Author: Peter Schilling

Hollywoodland, 2006. Directed by Allen Coulter, written by Paul Bernbaum. Starring Adrien Brody, Diane Lane, Ben Affleck, Bob Hoskins, Robin Tunney, Jeffrey DeMunn, Joe Spano, Molly Parker, Dash Mihok (what a name!), and Lois Smith.

Now showing in select theaters around town.

There is a point in the near-great Hollywoodland where Ben Affleck, playing the tragic George Reeves, is gently chided by his agent, Arthur (the underused Jeffrey DeMunn), to stop smoking in public. Superman doesn’t smoke, Arthur laughs, it sets a bad example. George finishes his puff, and his betrays only the slightest hint of panic. A group of crazy boy scouts is pounding on the glass of the restaurant they’re eating in, in order to get Superman’s attention. George knows deep down that with every episode as the caped crusader, he’s burying himself deeper and deeper. He is not the man in the red cape. But he is also not possessed of any discernable talent outside of being the Man of Steel. Hollywood, like a boa constrictor, is slowly devouring George Reeves’ soul.

Did Ben Affleck stare deep down into himself and think, I’ve got to play it straight for once in my life? As he ages, Affleck has got to know that his time as a star is as limited as George Reeves’–only Affleck hasn’t got a syndicated television show to fall back on. His performance in Hollywoodland is a rarity, a moving and subtle portrayal of a man coming to the end of his rope. Avoiding histrionics, and never losing his sense of humor, Affleck wanders through this film like the dreamers who flock to Southern California’s sunshine in the hopes they’ll live forever, only to discover the when the movie’s over, the lights go out, and the darkness comes crashing down.

Hollywoodland is a strange film, a movie that veers between perfection and mind-boggling inanity. At times it seems like Sunset Blvd. meets Mulholland Dr. meets Altman’s Long Goodbye, with a touch of Chinatown thrown in for good measure. If that seems like quite a brew, it’s to the film’s considerable credit that it manages to hold all these influences together and be thoroughly original, falling apart only when the screenplay veers from these rich sources. It is a film with two stories: that of George Reeves and his suicide/murder. And that of gumshoe Louis Simo (Adrien Brody), investigating this death. The first is a masterpiece; the other (mostly) a misstep.

The facts: One evening, while entertaining a few friends, actor George Reeves bids his guests good night, shuffles upstairs to his bedroom, undresses and then shoots himself in the head. The LAPD rules it an ‘indicated suicide’, and pretty much closes the case. Enter Louis Simo. He’s a private dick with so few clients and resources he’s running his shop out of a dingy, backwater L.A. hotel. One day, he runs into an associate at a detective firm he used to work with, who hands him this tidbit: Reeves’ mother doesn’t believe her son would kill himself, and wants someone to dig up clues that point to murder. Simo ingratiates himself with the bitchy old woman (Lois Smith, who doesn’t seem capable of any other type of performance), and tries to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Interspersed within this story is the downfall of Reeves. We see him trying to claw his way up Hollywood’s golden ladder, shining with confidence. We first notice him hanging out in Ciro’s, elbowing his way close to Rita Hayworth just to get his picture in the papers. Any publicity is good publicity, he reasons, with his broad grin. In the process he meets Toni Mannix (Diane Lane), who turns out to be the wife of MGM Studio head Eddie Mannix (Bob Hoskins). They have an affair in broad daylight–the married couple has an agreement, whereby each gets their own lover on the side, without complaint, going so far as to dine together as a foursome. Toni loves Reeves because he makes her feel young in her waning years; he truly cares for her, enjoys the lavish presents (including a house), and hopes that she’ll get him some meaty roles at MGM. Instead, he’s cast as Superman, a role that will weigh him down for the rest of his life.

The director, Allen Coulter, manages to create a world that is a sepia-toned, sun-drenched wasteland of ruined lawns and big, empty mansions, too much space and far too much despair. Even better, he has a steady hand and an unobtrusive camera that drinks in some of the finest performances by small, relatively unknown actors who are magnificent without exception. You’ve got to hand something to a director that has elicited one of the finest performances of the year from Ben Affleck, but that he’s matched scene-for-scene by Diane Lane, by Bob Hoskins, by Robin Tunney as his shrewish fiance and Jeffrey DeMunn makes it all the more impressive.

