Wednesday, May 12, 2021

Ed Wood (1994)

Director: Tim Burton                                       Writers: Scott Alexander & Larry Karaszewski
Film Score: Howard Shore                             Cinematography: Stefan Czapsky
Starring: Johnny Depp, Martin Landau, Sarah Jessica Parker and Bill Murray

Ed Wood is just a brilliant film. Ironic, considering that the director himself has resided at the top of worst film lists since his death in 1978. But screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski were at a crossroads in their careers after having the kind of success with their film Problem Child that kept them from getting other, more serious, work. So they set out to write a screenplay about one of their favorite auteurs, Edward D. Wood Jr. Of course Wood is well known to most horror film buffs for his shockingly bad Plan 9 from Outer Space, arguably the worst feature film ever made. The other aspect of Wood’s career, however, and the one that the writers focused on, was his relationship with an ageing Bela Lugosi. In trying to see if they could get their idea to the screen, the pair first wrote a treatment, and then attempted to get Tim Burton’s name attached to it somehow in order to increase their chances of success. What happened next was something they never could have imagined. Burton loved the treatment and wanted to make it his next film. The problem? Alexander and Karaszewski didn’t have an actual screenplay. Had they put Burton off for a year to write it, they feared he might never get back to it. But they knew they had six weeks while Burton was doing post-production on his current film, so the two locked themselves in Alexander’s apartment and churned out an overlong screenplay that they couldn’t figure out how to cut. But it didn’t matter. Burton wanted to shoot it as is and immediately set about casting.

To no one’s surprise, the director’s choice of leading man was Johnny Depp, but the actor actually brings so much to the role that it’s difficult to imagine anyone else playing it. Even more important, however, was who to cast to play Lugosi. Again, it was Burton who thought screen veteran Martin Landau would be perfect for the role, as much for his considerable talent as for the arc of his career, which early on had him working for Alfred Hitchcock in North by Northwest, and by the end found him mired in television on Gilligan’s Island with the Harlem Globetrotters. It turned out to be a genius move, and was acknowledged as such when Landau won the Oscar for best supporting actor. The rest of Ed Wood's posse is played by a great group of stars. Sarah Jessica Parker plays Wood’s girlfriend, and the only one to even suggest that maybe Wood’s films aren’t as good as he thinks they are. Bill Murray is tremendous as Wood’s friend, the wannabe transvestite Bunny Breckinridge, while Jeffrey Jones plays the not-so-Amazing Criswell. Lisa Marie Smith appears as TV host Vampira, and Patricia Arquette is Wood’s later wife Kathy. Also appearing in small roles are Rance Howard, G.D. Spradlin, and Vincent D’Onofrio, as well as a host of terrific character actors in supporting roles.

The film begins with Jeffrey Jones as Criswell, sitting up in a coffin and intoning a variation on his speech from Plan 9, but making it about Wood instead. The credits roll over a stormy night in Hollywood, and when they finish Depp is seen pacing outside a theater as his wartime play The Casual Company premiers. His play, however, is no better than his films would be and receives dreadful reviews. By day, Depp works as a studio flunky delivering props and dreams of the day when he can make films of his own. Always with his ear to the ground, he hears of a producer who had promotional materials printed for a film called I Changed My Sex but no film. Since Depp is a cross-dresser he gets himself assigned as director—after meeting Bela Lugosi and shoehorning him into the production—and proceeds to film Glen or Glenda? which is not about sex change at all. So the distributor hates it, a film exec he sends it to thinks it’s a joke, and meanwhile he develops a relationship with Lugosi that not only includes putting him in every picture he makes, but running out to his suburban ranch house whenever the former Dracula runs out of drugs or decides to kill himself. When Depp gets the backing he needs from Juliet Landau to make Bride of the Monster he launches into the picture and only finds out later that there was no money. But somehow he keeps on going, his can-do attitude and a delusional belief in his own abilities all he needs to stay ahead of his creditors and remain a legend in his own mind.

When veteran makeup artist Rick Baker was having trouble with the color of Martin Landau’s makeup, Burton went up to the monitor and turned the color off and everyone knew then it had to be filmed in black and white. Alexander and Karaszewski were ecstatic because of how incredibly artistic they knew it would be, but also rightly assumed that they would lose a huge chunk of their audience, which they did. But while the film was a box office flop in 1994, and took another decade to come out on DVD, it has since been recognized for the masterwork it is and has earned well-deserved critical praise ever since. The black and white photography, for one, was masterfully carried out by cinematographer Stefan Czapsky, who had to go to great lengths to get the lighting just right in numerous scenes. And the story itself, while mercifully not camp, maintains an impossibly fine balance between the overwhelming love it has for its characters—especially Lugosi—and sort of being a little like an Ed Wood film itself. The crowning touch is Howard Shore’s perfect film score, one that emulates some of the stock music that Wood used in his films, a lighthearted fifties sci-fi ethos, and the humorous underpinning of much of the actual story. Tim Burton is far from my favorite director. I’ve actually hated the few films of his I’ve seen and happily ignored the rest. But Ed Wood is in a class by itself and is one of my favorite films of all time. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Tuesday, May 11, 2021

American Blue Note (1989)

Director: Ralph Toporoff                                   Writers: Ralph Toporoff & Gilbert Girion
Film Score: Larry Schanker                             Cinematography: Joey Forsyte
Starring: Peter MacNicol, Carl Capotorto, Jonathan Walker and Trini Alvarado

This is an odd little film. Years ago when I was looking for films about jazz this was one of the first I came across because, of course, Blue Note is right there in the title. American Blue Note stars Peter MacNicol, who’s best known for playing a lawyer on TV’s Ally McBeal and Chicago Hope. In this film he plays an alto saxophonist in the early sixties whose dream is to be part of a well-known jazz group in New York. The film was clearly a labor of love for writer-director Ralph Toporoff, who began his career as a photographer and then moved into cinematography, and the story is based on events from his own life. Made in 1989, the film had good reviews from the festivals it played, but Toporoff couldn’t find a U.S. distributor and so it didn’t reach theaters until two years later. That, however, is overstating the case, as a few midnight showings at downtown theaters, or matinees at the local mall were the only actual screenings it received and no one really saw it at the time. As the film is centered on a jazz group, the music is obviously important, and there are some clever touches in the film. A sort of running music gag throughout is that the audience rarely ever hears them play jazz, and one particular song, “Palm Beach Rhumba,” repeatedly represents the musical purgatory the group finds themselves in. At the same time the subdued jazz on the soundtrack is terrific. No solos, but then that’s not the point. It’s a mood setter, a laid back, West Coast cool that threatens to remain completely anonymous in New York City, and as such it’s the best possible choice for composer Larry Schanker’s score.

