Film

Airplane!: The Joy of Recognizing Classic Movie References

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**Spoilers about George Gipp ahead**

The other day I was watching Airplane! with some friends. For the first time, I caught that the film includes a hilarious spoof of Knute Rockne’s “Win One for the Gipper” speech, that speech leaders of underdogs everywhere like to imitate. Popularized by Knute Rockne-All American (1940), the speech was given by the famous Notre Dame football coach when his team was losing against Army in 1928. In the speech he references his former player, George Gipp, the National Football Hall of Famer who died tragically in his mid-twenties. Pat O’Brien plays Rockne beautifully in the movie, capturing some of the cadence of his words, and using understated sadness where another would have gone for drama. Eight years after his famous player’s death, Rockne discusses Gipp’s last words with his losing team (in real life, and in the film):

“I’m going to tell you something I’ve kept to myself for years,” says Rockne (O’Brien). “None of you ever knew George Gipp (Ronald Reagan). It was long before your time. But you know what a tradition he is at Notre Dame… And the last thing he said to me: ‘Rock,’ he said ‘sometime, when the team is up against it — and the breaks are beating the boys — tell them to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper…’ I don’t know where I’ll be then, Rock,’ he said – ‘but I’ll know about it – and I’ll be happy.'”

Of course, the team wins, and history is made.

Ronald Reagan’s deathbed scene in the film, of course, meant he was associated with the name George Gipp, as different as they were. Gipp, phenomenally talented as a football player, was very modest about his accomplishments. He was an interesting man, too: actually preferred another sport, spent time gambling with out-of-towners who thought South Bend hicks could never beat them (afterward secretly giving his winnings to charity). Always, Gipp displayed an allergy to limelight.

Once I learned Gipp’s true story, I became horrified that Reagan’s presidency had turned Gipp’s legacy into a promotion campaign. Of course, Airplane! (1980) would capitalize on the humor of this discrepancy. The movie came out before Ronald Reagan’s first White House term, but the politician had made two runs for the Republican nomination before getting it in 1980; there are digs on his acting in the film. And then the perfect parody: In a moment when Ted Striker (Robert Hays) is despairing about his poor chances of landing the plane, with death certain for all if he doesn’t, in comes Dr. Rumack-Don’t-Call-Me-Shirley (Leslie Nielsen) to give Striker a hilarious pep talk. Almost word for word, it’s Rockne’s speech. Nielsen even captures the coach’s understated style. To give a football speech in such a moment is very tacky–in even more ways that most viewers might suspect: Rockne died in a plane crash. Screenwriters Jim Abrahams, David Zucker, and Jerry Zucker capture inappropriate uses of Gipp’s name and of his coach’s tribute by using both inappropriately in their own film.

But I wasn’t thinking of any of those details as I watched. What I felt was a thrill, that delightful shock of recognition every classic film fan feels when she sees or hears a reference to an old favorite. And I didn’t think it was possible, but Airplane! is even funnier than I thought. How marvelous.

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Meg Ryan’s Fate Foretold in Joe Versus the Volcano

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Meg Ryan has had a peculiar career: America’s darling after When Harry Met Sally (1989), she has struggled to avoid typecasting as the perky cute girl ever since, and largely failed, settling for a saccharine portrayal in Sleepless in Seattle (1993), and veering into downright parody of her persona in the remakes You’ve Got Mail (1998) and The Women (2008), with brief moments of authenticity (When a Man Loves a Woman) in between. While some of the blame must rest with Ryan, it’s clear that Hollywood producers failed to recognize (or thought audiences would) the depth in When Harry Met Sally, instead plying the poor actress with cane sugar ever since. That’s why it’s so fascinating to peer earlier into Ryan’s career, when the exploration of character was (at least partially) her own to make. Joe Versus the Volcano (1990) is particularly fascinating since she plays three roles, which curiously foretell her fate.

The plot is strange, so I’ll just begin with the basics: Joe’s (Tom Hanks’) fears–especially for his health–keep him mired in a dreadful job, until a dire prognosis unexpectedly snaps him out of depression and leads him on a journey to an island where an odd fate awaits him. He goes on a date with coworker DeDe (Ryan) before he departs, then meets half-sisters Angelica (Ryan) and Patricia (Ryan) on his journey. Attracted to all three (he keeps saying they look familiar), Hanks falls for only one, Patricia, who captains the boat to his destination, and plays a part in what awaits him there.