There are a number of scenes that have lingered on since seeing this film: of DeMunn reminiscing about Reeves career to Adrien Brody; of Hoskins comforting Lane after Reeves’ death, their relationship twisted but charged with respect; Tunney admitting she’s lonely to Brody over the phone–every character igiven their due thanks to Coulter’s loving camera, which doesn’t force sentiment with blaring music or intrusive shots. And he get’s the mood just right, the sets a playground for these performances: Brody’s dingy hotel is a nod to Altman’s Long Goodbye, with its dirty pool and tanned old man, eternally lifting weights to stave off his inevitable death. The old have no place in Hollywood.

Unfortunately, these great scenes only make the other quarter of this film an exercise in deep frustration. Coulter and screenwriter Paul Bernbaum haven’t learned Lesson Number One from Chinatown and any other hard-boiled film: rid yourself of back-story. There’s a reason Gittes and Marlowe and the Continental Op are single fellows, without families. The reason is that no one cares. The mystery they’re after is all that matters, and that’s only the device that puts its characters under duress. But in Hollywoodland, Brody, who at times makes a very effective simpleton, a hack shamus who can’t see past his prodigious nose, is bogged down with scenes about his family and his girlfriend. When we’re caught up in Reeves’ life, in Brody’s trying to uncover something, anything, to keep this story in the papers, the last thing you want is to leave this world of ruined dreams for the domestic squabbles between ex-husband and ex-wife. The film grinds to a halt in these moments. Then there’s a silly subplot involving one of Brody’s other cases, which only serves to show us he’s clueless–which the main plot does quite well, thank you.

A great movie might still exist in Hollywoodland–you could hack out these scenes and leave a short and devastating film behind, a 90 minute noir classic about the evils of this wicked industry. Brody’s detective will never get to the bottom of things, he’s just an insect skimming the surface of a stagnant pond. The rest are just waiting to die, failures all, except for the studio head who has sold his soul ages ago.

You begin to realize that Reeves suffered from three of Hollywood’s great cancers: of the disease of the studio system and its sinister bosses; the sickness of those hangers-on who only want the stars to get money or near fame; and that quiet menace that haunts every actor’s dreams, that you’re not good enough and never will be. All three could have killed Reeves and in Hollywoodland, we never to get to the bottom of the mystery. In the end, does it really matter?

Dead Man’s Shoes, 2004. Directed by Shane Meadows, written by Meadows, Paddy Considine and Paul Fraser. Starring Considine, Gary Stretch, Toby Kebbell, Jo Hartley, Seamus O’Neill, Stuart Wolfenden, Paul Sadot, Paul Hurstfield, Emily Aston, George Newton, and Neil Bell.

Available pretty much everywhere on DVD.

If my memory serves me correctly, it used to be that Hollywood bestowed the gift of double-features on us lucky souls. You’d open with a newsreel, then proceed to a B-movie, and then the main attraction. When the habits of Americans changed, and we weren’t so eager to spend five hours in a darkened theater (choosing instead to waste our time glued to the TV or internet), the B-movie wandered over to the Drive-In. Now that’s gone, for the most part, and we’re left to think that The Descent, as decent as it may be, is a beautiful B. Forget it–that film is too well made, and has too much money behind it to have ever been in the hands of Edgar Ulmer or Ida Lupino.

Dead Man’s Shoes is pure B. Made on the ultra-cheap, filmed not in sets but in run-down homes in the dreariest part of England, it looks as if the principals gathered what change they had in their pockets to finance the thing. It’s not the masterpiece some claim it is, but neither is it worthy of having been unceremoniously dumped in the new-release section of Hollywood Video. Years ago we would have peeked at Paddy Considine butchering his goons while making out in the back seat of a Dodge Dart.