The film opens with Peter MacNicol answering the phone, alto saxophone hanging from his neckstrap, politely answering a telephone survey and not wanting to hang up after it’s over. The credits roll over photos, notes and sheet music of the Jack Solow Quintet, as the group plays on the soundtrack. The song, it turns out, is at an audition for the great Louis Guss. The rest of the group include trumpet player Jonathan Walker, pianist Carl Capotorto, drummer Tim Guinee and bassist Bill Christopher-Myers, and they get the gig primarily because they have a car. The group is definitely small time, but MacNicol has dreams of playing on 52nd Street at a real jazz club. He talks to club owner Joe Wrann about an audition, but the guy is noncommittal and the impression is he doesn’t want to hear them. The gig turns out to be in a tavern in Jersey, a tiny place, playing for two or three guys drinking at the bar. MacNicol’s embarrassed onstage patter is brutally painful. But then so is the conversation between the guys, and when it comes down to it really, all of the dialogue in the entire film. The tension is built around the fact that the group is about to break up, but MacNicol isn’t ready to give up on the dream yet. A new photo is MacNichol’s answer, but of course he’s just stalling for time. Their next big gig is a wedding reception with Capotorto on accordion, and more auditions are interspersed with scenes from everyday life. Meanwhile the band slowly disintegrates and MacNichol is powerless to stop it.

While the film wears its independent pedigree on its sleeve, there’s a certain charm to it all that’s difficult to describe. It should be awful, but it kind of grows on you after a while. The guys are just guys, men actually, out of college and working regular jobs but still young. And they don’t try to be “characters” in the way the guys from Diner come off. Though looking at the poster art for the film it seems that’s the audience the film was aiming for. More importantly, however, it’s the women in the film who steal the show. Zohra Lampert’s doting, mater-of-fact, Catholic mother is wonderfully understated, while Margaret Devine’s spacey coffee shop waitress is absolutely lovely. Charlotte d’Amboise captures MacNichol’s heart as well as the viewers’, and Trini Alvarado is just drop-dead gorgeous. One of my all-time favorite actresses, Roma Maffia, even has a small role as a secretary at the musicians union. Other familiar faces that turn up include Mel Johnson Jr., who takes a nice turn singing at one of the group’s gigs, and Dave Florek as a photographer. If there’s a drawback to the film it’s MacNichol’s characterization. His nervous and embarrassed behavior becomes maddening to watch over time. Everyone around him has more important things going on in their lives and yet real life seems to be the one thing he is utterly unable to navigate. So, yeah, the whole thing’s kind of strange, but American Blue Note is still worth seeking out--especially now that it’s finally been released on DVD--for its subdued portrayal of life in a simpler time.

Sunday, May 9, 2021

The Changeling (1980)

Director: Peter Medak                                      Writers: William Gray & Diana Maddox
Film Score: Rick Wilkins                                   Cinematography: John Coquillon
Starring: George C. Scott, Trish Van Devere, Melvyn Douglas and Ruth Springford

The Changeling is easily the best ghost story every committed to film. It’s just so damn scary it’s ridiculous. I’m sure that jaded slasher film watchers will wonder what all the fuss is about, but they’re the ones who are missing out and I feel bad for them. Once disbelief is suspended this film is a fright fest precisely because it has no monsters, no demonic possessions, no decapitations, and no walking corpses. Instead, an immense respect for traditional ghost story tropes is demonstrated before the film makes them its own and brings the story to an incredibly satisfying climax. The film is a Canadian production, and though it received mixed reviews on its release, it also took home a slew of Genie awards, Canada’s answer to the Oscars. The story was based on the experiences of playwright and composer Russell Hunter, who apparently lived through something similar in Denver, Colorado, and was then adapted for the screen by William Gray and Diana Maddox. The film is set in Seattle, which is also great because the rainy skies and gloomy atmosphere really add to the overall effect. But as with so many of these productions--Stake Out comes to mind--other than local landmarks like the Rainier Tower and the University of Washington, most of the exteriors were filmed in Vancouver and Victoria in British Columbia, including the haunted house itself. Even the Flatiron Building in Vancouver is substituted for the old Triangle Hotel in Pioneer Square.

The film opens on a two-lane highway in upstate New York, the hills and the road covered with snow at the end of November where George C. Scott’s station wagon has broken down. While he calls for help, a dump truck appears on the horizon. His wife and daughter are playing in the snow in front of the car so the truck driver can’t see them, and when a car skids out in front of him he smashes into the rear of the station wagon, killing Scott’s family. Some weeks later, Scott is seen walking through the streets of New York, credits rolling over him and Rick Wilkins’ appropriately piano-based score underneath. Back at his empty apartment he prepares to leave for Seattle, and his little girl’s small, red and white ball goes with him. Scott is a composer, and has a job teaching at the University of Washington. He meets with Trish Van Devere of the historical preservation society, and she rents him an old Victorian house in the suburbs, one with a piano--one note on which won’t play. The first supernatural element happens when Scott leaves the room and the note plays by itself. At a concert of Scott’s works later, the audience is also introduced to senator Melvin Douglas. Then one morning Scott is awakened by a loud banging noise that reverberates through the entire house. Later, while composing, a sort of lullaby keeps going through his head and he plays with the idea on the piano and records it onto a reel-to-reel tape deck. Again, the next morning, the pounding awakens him.

When Scott hears another noise, water running, and more strange sounds that seem to be coming from the third floor, he then sees a vision of a dead boy in a bathtub. When he goes to Van Devere at her office he’s accosted by Ruth Springford, who tells him the place is haunted. After a window above the third floor seems to break on its own, that’s when Scott has had enough and begins investigating. But the more he uncovers, the more the supernatural events intensify, with some sort of entity pushing Scott to finally discover the truth about what went on in that house. The film is just a masterful example of gradually bringing the viewer--along with Scott--into the mystery of the house. And the way he undergoes the investigation is remarkable. But the absolute best thing about George C. Scott’s performance is that he’s never scared. He’s never really frightened, though he is overcome by the emotion of his discovery and the existence of the supernatural. For some reason, that makes what is happening even scarier because there’s no catharsis. The audience is left to deal with their fear on their own, and it’s a brilliant narrative strategy. Trish Ven Devere is a lovely presence in the film, and acts as Scott’s sidekick throughout, just as interested in discovering the mystery as he is--despite Springford’s warning--while Melvin Douglas gives a terrific performance as the aged Senator from a wealthy family who, as it turns out, is central to the plot. Finally, a host of little known Canadian supporting actors round out the cast, providing through their relative anonymity very little distraction from the story itself.