In DeDe, Ryan channels Easy Living‘s (1937) Mary Smith (Jean Arthur). Naïve and sweet and just a little lost, DeDe disperses–at least a little–the heavy gloom of the office, where she and Joe suffocate under fluorescent lighting and the repetitive yelling of their boss (Dan Hedaya, in a darkly funny turn).

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When Joe quits the job and asks DeDe out, it’s an act of salvation, and you can’t help but laugh at her startled, perky response to finding the dead weight in her office come to vivid life. Like Arthur, Ryan performs this role with relish and charm, with a chirpy voice that doesn’t quite grate in the small time we’re listening to it. Much more time spent with this character would start to wear audiences thin (as Arthur does for me–uncharacteristically–in Easy Living).

Next Joe encounters oddball Angelica (Ryan), who calls herself a flibbertigibbet.

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We viewers soon question her characterization, realizing that this woman has no idea who she is. She’s donned a pretentious, flat delivery and tired expressions culled from movies in her LA home. Her clothes likewise seem costumish, as does her carefully stylish smoking. She’s a combination of affectations she’s adopted, none of which can delay for long the depression and fragility just beyond her careful poise. If DeDe recalls the cute head bobbing and springy step Ryan deployed too consciously by the point of You’ve Got Mail, Angelica conveys her pain at the impersonation, her relief at capturing her fuller self in movies such as When a Man Loves a Woman.

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And of course, in Patricia, Joe’s last Ryan encounter, we find our heroine. Healthy besides being “soul sick” for taking her father’s money, Patricia is smart and strong and brave, our Jean (Barbara Stanwyck) of The Lady Eve (1941). Like Jean, she’s an “adventuress on the high seas” and wise enough to guide Joe on the final steps of his self-discovery.

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This is the Ryan we love: cute, yes, but only in moments of glee; she’s bold and womanly and fun, yet vulnerable and flawed. It’s the type of role Ryan excelled at. While the two other parts feel like conscious acts (and should be, as the roles are archetypes rather than fully sketched-out characters), this last she fully embodies. And we see the Stanwyck type of performer she could have consistently been, had When Harry not doomed her to full-on cuteness.

As for the film itself, what to say? It’s about redemption and faith, journeys physical and spiritual, but is most remembered for orange soda and hypochondria jokes.

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The fact is, Joe versus the Volcano (1990) is an odd duck of a film. Its uneven tone and quirky storytelling won it both mockery and box office failure, and a trail of cult devotees ever since. Frank Capra and Preston Sturges fans will adore it, especially those who admire those directors’ darker-tinged fare, Sullivan’s Travels (1941) and Meet John Doe (1941) and The Miracle Woman (1931). But snooty film types will scoff (tellingly, Roger Ebert loved it); they’ll say it’s silly. And they’re right–it is silly. Fundamentally so.

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But, as one devotee pointed out, you need to remember that the writer/director is John Patrick Shanley, who also helmed and wrote Doubt (2008) and penned Moonstruck (1987); this guy may be consumed with issues of faith and hope, but he also loves distracting diatribes about fake hands voiced by Nicholas Cage. If you’re not open to that kind of genre blending, you’ll hate the movie. But if you agree with me that Shanley’s work has a peculiar beauty and insight, you’ll find yourself riveted and laughing, admiring Tom Hanks’ finest performance, and one of the funniest portrayals of both fashion (thanks to Ossie Davis) and workplace culture in any medium. It’s even romantic, with the two leads’ chemistry revealing what a better script and direction could have made of You’ve Got Mail.

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And the soundtrack is so unbelievably fun and fitting that you won’t ever hear one of those songs again without picturing the story.

For me, this movie was life altering. I watched it first in the theater, and couldn’t stop laughing at the opening scene of work drudgery. But no one else was laughing. Surprised, I turned to my buddy, Carrie, and saw that she was enjoying it too. We called our sicknesses after that “brain clouds” (you have to see the film), and the movie represented for me that wonderful thing between friends: a joke you get that others don’t, a bond you share that others don’t understand. Something that in snobby moments makes you feel special, and in more enlightened ones makes you appreciative. I was in high school then, still finding my way, and it was lovely to find through Joe a compatriot in Carrie, to realize that quirkiness need not be isolating, that it can be, in fact, a source of joy. My loud laughter in silent theaters has been a constant ever since.

