. Surely, too, it should be seen as an asset when a director trusts his writers, as Leisen surely did. According to Smith, he even agreed to keep the title, despite having no idea what it meant.

2. Selecting Talented Actresses as the Resident Hoosiers

BondiPatterson-1
Character actresses Beulah Bondi (John’s mom) and Elizabeth Patterson (his aunt) would win acclaim for The Waltons and I Love Lucy, respectively, later in their careers; it’s not hard to understand why. The two, familiar faces in a number of 30s and 40s hits, mesh so beautifully it’s hard to believe they aren’t really sisters. Watch Patterson’s reaction when she shares a dress from her past with Lee, or Bondi’s worry as she watches her son’s increasing attraction to the shoplifter he’s prosecuting.

3. Casting an Understated Actor as the Hero

MacMurrayRemembertheNight
MacMurray is good in everything. He and Stanwyck would, of course, pair up again for the landmark noir, Double Indemnity. But this is the performance that won me over. Watch the scene when he meets Lee’s mom, how gracefully, subtly he handles it. The brevity and tone of the scene, of course, help, but another actor would surely have overplayed his reactions. Instead, MacMurray’s smooth, simple words, with just a twinge of emphasis, say just what needs to be said: this mother is a monster, and Lee’s criminality is no longer mysterious. (Spielberg would have launched a huge, weepy score; thank you, Leisen, for not doing so.)

4. Choosing Stanwyck as the Star

StanwyckRemembertheNight
The soul of the story is Stanwyck’s. She has to sell the moral quandary: Will she give in to romance with John, knowing it will kill his career? We have to care about her, about her struggle. We have to root both for the couple’s happiness AND for morality winning the day. We have to sympathize as John’s occasional denseness hurts her feelings, and laugh at her quick bursts of anger when it does. We have to even let some realism in (how’s that for a rom-com shock?): acknowledge that love does not, in fact, conquer all; in fact, sometimes it’s very much in the way (at least temporarily). It’s quite a balancing act Stanwyck must play; if she gives him up, the movie could become soapy very easily. If she doesn’t, how could her performance come across as real; how could we continue to root for her? Other actresses might have missed the target, but not this one. Sentiment, comedy–the woman did it all, beautifully, and as naturally as any performer I’ve ever seen. Because of her, you will love the film, December 25th or July 2nd.

At the Golden Globes the other night, Tom Hanks mentioned Stanwyck’s name in his fantastic presentation of the Cecil B. DeMille Award. He explained that the winner, Denzel Washington, was one of an elite group of great actors who “demand” our attention, who can’t be duplicated. “The history of film,” he said, “includes a record of actors who accrue a grand status through a body of work where every role, every choice is worthy of our study. You cannot copy them. You can, at best, sort of emulate them….Now it’s odd how many of these immortals of the silver screen, of the firmament, need only one name to conjure the gestalt of their great artistry. In women, it’s names like Garbo, Hepburn, Stanwyck, Loren.”

The speech, of course, justified watching the rest of the show. I’m not always a fan of Hanks’ work (he’s far better in comedy than drama), but his wisdom is evident. So was Sturges’; in his third turn as a writer-director, his first with a female lead, he would cast Stanwyck as his Eve and make movie history. The Lady Eve so impressed us all that this quieter, earlier effort has been forgotten. It shouldn’t be.

This post is part of the Barbara Stanwyck blogathon, hosted by Crystal at In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood. Check out the fabulous entries on my favorite star at her site.

Share