The cinematography is beautifully atmospheric, and the film benefits tremendously from Peter Medak’s unhurried direction. John Coquillon’s camera floats in and out of rooms, occasionally finding itself up above them, looking through a fisheye lens, and always seems to generate emotional tension with visuals that replicate those very same feelings. It’s a remarkable technique. The screenplay is terrific as well, with wonderfully subtle lines, like when the handyman interrupts Scott at the piano playing a piece of sheet music. He says, “I’m sorry to disturb your composing,” and Scott answers, “That’s all right, this one’s already been composed.” And when dealing with the ghost, Scott asks all the right questions, makes all the right observations, and always behaves in a logical and believable manner. The pace of the story is perfection, ratcheting up the tension slightly with every new discovery as the supernatural elements become increasingly more frightening. About the only questionable aspect to the entire film is the role played by Ruth Springford, a sort of modern Mrs. Danvers who attempts to inject an artificial element of fear into a story that really doesn’t need it. Rick Wilkins’ score is the crowning touch, the perfect blend of soft, classical underscore with an unexpected haunting dissonance when the story calls for it. The Changeling is one of the great ghost stories of all time, and its reputation has only grown over the decades. It gets my highest recommendation.

Wednesday, May 5, 2021

The Thief of Bagdad (1924)

Director: Raoul Walsh                                  Writers: Douglas Fairbanks & Lotta Woods
Music: Mortimer Wilson                                Cinematography: Arthur Edeson
Starring: Douglas Fairbanks, Julanne Johnston, Snitz Edwards and Anna-May Wong

The Thief of Bagdad was really the apotheosis of Douglas Fairbanks’ career. He would produce a few other notable films, like The Iron Mask in 1929, and a small number of sound films, like The Adventures of Don Juan in 1934, but this was essentially the last of the kind of smiling, swashbuckling silent film that became so associated with him that its very image is now a shorthand way of evoking the period, as Jean Dujardin would do so brilliantly in The Artist in 2010. That said, however, the film itself is also one of the only reasons that United Artists was able to stay afloat. By the mid twenties Chaplin’s films were few and far between, while Pickford and Griffith were churning out box office duds. Fairbanks, on the other hand, was incredibly popular at this time and his films made tons of money. As with so many silent films, the best way to watch it is really the only way to watch it, in this case the Cohen Film Collection version with Carl Davis’s score, which utilizes music from Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, named after the main character from One Thousand and One Nights. Not only is the music fantastic, but the print is clean and clear and, best of all, has muted tinting instead of the garish, oversaturated effect on most cheaper versions.

The film opens on the desert, with a man telling a boy a story, the words written in the stars, “Happiness must be earned,” and quotes from the Koran and the Arabian Nights. The story proper begins in the streets of Bagdad, with wonderfully tall sets designed by William Cameron Menzies--who would finish his career on the remake of the film in 1940. Fairbanks is shown in a deep sleep in the middle of it all next to a drinking fountain. But he’s not really asleep. A man comes to take a drink, and when he walks away his purse is in Fairbanks’ hand. Later the thief winds up in a mosque where Charles Belcher says that only through work can people find happiness. But Fairbanks derides him and says he just takes what he wants. As soon as he leaves he witnesses the flogging of a thief. Instead of giving him pause, however, he wants to steal the jewel the thief was flogged for, just to see if he can get away with it. And he does. At the end of his day he climbs down a deep well to see his master, Snitz Edwards, and give him all he’s stolen. Meanwhile in Mongolia the prince, Sôjin Kamiyama, has the same attitude as Fairbanks, but on a grander scale, and wants to invade Bagdad and occupy the caliph’s palace by pretending to be a suitor to the princess. The parade of suitors and their treasure is too much temptation for Fairbanks, but once inside the palace he winds up in the bedroom of the princess, Julanne Johnston, and falls in love with her, profoundly changing the meaning of life for him.

The bulk of the story concerns Fairbanks’ attempts to keep Johnston from being forced to wed one of the inappropriate suitors, and hopefully marry her for himself. But this is especially difficult since Johnston’s scheming maid, Anna May Wong, is giving inside information to Kamiyama. The second half of the film is then a hero’s journey to earn the right to marry the princess, and the various magical places and monsters he must overcome are like something out of Greek mythology. The pantomime by Fairbanks seems overly broad, even by the standards of other films from that year, but then that was his style. Though he’s athletic and exuberant and it’s all fairly infectious, even that tends to wear thin after a while. Despite that criticism, however, everything else in the film is incredibly well done including the magnificently outsized set design by Menzies, the seamless special effects by Coy Watson, and the costumes by Paul Burns. It really is a spectacular film. The great Raoul Walsh doesn’t move his camera at all, but with so much to look at and take in, it isn’t missed. The sets are a feast for the eyes, and he does use a few interesting camera angles here and there. Assisting him is Arthur Edeson, who does some exceptional work with long focus shots, and would go on film dozens more classics in the next twenty years. It’s a long film, at two and a half hours, but it never seems to flag and holds interest throughout.

In The A List essay by Joe Morgenstern he begins by mentioning one of the things that silent movie makers never could quite figure out: how much to tell the viewer through title cards and how much to leave out. While many films of the twenties feel like talkies without dialogue, necessitating a large number of title cards, this is one area where The Thief of Bagdad has no issue, and Fairbanks strikes the perfect balance between necessary information conveyed via the printed word and the abundant amount of screen time that requires none. Morgenstern also rightly praises William Cameron Menzies whose work on this film, with its gargantuan sets and mythical monsters and special effects, quite honestly has never been surpassed. One reason for this, the author states, has to do with the vertical nature of the sets, in opposition to the way that later film advances widened out the picture instead. Finally, he bemoans the fact that so few people watch silent films these days, and how much they are truly missing out, especially when it comes to a film like this. There really is almost nothing to criticize about The Thief of Bagdad, and when seen in its best and most complete form it is the equal, if not superior to, anything that has been produced in the nearly hundred years since it was first released. Now that’s an impressive feat.