I’ve been watching the film again today for my entry in the wonderful Dual Roles blogathon, hosted by Christina Wehner and Silver Screenings. (Check out great entries here!) And as I view the movie, I find myself hoping, like Joe: I hope Ryan stops stalling on DeDe and Angelica, and instead gets her Patricia back, gives us in future performances that authenticity that was so wholly hers at the start. She should watch the film again, remember that Joe, like her, lost his way for years, and found it again. Maybe if she watches it she’ll rediscover that energy and spirit and realness that charmed us all, and are still hers to reclaim.

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Mae West’s Lessons for Groundbreakers

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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.

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

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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.

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Sympathetic Liars: The Book of Mormon & Beat the Devil

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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.

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Schoolboy Fantasies: The Mannequin in Film

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One Touch of Venus (1948) is a combination of myth and the classic Pygmalion tale: What if a window dresser kissed a statue of the love goddess, and instead of getting institutionalized, became an object of the suddenly warm-bodied immortal’s affection?

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The execution of the film is as silly as the premise; the movie (a musical in its previous version) can’t decide what it wants to be, and a rom-com with a few singing interludes doesn’t quite cut it, nor can its star (Ava Gardner) figure out what form her acting should take (statue-like? goddess-like? human like?) (I suspect this is the film Beckinsale watched before The Aviator.)

But in spite of its unevenness, there’s something strangely fascinating about the film, something very meta in its casting, for example. Just a few years later Gardner would pose for a strikingly similar statue by a different artist in The Barefoot Contessa (1954), as if to confirm just how otherworldly her beauty was.

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Her gorgeousness is contrasted to Eddie’s (Robert Walker’s) awkwardness. His character (unlike the versatile actor himself) has very little charisma, wit, wealth, or personality to recommend him.

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She’s attainable, boys, the casting director might as well have called out. Even this geeky window dresser can get her.

What’s odd is how frequently this statue story gets played out in film, and how similar the casting is in each case. The closest versions in terms of character dynamics came out in the 80s, Mannequin (1987) and Weird Science (1985). In each version, the unattainable beauty is not only attracted to an awkward, boyish goof, but pursues him: Venus chases Eddie when he flees, just as the mannequin-come-to-life Emmy (Kim Cattrall) seduces awkward store employee Andrew McCarthy in Mannequin (1987).

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Lisa (supermodel Kelly LeBrock) pouts at the abandonment of her creators, socially awkward Gary (Anthony Michael Hall) and Wyatt (Ilan Mitchell-Smith), in Weird Science (1985). 

Beauty & the geek

Beauty & the geek

Sex objects?

Sex objects?

It is, in other words, a very transparent stick-it-to-the-cheerleader-who-snubbed-me schoolboy fantasy, and its pervasiveness in film culture is a testament to the power of denial.

What elevates One Touch of Venus beyond unintentional camp is the presence of Eve Arden as the smart-talking secretary of the store owner (Tom Conway) who bought the statue. Her responses to the absurdity of Venus’s (and by extension, Gardner’s) beauty are hilarious: her reaction to the siren’s tiny shoes, to the impact of her presence on the male body, to the inevitable comparisons a gal must draw to her own form after encountering the goddess’s.

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I also enjoyed the occasional winks to the audience, as when Eddie tries to make sense of Venus’s presence, and Gardner coos, “Now don’t ask a lot of questions, you’ll only get confused.” Or when he asks about former lovers Venus has converted to animal or inanimate form, then decides he doesn’t care: “You can turn me into a fire hydrant or a mountain goat if you want to, it’s worth it.” Such moments point to the funny parody this film could have been, with just a touch more consistency of style–and a lot less romance.

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Which Will Rogers Clip Should Poli Sci Fans See?

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Will Rogers-pres
I keep thinking of one of Will Rogers’ famous lines as I observe the loopholes the GOP leadership is exploring to oust Trump: “If stupidity got us into this mess, why can’t it get us out?” (Don’t you think Lindsey Graham, with his recent political zingers, and clear future as a humorist, is likely studying the old cowboy right now?)