The plot is as thin as it gets: Considine plays Richard, newly returned from seven years in the British Army. “God will forgive them,” he says, as the film opens. “He’ll forgive them and allow them into heaven. I can’t allow that.” Richard is referring to the drug-dealing gang from this Midlands town, who had been using and abusing Richard’s feeble-minded brother Anthony. To such an extent, apparently, that Richard wants everyone involved dead as doornails.

What makes Dead Man’s Shoes so effective is its performances. Like so many B-flicks, this one doesn’t skimp on intensity. The actors give the movie the most inexpensive professionalism to a flick–their acting. Considine is just right as man obsessed, terrifying from the get-go. The rest of the cast is spot-on as well, from Gary Stretch as the suave-looking but ultimately useless gang leader to the rest of the unfortunates who meet their end in grisly, but not gratuitous, ways.

Oddly enough, Dead Man’s Shoes is understated, almost to the point of seeming indifferent. Director Shane Meadows appears to have emulated Richard Linklater in his portrayal of the small town’s hooligans, as many of the stoner scenes are hilarious, including a scene where one flips out at Richard in a gas-mask. “A monster! With massive eyes!” Problem is, you begin to emerge feeling more sympathy for the victims than the killer, who lays waste to six guys with ease, considering how blitzed they get. The film has its rough spots, including the scene where you learn the extent of Anthony’s abuse, to the self-serious choral music blaring suddenly (the film has a great soundtrack, full of interesting indie-folk music, including M. Ward).

Paddy Considine scripted the thing, for the most part, and gives himself some choice scenes. His acting is the foundation of this movie and I’d love to see him in much more, hopefully something with a budget. But mostly I’d love to see Dead Man’s Shoes playing in small towns in America, and on the big screens and Drive-Ins everywhere. Hollywood doesn’t quite get it: Snakes on a Plane is calculated, uninteresting trash that’s called ‘B’, while Dead Man’s Shoes–tense and startling, goes unheeded.

Factotum, 2005. Directed by Bent Hamer, written by Hamer and producer Jim Stark. Starring Matt Dillon, Lili Taylor, Marisa Tomei, Fisher Stevens, Didier Flamand, James Cada, Tony Lyons, and Dan Lee Jr. as a dwarf that Dillon abuses.

Now playing exclusively at the Uptown Theater.

On his Swingin’ Affair album, Frank Sinatra sang “I Got Plenty O’ Nuttin’”, a song from the Gershwin brothers’ acclaimed musical/opera Porgy and Bess. Though I adore the Frank, I can’t stand “Nuttin’”, simply because it’s ridiculous to hear a guy like Sinatra sing about having nothing but his song, his gal, and his Lord. No, Frank Sinatra made it a point to let everyone know that he’s got plenty more than that, if only gallons and gallons of gin and vermouth, girls, and a pinky ring.

I couldn’t help but make comparisons between Sinatra’s silly rendition of that admittedly silly song and Factotum, which could be the softest attept at approximating alcoholism and poverty I’ve ever seen. If the denizens of the Twin Cities think this is a hard-luck environment, I suggest they spend their next vacation in Detroit proper.

Before we continue, let me admit that I loathe Bukowski’s writing. Bukowski is a raging jerk, a man whose saving grace is purportedly that he’s got this half-assed wit and a poetic eye for his squalid surroundings. Bullshit, I say. His observations are cliched, stolen at times from both John Fante and, it seems to me, Raymond Chandler and a variety of hard-boiled novelists. It’s always been interesting to me that Bukowski claims to have been so profoundly influenced by John Fante’s work, especially the great Ask the Dust. For it seems as though CB did not understand Fante at all, did not see the pain and the suffering, did not see that he didn’t have to make the whole Goddamned world spin around the loser who wrote the book. Fante has a deep respect for every character in his novels, including the women he fights with and the fools who don’t get him (in fact, he’s often seen as worthy of being ignored). For Bukowski, there is nothing but Bukowski, and the world is made up of assholes with dirty underpants. He’s as shallow and hateful as Mickey Spillane, without even the crappy plot to keep you interested.