Sunday, May 2, 2021

The Getaway (1972)

Director: Sam Peckinpah                                 Writer: Walter Hill
Film Score: Quincy Jones                                Cinematography: Lucien Ballard
Starring: Steve McQueen, Ali MacGraw, Ben Johnson and Al Lettieri

Sam Peckinpah was a really great director . . . and I’ve only seen a couple of his films. But the opening credit sequence of The Getaway is so well done, so finely crafted to evoke a specific response from the viewer, that it’s difficult not to see in that alone the hands of a master filmmaker. The director had done something similar in the marriage scene in Ride the High Country a decade earlier, and so it’s clear he’d had this cinematic capability for a long time. Screenwriter Walter Hill--who would go on to pen several hits, including The Long Riders, 48 Hours, Aliens, and even the 1994 sequel to this film starring Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger--had a fantastic piece of literature to work with in adapting noir novelist Jim Thompson’s original story, but he also made some nice changes that played into Peckinpah’s strength as a director. At every turn Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw are met with obstacles, and as the noose keeps tightening the story becomes almost a comedy of errors. But the plot of the film is almost as convoluted as the road to making the film itself--and is a fascinating story beyond the scope of this review. Though Peckinpah had hired Jerry Fielding to score the picture, he was replaced by Quincy Jones, who does a workmanlike job. While initial reviews of the film were negative, the picture’s status has only grown over the years and is now rightfully considered a classic for both the director and McQueen.

There have been hundreds of prison films made, but how does one convey to the viewer the real emotional torment of doing time in prison? The prisoner can be shown in his cell, alone, but so what? That visual doesn’t convey emotion on its own. The prisoner can tell the viewer in voiceover, but again, that’s telling not showing. What Peckinpah does--just in the opening credit sequence--is to do what only film can do, by juxtaposing images in order to convey a feeling or an emotion. Steve McQueen is doing time in prison. The sound of his parole hearing is heard in voiceover as he is escorted to the meeting. But beneath that conversation is the sound of machinery, constant and unrelenting. Then the scenes of the hearing are intercut with McQueen working in the machine shop at the prison. And still the machines keep ratcheting up beneath the soundtrack. When his parole is denied--accompanied by a stern look from warden Ben Johnson--the machine noise is pushed up to drown out every other sound. McQueen is then taken back to work and, after turning on his machine, the noise filling his ears, he slams it off. He tries again, and slams it off again. The increasing noise of the machines is accompanied by close ups of the prisoner and his thousand-yard stare--and brief glimpses of his life on the outside. And still the noise of the machines grinds on. Only then is he shown alone in his cell. It’s a powerful cinematic moment, visuals and sound combining to convey the emotion of being imprisoned, time working on a mind like a Chinese water torture, wanting nothing else but for the noise to stop. And that’s the genius of Sam Peckinpah.

When McQueen is finally taken to see his girlfriend, Ali MacGraw, he tells her to go to the warden and promise him anything, any price, to let the parole go through. And she does. After getting out, Peckinpah eliminates music from the soundtrack in the next few scenes in order to convey the cessation of the machines in McQueen’s brain. The story also provides even more realism when McQueen and MacGraw are finally alone. Instead of ravishing her, which is the usual trope, he needs time to process his incarceration. He can’t just instantly get back to normal. The deal for getting out of prison is robbing a bank for Johnson. But instead of using his own crew McQueen is forced to use Johnson’s men, Al Lettieri and Bo Hopkins. McQueen doesn’t like it, but he’s stuck. He and MacGraw operate separately from the other two, and they all meet at the bank and everything goes well, that is until Hopkins isn’t paying attention to the security guard, gets shot, then returns fire and kills him. Once in the getaway car, however, Lettieri sees Hopkins as a liability and kills him, dumping the body on the street. At the meet up before the delivery, Lettieri tries to kill McQueen, which he had expected all along, and McQueen turns the tables on him. But Lettieri, who had bragged earlier that he never wears a bulletproof vest, is wearing one now. And thus begins the title of the film as McQueen and MacGraw try to get away with the money without even realizing Lettieri is hot on their trail.

But even that brief summary of the first half of the film leaves a ton of things out. Walter Hill’s screenplay has the characters running a gauntlet of unexpected twists and turns that the viewer must endure right along with them. There are so many suspenseful scenes, one after another, that it’s nearly unbearable--and very difficult not to divulge. Even something as simple as McQueen driving up the ramp in a parking garage to find a spot is imbued with a tremendous amount of tension. McQueen is his usual intense, stolid self, and though I haven’t seen Ali MacGraw in a lot of things other than Winds of War, while she's pretty, she's not a very good actress. The rest of the cast was primarily TV actors, including Sally Struthers, Jack Dodson, Ben Johnson, and low-budget series regular, Dub Taylor. The exceptions are the fantastic Al Lettieri, who played Sollozzo in the original Godfather, Richard Bright, who played Al Neri in The Godfather II, and the iconic Slim Pickens. While the film is definitely of its time, the early nineteen seventies, it is also so much more, as the clothes and cars and film stock are the least of it. Sam Peckinpah’s emphasis on both the characters--especially MacGraw's--and the intricate plot make The Getaway a must see, not only for fans of McQueen, but for fans of crime dramas from any era.

Dames (1934)

Director: Ray Enright                                           Writer: Delmer Daves
Choreography: Busby Berkeley                           Cinematography: Sid Hickox
Starring: Joan Blondell, Dick Powell, Ruby Keeler and Guy Kibbee

Another outing by Warners’ musical team, with Busby Berkeley providing his distinctive choreography, Dames harkens back to earlier musicals like Broadway Melody from 1929 in that it’s a lot of fast-talking quips and visual gags rather than a more story-centered film like Footlight Parade, or pretty much any Astaire-Rogers film at RKO. It’s an odd film in many ways. While it revolves around putting on a musical show, as all of the films do, it shows very little of the backstage drama that usually informs these kinds of musicals. Most of the story is centered on tepid comedy antics than the music itself, and the result is it’s definitely not up to the standards of the usual Warners’ musicals, despite the musical numbers themselves directed by Berkeley. That said, however, even lesser Berkeley is still pretty impressive. The likely explanation for this is that film was kind of slapped together. Hal Wallis had trouble finding a director, and right up until shooting the cast had yet to be finalized. Meanwhile, Berkeley had attained complete autonomy at the studio and worked on his numbers entirely independent of the rest of the film. Because of that, one of his pre-code numbers had to be cut by Wallis because the producer had no intention of letting the Hays Office do it for him. So it stands to reason that the finished product feels cobbled together and never really gels.