I have never seen one of Rogers’ films/full sketches, and yet I love understatement, Rogers’ specialty. So for today’s post, in honor of DC’s caucus, and whatever might happen there, I’m putting out a request to all of you classic comedy buffs out there. Which Rogers film/clip do I have to see?

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5 Holiday Meal Planning Fears on Film (aka, It Could Be Much Worse)

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5. The Meal Scars Your Company: Better Off Dead (1985)
Take comfort in the quality of your cooking after watching (a) Lane’s (John Cusack’s) mother boil bacon just days before her holiday feast and (b) Lane accidentally passing a guest primer instead of liquor.

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4. Your Guests Never Show: Dinner at 8 (1933)
Your guests will never be as distracted as those invited to Millicent’s (Billie Burke’s) pretentious dinner party. Watching their disastrous lives unfold the day of the event makes you question (a) why she’d want to see them and (b) what could make all this stress worthwhile. It’s not a holiday film, but Burke’s nervous fluttering and what-was-I-thinking speech reminded me of all the times I unwisely agreed to plan a social event.

Hostess Flipping Out

3. The Oven/Power Goes Out: Pieces of April (2003)
I live in New England, where power is never a certainty, so watching April (Katie Holmes) improvise when her oven fails her is inspiring in this sweet, funny, and frequently heartbreaking film with Holmes as a sweet daughter who can never satisfy her mom (Patricia Clarkson).

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(In fact, my power went out yesterday, and last year at Thanksgiving too, in a cruel joke against my neighbors with stacked fridges and visitors en route.)

2. Old Family Wounds Fester: Home for the Holidays (1995)

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Three siblings squabble in this hilarious Thanksgiving delight. Holly Hunter is charming; Robert Downey, Jr. hilarious, moving, and annoying in equal measures; and Cynthia Stevenson both cruel and empathetic in her disconnection to her more lighthearted siblings. Add Anne Bancroft as the mother and Henry Larson as the father, and you’ll wonder how you missed this howlingly funny, yet poignant tribute to family.

1. The Mother from Hell Arrives: The Ref (1994)
In my favorite holiday movie, thief Denis Leary runs interference with a divorce-bound couple, played by Judy Davis and Kevin Spacey, in performances that rival those in War of the Roses (1989). You will think no two people can be more comically cruel to one another, until Spacey’s mother (Glynis Johns) arrives.

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There you have it: Cinematic proof that no matter how awful your Thanksgiving turns out, it could have been much, much worse.

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Long Films: Why Hollywood Is Failing Viewers

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I love going to the theater, getting my popcorn, staring at that big screen. I look forward to the lights going down, the previews. But lately, I find myself opting to stay home. Not because the “golden age” of TV makes me prefer HBOathons. Not because of the ticket prices. I simply don’t have 4 hours to spare, and apparently, that’s what I need to allot to see an action film today–even a comedy.

Take a look at current offerings:

  • Spectre: 2 hours, 28 minutes*
  • The Martian: 2 hours, 24 minutes
  • Bridge of Spies: 2 hours, 21 minutes
  • The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 2: 2 hours, 17 minutes

Factor in the time it takes to get to and from the theater, park, get tickets, and find a seat, and you’ve now lost up to five hours of your day. It isn’t a nice break in the day; it is your day. Talk about awkward first dates: Hello, I just met you. Now let’s spend 5 hours together. I know I’m not alone in my irritation about this trend. And since so many of us spend hours sitting in front of computers, that much time in stiff seats isn’t exactly what the chiropractor ordered either.

What I find baffling about these bloated times is that editing techniques have improved dramatically in the last 90 years. I can trim a film on my computer. Why not use these techniques, or, I don’t know, hire an editor for the screenplay? And if Hollywood really wants to compete with television, is length really the only asset at its disposal? Might not convenience play a part in dwindling ticket sales? 3-5 hours of time to spare is anything but manageable for the average single person, much less a family.

Drawn-out action films particularly offend me. How long can the fevered pitch of an action film keep you enthralled? In the celebrated 60s Bond flicks, such as Dr. No and Goldfinger, the stories took an hour and 50 minutes.  Spectre, the most recent Bond offering, is almost 40 minutes longer.