For whatever reason, there are many people who adore Bukowski. I don’t know why this is, why they want to waste their precious time with a guy who, if he had met them, would treat them only with contempt, especially if they were women who refused his advances. Apparently Norwegian filmmaker Bent Hamer fell under the old soak’s spell, as did Matt Dillon, Marisa Tomei, and indie-stalwart Lili Taylor, all of whom have been in much better than Factotum.

Anyone who would see Factotum must know it has no plot. It is made up of a series of episodes, of Henry Chinaski (Dillon as Bukowski) losing jobs left and right and drinking away his unemployment checks. He meets Taylor’s Jan and screws her day and night and they drink and vomit together. Later he dumps her and meets Tomei’s Laura and screws her as well. No drunk woman can resist the charm of Chinaski. Only we rarely get to see that charm.

Dillon has already gleaned numerous accolades by mimicking Peter Weller’s gravelly mumble in Naked Lunch. These are both non-performances, simply vocal mimics who barely respond to the actors or the situations around them. Dillon’s Chinaski has decent comic timing, but as an angry man he has no fire and as a lover he has no chemistry. Perhaps I might have been more impressed if hard-body Dillon hadn’t been cast. Bukowski must be grinning in his grave, considering his pock-marked face, thinning hair, and bulbous nose have been given their on-screen appearance in the well-trimmed mug of Matt Dillon. Marisa Tomei is made up to look haggish, but her great good looks poke through, as do her fabulous legs. Lili Taylor is only marginally better, as she seems willing to hvae let herself go more. Dillon can’t even let his beard grow–the thing is consistently trimmed, as if he was trying out for Miami Vice.

And Hamer’s world of the bums and their surroundings are surprisingly clean; not since Spielberg’s execrable AI have I seen such lousy representations of squalor. The bathrooms have cleaner grout than my house (and yes, I clean my tub).

Above all, we are supposed to be amused and impressed by Chinaski. But he’s an asshole that we’re all supposed to love. He beats a foreman who is a dwarf, smacks Lili Taylor across the face in a crowded bar (and writes, in a famous line of his book, that she has a tight pussy and takes it like she’s being stabbed), and chokes and pummels a guy who’s sitting in his seat at Canterbury Park. Of course, that guy is presented as a jerk, so it’s fine that he beats the tar out of him. After all, our Chinaski smokes on the job and stares at the skyline and narrates his turgid prose. That makes beating his girlfriend funny, or profound. I’m still not sure which–I found all this disgusting.

But this is the world of Charles Bukowski, a poor poet who is in great pain and who is misunderstood and gives no voice to anyone but himself. And I think of Fante’s powerful ending to Ask The Dust, a frustrating and powerful close to a great book, and one that offered tribute to a broken soul that was not his own. I wondered, as I watched Factotum, if Bukowski ever thought of anyone but himself. And whether or not anyone wonders about the other characters in his books and this film. Taylor’s Jan is a much more fascinating character, as is the story of the failed composer Pierre, a wealthy alcoholic with a bevvy of drunk women surrounding him. Factotum is about a cheap writer who can’t see past his own ugly nose. If you want beautiful sqaulor, read Fante, read Phil Levine, read Anzia Yezierska. These are authors who slept in gutters and wrote about themselves and the other men and women and children who slept there, too. Bukowski is a reprobate who can’t see the world past the tips of his toes. He can stay the gutter for all I care.

Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India, 2005. Written and directed by Ashutosh Gowariker, music by Padmashree A. R. Rahman, lyrics by Padmashree Javed Akhtar. Featuring the incredible talents of Aamir Khan, Gracy Singh, and Rajesh Vivek (and a cast of literally thousands); and also starring the mediocre, scene-chewing likes of Brits Rachel Shelley & Paul Blackthorne.

Playing tonight at the U of M’s Nolte Center, Room 125, at 7:00. Sponsored by the Institute for Advanced Study and the Asian American Studies department.