The story opens by establishing the financial empire of Hugh Herbert. Guy Kibbee comes into the lobby looking for the boss, but he has to get through a phalanx of armed guards protecting Herbert from kidnappers. Kibbee has been brought there to be told that his wife--Herbert’s cousin--is going to be given ten million dollars inheritance before Herbert dies. The main stipulation of the endowment is that the family be morally upright, and that they have nothing to do with their other relations, namely actor Dick Powell. What none of them know is that Kibbee’s daughter, Ruby Keeler, has already fallen in love with Powell. Herbert is going to stay with the family for a month first, before he gives them the money, but Keeler’s mother, Zasu Pitts is afraid her daughter is going to ruin things by talking about Powell. Then, on his way back home, Kibbee finds his sleeping compartment on the train has been invaded by dancer Joan Blondell and is desperate to keep Herbert from finding out. Once Kibbee’s back home, Powell busts in and tries to get Herbert to finance the show he’s written but is chased out of the house. Finally, Blondell shows up with a plan to blackmail Kibbee in order to get the money to put on Powell’s show, which she does. Now all Kibbee has to do is keep Herbert from finding out, and Powell his uncle’s new morality league from shutting the show down.

While Ruby Keeler was a terrific dancer, she could hardly be said to be as good at acting and she’s a little tough to watch. But she doesn’t even dance in any of the Berkeley numbers. Dick Powell is just as bad, but in a completely different way as he hams it up over the top in every scene he’s in. Joan Blondell, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to have her heart in it at all, and since she was seven months pregnant at that time that may be why. The only bright spot in the entire cast is actually Guy Kibbee, who does a solid job with his comedy bits in a way that everyone else seems unable to replicate. There’s also a fun little cameo by actor Harry Holman who is most recognizable to movie buffs as Principal Partridge of Bedford Falls High School in It’s a Wonderful Life. And the dance director at Powell’s show, Charles Williams, is yet another actor from that film who played Cousin Eustace. The Berkeley numbers have the usual cast of thousands, with tons of extras and beautiful girls, and the kaleidoscope sequences are fantastic. The story itself likely comes out of the fact that by 1934 the Production Code was actually being enforced and in turn it forced Dames to adhere to morality--a major plot point in the film--that the better musicals didn’t have to. Delmer Daves’ story tries to poke fun at the idea, but it’s not strong enough to carry the entire film.

The songs in the film are actually pretty good, but they never went on to any great acclaim, with the exception of one that has since become a standard, “I Only Have Eyes for You.” One of the smart things the film does, is sort of preview the songs first, having Powell sing a verse and chorus to Keeler or Blondell, so that when they are presented in the show at the end of the film they are already familiar to the audience. Something similar happens with the cinematograph by Sid Hickox, and that is the first two-thirds of the film are shot fairly static like a typical thirties film, but as the final third begins there are a number of moving camera shots, some of them overhead, that really prepare the viewer for Berkeley’s filmed choreography at the end. It’s a nice touch. And honestly, Busby Berkeley’s numbers are the only real reason to watch the film. While the conceit is that the numbers are being performed onstage, once the camera moves onto the stage the entire show is purely cinematic. Even though the screenplay is pretty weak, Berkeley does some of his best work on the musical numbers, but it’s a shame that the whole production wasn’t stronger because in context they seem as weak as the story itself. In the end the Berkeley numbers are interesting, but little else in Dames is.

Saturday, May 1, 2021

Sherlock Holmes and the Spider Woman (1944)

Director: Roy William Neill                           Writer: Bertram Millhauser
Film Score: Hans J. Salter                           Cinematography: Charles Van Enger
Starring: Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce, Gale Sondergaard and Vernon Downing

For the seventh installment of the Basil Rathbone-Nigel Bruce Sherlock Holmes series, screenwriter Bertram Millhauser used parts of several Conan Doyle stories, “The Adventure of the Dying Detective” (1913), The Sign of the Four (1890) and “The Final Problem” (1893) among others, for his story called The Spider Woman. Oddly, while the film uses more Conan Doyle material that any other film, Universal decided for some reason to omit “Sherlock Holmes” from the title of the picture, as it would for the rest of the series. Director Roy William Neill, for which this was his fourth Holmes film in a row, adds some nice touches to the usual medium shots and close ups. One is a long shot in Sondergaard’s apartment, which seems quite unique for the time, and another is an overhead shot of Holmes’ apartment at 221B Baker Street, both of which add some nice variety to what is essential a B movie. The great Hans Salter was assigned the chore of selecting stock music--primarily from previously written cues by himself and Frank Skinner--for the film from Universal’s library. And Charles Van Enger, the director of photograph on the previous entry, is behind the camera on this outing as well.

The film opens on the London rooftops with a man falling through a window to his death, one of a string of apparent suicides by men wearing pajamas. Meanwhile Homes and Watson have been in Scotland fishing, but Basil Rathbone as Holmes believes the deaths are murders because none of the men left suicide notes. Then, after confesses to having dizzy spells to Nigel Bruce as Watson, he faints and falls into the river to his death, all of which unleashes a crime wave in the city. Everyone who knew him is upset, even Dennis Hoey as Lestrade. But, of course, Rathbone eventually turns back up in disguise. Since all the dead men were rich, and the murders subtle, he believes the murderer a woman, and sets out to trap her by going undercover as a rich Indian gambler. The film’s villain Gale Sondergaard and her associate Vernon Downing naturally fall into the trap when she invites Rathbone to her gaming establishment. But when the two spend time together at her apartment, it’s not quite clear who really has the upper hand. That night Rathbone sets his trap. Henchman Harry Cording goes up on the roof, and soon a large tarantula comes through the vent, but both of them die at the hands of Rathbone. So now the detective knows the method and the murderer, but the real mystery will be figuring out a way to tie the two together.

Rathbone and Bruce do their usual stalwart jobs on the production, along with Dennis Hoey. As a villain, Gale Sondergaard makes a valiant attempt but lacks the menace associated with a typical Holmes villain--two years later Universal made an attempt to capitalize on her appearance here by reprising her role for another film, The Spider Woman Strikes Back, but it has no relationship to the Holmes series. After that the quality of the acting drops off precipitously. Vernon Downing as the nervous assistant is a bit wooden, and Alec Craig as a phony professor is a little over the top. There’s nothing particularly special about the film, and in some ways abandoning the World War Two connection that the previous films revolved around is something of a disappointment--though Tojo, Hitler and Mussolini do put in an appearance in the finale. There’s also the fact that Rathbone’s disguises, while well done, are fairly easy to detect for regular watchers of the series. Where the story excels is in completely accepting these familiar tropes, and because Rathbone has to figure out exactly how the murders are committed rather than who the culprit is, it makes it slightly more interesting than it might have been otherwise. For fans of the series, however, very little of that matters as The Spider Woman is simply another fun romp with Universal’s Holmes and Watson.