I know one could argue that dramas demand length. While I agree that certain stories are exceptional, for dramas as a whole, economy is part of the art. Preston Sturges managed a biopic in an hour and 23 minutes. Citizen Kane, the Orson Welles masterpiece largely credited as the best film of all time, clocks in at just under 2 hours. In 1935’s Oscar-nominated Les Misérables, the narrative of Jean Valjean was conveyed in an hour and 48 minutes; by 1998, it had expanded to 2 hours and 14 minutes, and by 2012, the tale had reached 2 hours and 38 minutes. The latter version being a musical is no excuse. Disney manages.

Even comedies have been breaking the 2-hour mark in the past few years. This Is 40 (2012), a Judd Apatow production, was a whopping 2 hours and 14 minutes. More recent fare isn’t quite that bloated, but The Intern, out now, passes the 2 hour mark. Why does such a simple story need 121 minutes, when the Marx Brothers could make cinema history in 68, and Mae West a brilliant period comedy in 66?

Among 1945’s Oscar nominees, only one film hit the bloated timeline of current films, Anchors Aweigh. Have you heard of it? I didn’t think so. The Lost Weekend, Mildred Pierce, and Spellbound all managed their plots in under 2 hours, and The Bells of St. Mary’s just over. A decade before, the 12 nominees were all under 2 hours and 20 minutes, and several well under 2 hours, including a drama, John Ford’s The Informer (91 minutes). Among Sight & Sound’s best five films of all time, one, Sunrise, is just 94 minutes. Vertigo, its top choice, is just over 2 hours. Eighty years after The Informer, with all the technology and years of models at their disposal, Hollywood can’t manage to do just a little cutting?

Last year’s nominees for the Oscar included several beautifully edited, economical films, including The Grand Budapest Hotel and Whiplash. Here’s hoping that trend continues, and that Hollywood starts to recognize that we movie lovers don’t prefer TV; we simply don’t have Rip Van Winkle‘s time to spare.

*lengths from IMDB

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Elle King Wrote Mae West’s Theme Song

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voluptuousMaeWestImNoAngel
When my husband told me he’d heard Mae West’s theme song on the radio, I asked for an explanation; instead, he played me Elle King’s “Ex’s and Oh’s”:

“Ex’s and the oh, oh, oh’s they haunt me
Like ghosts they want me to make ’em all
They won’t let go
Ex’s and oh’s”*

And of course, I understood. Mae West could have written those very words. In every West film, and in her own descriptions of her life, all the men are after her…

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And she’s not exactly clingy with them: “All discarded lovers should be given a second chance, but with somebody else.”

In “Ex’s and Oh’s”, all men want the singer because she’s “the best baby that they never gotta keep.” They “always wanna come, but they never wanna leave.” Sounds like West, huh?: “Men are like linoleum floors. Lay ’em right and you can walk all over them for years.”

Of course, when I heard the song, I instantly pictured Mae West surrounded by a throng of half-naked men. Apparently, King had the same thought when planning her video:

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It’s hard to describe just how funny this video is: men wrestling over her, an obsessive climbing over rocks to get to her, two models on a see saw, Elle spraying nearly naked men with a hose, her kicking one out of a car because she’s done with him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a video so blatantly objectifying men–even Madonna’s. My favorite? The underwear-clad headstanders she dances around as she plays guitar:

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The singer profiles certain affairs to illustrate her commitment phobia: “I had a summer lover down in New Orleans/Kept him warm in the winter, left him frozen in the spring.” The men longing for her are “climbing over mountains and a-sailing over seas.” Like West, who characterized marriage as a “last resort,” there’s no celebration of eternal love here–just of eternal lust.

King is more than just a performer. She co-wrote the song, just as West wrote her screenplays. The two temptresses even resemble each other: both voluptuous, blue-eyed blondes with lovely, pale skin:

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I don’t know that West was one of King’s inspirations, but certainly, the two are united in spirit. I hope King’s enjoying West’s films right now, and that all of you West admirers check out this catchy, clever song, and the hilarious video that goes with it.

This post is part of my monthly West moment series.

*Yes, it bothers me too that a writer would think these apostrophes correct. Try to ignore them.

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