Bollywood: “Refers to the burgeoning film industry of India, the world’s biggest film industry, centered in Bombay (now Mumbai); the etymology of the word: from Bo(mbay) + (Ho)llywood; unlike Hollywood, however, Bollywood is a non-existent place.” —Cinematic Terms

Once upon a time, musicals were the pride and joy of Hollywood. From the 1930s through the 1950s, with only a short break for the big war, the moguls in SoCal were pumping out these candy-colored dreamworlds nearly every month. Although there was plenty of garbage, filmgoers of the time were also treated to some magnificent works of art: Robert Mamoulian’s delightful fable Love Me Tonight; the Fred Astaire wonders; the nostalgic and sometimes creepy Meet Me In St. Louis; and my personal favorites, the athletic films of Gene Kelly, from On the Town to An American In Paris, to the greatest musical of all, Singin’ in the Rain. I can literally watch many of these films two and three times at a sitting, and every time I leave them I find myself stepping along to their friendly beat. When I was a child I saw both Superman and Singin’ in the Rain on the big screen; unlike my pals, I didn’t want to be Superman, I wanted to be Donald O’Connor. Same thing, really, for they were both flying.

On the big screen, we don’t have much to dance about nowadays. The genre has fallen and fallen hard. Musicals from the 60s to the present day don’t stand up to the test of time (and, yes, I’m including the so-called classics like Cabaret, Chicago and Moulin Rouge). Today’s musicals are soulless, corporate garbage, or they’re aimed at the adult Broadway crowd, or they’re the Disney crap for children and brain-dead grown-ups, sung by Elton John and Phil Collins. I could come up with a dozen theories as to why musicals “don’t work” anymore: we’re too cynical, the stars are too much with us now, innocence lost, etc., etc. For the longest time it depressed me to think that we’re not going to see their likes ever again.

But there’s a whole galaxy of musicals coming from the heart of the Indian subcontinent, spinning into the universe of DVD (and available, with subtitles and letterboxes, at Netflix, or your local Indian market). These are the Bollywood films, lengthy historical and romantic musicals with handsome and wholesome heroes, beautiful heroines, dastardly villains, and show-stopping numbers. I give you one of the best, the only Bollywood film ever to be nominated for an Academy Award: Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India. That it is showing tonight on the big screen only heightens its appeal.

The facts: in the middle of the 19th century, a small village is suffering through a drought, barely able to feed themselves, when they are told that they have to pay double lagaan, or tax. This is imposed by a towering ruffian of a Brit, the menacing Captain Russell (played with dastardly verve by Paul Blackthorn). Russell’s a fellow with a permanent scowl and a long moustache that I was just praying he would twirl in his gloved hand. The villagers approach the Rajah, who is forced to work with the British government (and, specifically, the antagonist), and ask for a reprieve from the tax. In the process, the Brit is insulted by our hero, the young, handsome, and headstrong Bhuvan (the charmer Aamir Khan). There’s a wager: if this ragtag village can beat the crack British club at a cricket match, there will be no taxes for three years.

Sounds corny? As corny as three sailors in NYC hoping to meet Miss Turnstiles on the subway and get a date in On the Town. As ridiculous as the stories in Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, Brigadoon, and even An American In Paris, which doesn’t really have a plot. In Lagaan’s nearly four hours (!), there’s romance (a rivalry of sorts between the girl who loves Bhuvan and a British woman who also falls in love with him), praying for rain and victory, accepting the poor Inidan untouchable and the Muslim on the team, and learning about cricket (which is damned weird sport). All the while the lucky viewer is treated to these great songs and some nifty choreography. Though Lagaan can’t approach the mastery of a Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire film, it matches their energy frame for frame, and completely eclipses such dead works as Rent and The Producers, which I can’t imagine inspiring anyone.

Bollywood films are notoriously wholesome–there’s not even a kiss exchanged. Privately, I was imagining myself gyrating with either female lead. But I’m here to tell you that can’t take all the underclad inmates of Chicago and make them as sexy as the village girls of “Lagaan”. Bumping shoulders never seemed so erotic.