Friday, April 30, 2021

The Divorcée (1930)

Director: Robert Z. Leonard                           Writers: Nick Grinde & Zelda Sears
Music: Milton Ager                                         Cinematography: Norbert Brodine
Starring: Norma Shearer, Chester Morris, Conrad Nagel and Robert Montgomery

In 1929 the production head at MGM was the boy wonder Irving Thalberg. He had purchased the film rights to the novel Ex-Wife by Ursula Parrott, which had been published that year, and planned to cast in the starring role the studio’s resident sex symbol Joan Crawford. Thalberg’s wife, Norma Shearer, had other plans, however, and was forced to lobby her husband for the part. His hesitance was based on the fact that he didn’t believe his wife had the kind of sex appeal necessary to carry off the role. Apparently Shearer went to the expense of hiring a private photographer to take some glamor shots of her and when Thalberg saw them he relented. Thalberg’s initial instinct, however, was right--as was his eventual decision, but for the wrong reason. Shearer never really had much sex appeal onscreen, and she doesn’t in this film either. But the thing is, that’s exactly what the part needed, someone who could be a convincing everywoman rather than a bombshell. Thalberg mistakenly believed that he was casting for the twenty minutes near the end of the film, when in reality he should have been casting for first three quarters of the production. In the end, he wound up backing into the right decision without even realizing it, and as a result Shearer took home the best actress Oscar that year for her work in The Divorcée.

The film opens on the huge lobby of an upstate rural hotel, Robert Montgomery dancing with Judith Wood, Tyler Brooke playing a ukulele along with a record, and Helene Millard playing cards with some friends. Though Conrad Nagel is anxiously waiting by the door for Norma Shearer, the object of his affection, she is busy kissing passionately with Chester Morris out by a stream. And when he proposes, she says yes. Nagel drowns his sorrows in booze, and when the party leaves that night to head back to the city, he insists on driving one of the cars even though he’s drunk. Predictably, the car crashes with Millard and her sister aboard and Wood is disfigured in the accident. Later, at the same time Morris and Shearer get married in a huge church, Nagel gets married to Wood in her hospital room. Three years later Morris and Shearer are still madly in love, but when their friends come over to celebrate they bring along Mary Doran, a divorcee that Morris knows . . . too well, in fact. It turns out they’ve been having an affair, and when Shearer confronts Morris he confesses. He tries to play it off as nothing, but it’s clearly something to her. So when Morris goes away that night on a business trip, and Montgomery makes a play for her, Shearer lets herself be seduced. When Morris finds out, of course he’s the one who’s shocked, and hypocritically angry.

At its core the story is a simplified version of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, with Morris playing the humiliated Angel Clare, utterly unjustified in his anger and believing himself the injured party. When he begins packing, Shearer warns Morris that if he leaves her he will never be allowed back because she’ll be too busy with other men, and she backs up her threat by divorcing him. In contemporary terms, the film is also a look at the various kinds of divorces people went through at the time, and the different reasons those marriages failed. And while it’s not a piece of high entertainment--the ending is fairly disappointing--it is still a very interesting look back in time. Norma Shearer does a terrific job as the ordinary woman whose world has been turned inside out and has to cope with it the best she can. Though her character was always an independent sort, holding down her own job, it’s still difficult to come to terms with the fact that her entire marriage was a lie. Chester Morris does an adequate job, but nothing many other actors of the time couldn’t have done. And Robert Montgomery acts as a sort of mild comic relief. The production is typical for it’s day, with no film score and actors fairly shouting to be heard over the microphones. The Divorcée isn’t a great movie, but it’s definitely worth taking a look at for it’s pre-code view of life and for the great Norma Shearer.

Angel on My Shoulder (1946)

Director: Archie Mayo                                   Writer: Harry Segall & Roland Kibbee
Film Score: Dimitri Tiomkin                           Cinematography: James Van Trees
Starring: Paul Muni, Anne Baxter, Claude Rains and Onslow Stevens

After scoring a hit with Claude Rains playing an angel in Here Comes Mr. Jordan in 1941, it was natural that screenwriter Harry Segall--who had penned the original--would seek to replicate the formula a few years later, this time with Rains playing a devil. But apparently Columbia wasn’t interested and so Angel on My Shoulder became an independent production by Charles R. Rogers, who had produced films at the end of the silent era and then made half a dozen more in the mid 1940s. That the film works at all is primarily due to Rains reprising, sort of, his role from the first film, and the powerful presence of Paul Muni revising the Robert Montgomery role. Unlike a lot of independent productions where one or two stars are hired and the rest of the cast is pretty bad, this picture boast a supporting cast that, while certainly second-tier, are still very good. In addition to the actors, Rogers was also able to acquire the services of composer Dimitri Tiomkin, who would go on that same year to score It’s a Wonderful Life for Frank Capra. Director Archie Mayo does a solid job helming the project, and the special effects by Harry Redmond Jr. are seamlessly done. It’s a quality film and a great story, something that isn’t typical for independent productions that usually invest a tiny amount of cash in order to exploit a trend or copy a popular film.

The story begins with mob boss Paul Muni being released from prison, where his second in command Hardie Albright picks him up. As the two are driving though the countryside Muni asks for a gun, and when Albright shoots him to death he naturally winds up in hell. The place is run like a prison, and Muni wants to bust out, which comes to the attention to head man, Claude Rains. The devil wants to ruin a judge who looks just like Muni, and so he pretends to be a trustee and offers him a deal. Rains will help him “break out” if Muni will pose as the judge and take his revenge on Albright. Meanwhile Onslow Stevens, the judge’s psychiatrist, is convinced that he’s working too hard, and suggests that his secretary and fiancé, Anne Baxter, do what she can to make his schedule a little lighter, especially since he’s in the middle of a campaign for governor. But of course since Muni the criminal is now in the judge’s body, his strange behavior is even more troubling to those who know him. Stevens, however, thinks he’s mentally unbalanced, and so urges everyone to humor him. The biggest problem for Muni is that Rains won’t let him kill Albright until he’s impersonated and ruined the judge first, but that’s the wonderful irony the story is built around. The judge’s opponent for governor is backed by the mob, and in attempting to ruin the judge Muni instinctively resists them, and inadvertently winds up being even more beloved by the people of the state, as well as Baxter. And the result is that Muni begins to seem him self differently because of it--and is therefore less inclined to kill Albright because of it.

Muni is wonderful as the mobster with a heart of gold, a role he’d been playing for over a decade by this point. Unlike the first film, in which Edward Everett Horton was the angel in charge and Rains only occasionally interceded, Claude Rains has a much larger role here and his frustration as circumstances intercede and Muni begins to change is fun to watch. Anne Baxter wasn’t yet the household name she would become in the fifties, beginning with All About Eve and peaking with The Ten Commandments. But she was a hard working actress who had already appeared in a dozen films at this point, including Orson Welles’ The Magnificent Ambersons. And she’s terrific in this role as well. Onslow Stevens’ singular claim to fame was his appearance as the mad doctor in Universal’s last monster rally, House of Dracula, while in this film he plays the sort of ancillary role that Tom Conway tended to play over at RKO. But the real genius of the film is Harry Segall’s unique story and the twist he puts on the original film rather than attempting a straightforward remake. And he has some clever moments, like making the judge a non-smoker and teetotaler, so that when Muni tries to drink and smoke he nearly chokes to death. Though the religious assumptions are a bit heavy handed, Angel on My Shoulder is still a fun picture, well worth seeking out, and certainly a must see for those who enjoyed the original.

Thursday, April 29, 2021

Chicago (2002)

Director: Rob Marshall                                    Writer: Bill Condon
Film Score: Danny Elfman                              Cinematography: Dion Beebe
Starring: Renée Zellweger, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Richard Gere and John C. Reilly

As much as I love films about music, people playing and recording and listening, I’ve never been a fan of the musical. That’s probably one of the reasons that I like the musicals from the 1930s so much, because most of them are backstage stories that take place in a theater, and the musical numbers are just that: performances at a show. But the modern “Broadway” musical as such, where characters break out into song in the middle of the story--the kind of thing Saturday Night Live pokes fun at--leaves me unmoved at best, and irritated at worst. Chicago, the 2002 Academy Award winner for best picture, definitely falls into the later camp for me. As with so many of these stage-to-film adaptations, what works in a darkened theater with live musicians and live actors, doesn’t necessarily translate to film. The film has an impressive pedigree, based on a 1926 Broadway play by Maurine Dallas Watkins that was turned into film a year later, and then a musical choreographed by Bob Fosse in 1975, music by John Kander and lyrics by Fred Ebb. It was to have been filmed by Fosse after his success with Cabaret, but the project was shelved after his death. The tremendous success of the revival on Broadway in the mid-1990s, however, provided the impetus for a modern film version a few years later with a new screenplay by Bill Condon, who would then go on to pen Dreamgirls.

The film opens backstage at a jazz club in the mid 1920s--with musicians playing an anachronistic version of jazz designed for modern ears rather than the real thing--and the manager getting the next act ready to go onstage. Performer Catherine Zeta-Jones gets to the club late, and hides the bloody gun in her suitcase. Renée Zellweger is in the audience watching, hopeful that her tryst with Dominic West will get her a spot onstage. When she finds out later he’s been lying to her, she shoots him dead. Then her husband, John C. Reilly, comes home and tells the police that West had broken into the apartment and was killed in self-defense--by Reilly. As the police question them, Zellweger imagines she’s on the club stage singing, but before long Reilly figures out what really happened and gives her up. After being processed at the jail, she finds herself in the charge of prison matron Queen Latifa . . . which leads to more singing. Zeta-Jones is also in for murder, but has a very different experience because she has money and fame, and Latifa promises to get her out for a cut of her earnings. Then Zellweger tries to ingratiate herself with Zeta-Jones in order to get out as well, but fails, and so Latifa offers her Richard Gere, a big shot lawyer who can get her acquitted. If she has the money. Ironically, it’s Reilly who gets it for her and Gere takes the case, turning her into a media sensation in order to influence every possible juror before the trial.

The pacing is fast, the cracks are wise, and the whole thing is so stylized and artificial that it’s difficult to generate any real interest in any of it. The acting is equally outsized and uninteresting. In a way it’s difficult to categorize the film because its 1970s beginnings are so clearly a part of the production. The performances, the dancing, the songs, are all from a different era. The dance routines definitely have Fossee’s fingerprints all over them and, as such, it is a loving tribute to the man. But the performances themselves as performances--even including Queen Latifa--seem fairly banal and routine because of the casting of actors rather than real jazz singers. But then that was by design, to create an instant audience for the picture. As a result, it’s just one a string of musical debacles like Les Miserables and Mama Mia that, while filmed and constitute the definition of a movie, are anything but cinematic. Perhaps I’m jaded--okay, I know I’m jaded--but this just isn’t something that I’m remotely interested in watching, and if it hadn’t won an Oscar for best picture I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near reviewing it. Clearly I’m an outlier, though, as the film earned a ton of Oscar nominations and took home six--four of them in the technical categories--and is still very popular with audiences. If you like Disney movies and fantasy history, then Chicago is definitely the film for you. As for me, I’m going to stick with Sylvia Sidney in Ladies of the Big House.

Wednesday, April 28, 2021

How Green Was My Valley (1941)

Director: John Ford                                         Writer: Philip Dunne
Film Score: Alfred Newman                            Cinematography: Arthur C. Miller
Starring: Walter Pidgeon, Maureen O’Hara, Donald Crisp and Sara Allgood

Much like the Academy Award winning Cavalcade a decade earlier, I have absolutely no idea what the point of this film is, much less why it won an Oscar for best picture. How Green Was My Valley is one of those multi-generational slice of life stories that do nothing and go nowhere. For me, they are the precursors to today’s Trauma Dramas that have infected movie screens and take home awards for the utterly unimaginative feat of showing what happens to real people in real life. Yet there’s actually a separate category for that kind of film: the documentary. It would be nice if those stories were relegated to that category instead of polluting what major motion pictures of the past always attempted to be, fictional stories that transport the viewer to another time and place instead of to the misery going on just down the street. But it stands to reason today that in a time period utterly devoid of imagination, where Hollywood is unable to create anything other than retreads and sequels of popular stories from long ago, science-fiction, sword and sorcery, and superhero movies that are practically indistinguishable from each other, and idiot comedies little better than TV sitcoms, when it comes to high drama the only thing that crosses the minds of modern screenwriters are “Based on a True Story” soap operas that obviate them from the arduous task of actually coming up with an original story. The only function I can see to John Ford’s maudlin family tragedy seems to be as the progenitor of what we’re stuck with today

The great Irving Pichel opens the film, in voiceover, as the older character Huw Morgan. The character is leaving his home for the final time, and remembers back to his childhood in a mining village in Wales, where his character is played by a young Roddy McDowell. He’s the youngest of six sons and a daughter, played by Maureen O’Hara. The family is ruled by father Donald Crisp, heavy handed with his moral guidance, which runs through his sons down to Huw. O’Hara helps her mother cook and clean, and the sons all contribute their money earned in the mine to mother Sara Allgood and then receive a small allowance in return. As always in this kind of film, the church looms large and young Huw is also guided by Walter Pidgeon as the local priest. As such stories usually go, the family is threatened by any number of perils, beginning when the mine shortens hours and cuts back on workers. The eldest son, Patric Knowles, is the first to marry, but the other boys soon move out when they want to unionize and go on strike, against their father’s wishes. Then the inherent dangers of the mine go on to claim a number of men in the village, O’Hara falls desperately in love with Pidgeon, who has no intention of marrying anyone, and before long the whole family is miserable, a reflection of the general misery of the entire valley, and so it goes. Through it all, the whole thing is just so overly sentimentalized and fantasized that it’s unwatchable much of the time.

But I get it. The U.S. was on the cusp of World War II. It had just been through, and was still suffering from, The Great Depression. So I’m sure it seemed as if everything Americans held dear had evaporated out from under them, and naturally a story like this would have been appealing, perhaps even provided a measure of comfort. But it can hardly be said to be entertaining. Still, even acknowledging it’s popularity with the public, the fact that a film like this could win the Oscar for best picture over Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane, John Huston’s The Maltese Falcon and Alfred Hitchcock’s Suspicion is incomprehensible. John Ford won an Oscar for best director as well, even though he had taken over the project from William Wyler in the early stages of production, and while some critics compare the film to best of his westerns, there’s something about the overt emotional manipulation in this particular film that is rather unsavory. He would do the same thing a decade and a half later in The Long Gray Line, and with equally dismal results. There’s no real star in the picture, as it’s something of an ensemble piece, though Crisp and Allgood are central to the story, even more so than McDowell, and the relationship between Pidgeon and O’Hara is more exasperating than interesting. While How Green Was My Valley is purportedly a sentimental look at a simpler time, it feels much more like an unrelenting view of grim reality with no redeeming features to make the experience worth the journey. It might still have appeal to some people today, but I’m not one of them.

Monday, April 26, 2021

The Formula (1980)

Director: John G. Avidsen                                Writer: Steve Shagan
Film Score: Bill Conti                                       Cinematography: James Crabe
Starring: George C. Scott, Marlon Brando, Marthe Keller and John Gielgud

The Formula is an attempt at alternate history that posits global dependence on fossil fuels was not really necessary, and simply engineered by corporations who stood to make a profit from it at the expense of people, nations, the environment, what have you. The first half of the film feels very much like a TV mystery movie, something that would have played on the late show in the seventies. But the second half is a little better, when the setting changes to Germany. Still, this is a straight ahead corporate thriller that has very little thrill going on. It lacks suspense and any real threat of danger to the protagonists--though minor characters drop like flies. Director John Avidsen is best known at the time for helming Rocky, and then went on after this to direct the Karate Kid franchise. But nothing can save Steve Shagan’s screenplay. It’s difficult to escape the feeling that had the story been adapted by a more adept screenwriter, rather than the original novelist, it could have been much better. It has a solid cast, but they’re simply not given enough depth of character to make them believable or enough screen time to cause the audience to care for them. The production itself is equally flat and doesn’t really draw the viewer in. In the end it’s mildly interesting as a period piece, but little else.

The opening credits roll over a battle scarred Berlin at the end of World War II. With the Russians on their doorstep, German general Richard Lynch is given orders by the SS to take secret documents across the border into Switzerland to make a peace agreement with the U.S. Thirty-five years later, police detective George C. Scott is put on the case of a murdered friend of his, former police chief Robin Clarke. Apparently Clarke was friendly with corporate oilman G.D. Spradlin, sharing cocaine and hookers, and Clarke’s ex-wife Beatrice Straight also tells Scott about a connection Clarke had through Spradlin to Marlon Brando. The new police chief, Alan North, wants Scott to stay away from Brando, though, and then Spradlin conveniently connects the dead man to a drug dealer. It’s a convoluted case, but things get even stranger when, back at Straight’s house, Scott looks at an old photo of Clarke and the audience can see that he was the very U.S. Army major who’d captured Lynch during the war--then he finds Straight shot to death in her hot tub. Both of them, it turns out, were shot with the same German pistol. When Scott meets with Brando he guesses that Clarke was working as a bagman, and his guess is confirmed. Not only that, but Scott later learns that Straight had gone with her ex-husband on his last delivery to Europe, and finally learns from Interpol that Clarke was the officer who’d captured the secret German files.

The truly bizarre thing about the screenplay for the film, written by author Steve Shagan from his own novel, is how much telling there is rather than showing. It’s really weird. Every few minutes Scott relays information to other characters that the viewer wasn’t privy too. It’s rather disappointing as an audience member to be shut out of those important conversations, and rather jolting on the numerous occasions it happens. And yet, at the same time, the viewer also knows things that Scott doesn’t, not only because of the wartime prologue but also in scenes like the one in which the audience learns that Alan North is actually working for Spradlin--who in turn works directly for Brando. Scott convinces North to let him go to Germany, and meets with a cop he knows there, John Van Dreelen. Clarke’s last act before his death was to write the name of a German secret project called Genesis. Scott hopes he can put the pieces together in Europe. And it’s there that people from the prologue begin coming out of the woodwork. The secret project is, to no one’s surprise, the formula of the title, and what it promises could have a disastrous effect not only on American oil companies--like those owned by Brando--but the world economy.

George C. Scott does his usual solid job as the lead, strong and inquisitive, though the role is not nearly as interesting as others he had around the same time, like Hard Core and The Changeling. Marlon Brando loses himself in his role with heavy makeup and a lisp but, as with everyone else, the screenplay does him no favors. And John Gielgud makes a brief appearance as a German scientist, accent and all. Marthe Keller does a nice job in her small role. In just a few short years she had changed from a sort of baby-faced milkmaid in Marathon Man, to a more angular and interesting Liv Ullman type, though the roles are rather similar. Beatrice Straight has even less screen time here than she did in Network--no Oscar this time, though--and Craig T. Nelson shows up in a small role as a geologist working for Brando. Ultimately it’s a moderately interesting film, but nothing out of the ordinary. And in fact the screenplay, as well as the direction by John G. Avidsen, are decidedly ordinary. But there is one extraordinary aspect to the film, and that’s the ideas espoused in it and how similar they still are to those in our own day. Though today the corporate collusion and lies are more visible, they are just as real and just as damaging to a free society. The Formula could almost be seen as an allegory, not for energy, but for complete corporate oligarchical control of a nation. We can only hope that it doesn’t persist for yet another forty years, and that people will finally wake up to the imminent dangers they face from it every day.