Because of this sexy innocence, and despite its running time, this is a great kids film. You can take your children to see tripe like Superman Returns, Talladega Nights (I hope not) or even Cars, and I doubt you’re going to give them the thrills Lagaan did for our crew last summer, when I saw it for the first time. The evening after Lagaan–and for days afterward–the children who watched it with us danced around the living room with scarves, not in celebration of the rain (as in the film), but in celebration of the approaching lunch of macaroni and cheese. The adults even spun around with them at times.

Ultimately, Lagaan is great fun, which is the backbone of the best musicals. Like poetry, musicals connected to a rhythm, to music, and they tell us that our best–and worst–moments are heightened by this song and dance. I’ve heard all the arguments against Bollywood: that the ‘average viewer’ (whomever they are) won’t warm up to the subtitles, to the length, to the musical in general. Different cultures, different tastes, etc. But I don’t believe any of that. Critics who are willing to waste time and space on Little Miss Sunshine and Beerfest scoff at the Indian film industry. You’re telling me that those films are better for us than Lagaan (or any of the mediocre Indian musicals)?

One night that summer, around dusk, I was playing cricket Frisbee in the park with the kids, to the tune of “Chale Chalo”. While we were trying our best to sing in Hindi, I couldn’t help but wish that the Bollywood phenomena was spreading to the American market. When I was a kid I was both playing with yardstick lightsabers as Darth Vader and spinning myself around lightpoles in the rain as Don Lockwood. That evening the kids were doing the same. With the Bollywood musical you get nothing but music, simple plots, good songs, and no violence, explosions, or special effects. The movie had kept us riveted and then made us play. Later, it followed us into our sleep, and we woke with the tunes on our lips.

L’Armee des Ombres, 1969 (Army of Shadows). Written and directed by Jean-Pierre Melville. Starring Lino Ventura, Paul Meurisse, Jean-Pierre Cassel, and the magnificent Simone Signoret.

Now showing at the Edina Cinema.

With perhaps as much mystery as the Maquis fighters it showcases, Army of Shadows has snuck into town with little fanfare, spending its week at the Edina Cinema and, having blown the minds of the few who have seen it, will drift away again in a pair of days. When I went to see it last evening, there were perhaps ten people, including my party of three. When we stumbled out, one of us was seemingly attuned to every existential clue, while the other two (myself included) were quite a bit more baffled. It struck me, then, that there’s no way in hell this movie could make any money. Like Cache earlier this year, this is a film that will invigorate some, confound others, and be loathed by those that hate to be confounded.

Army of Shadows is ostensibly a story of the French Resistance fighters, but it is a war movie unlike any I’ve seen before. Steeped (as I understand it) in existentialist philosophy–Satre worked in the Resistance, I’m told, and was represented here in the character of Luc–it makes for an astounding view of what life would really be like during wartime. That is, living under pressure with mounting terror now and again; long stages of dour and depressing existence; this contrasted to the continued presence of death; and, for the most part, little heroism but a lot of seemingly meaningless, and often joyless, survival. If Army of Shadows is a masterpiece–and it may well be–it is also a strong tonic against the chest-thumping heroics of many a war film, and perhaps especially World Trade Center. That it is essentially a story of terrorists makes it even more profound.

The plot is and as full of holes as a pair of rationed silk stockings. Philippe Gerbier (the owlish Lino Ventura) is a leader in the underground, and, at the film’s opening, has been arrested on suspicion. He will undoubtedly receive no trial, just torture. After a transfer to the torture-house, he makes his escape and regroups with his men, Le Masque (Claude Mann) a frustrated and at times cowardly man; Le Bison (Christian Barbier) a gentle giant; and Felix, a bowler-capped fellow who is Philippe’s number two man. They work for the leader, Luc Jardie (Paul Meurisse), who is the Satre double, and whom Philippe worships. He is also worshipped by his younger brother, Jean-Pierre–who, I have to admit, no one in our group was sure whether or not he was the brother of Luc, or merely a student (IMDB indicates the characters share the same last name). Working with the resourceful and heroic Mathilde (Simon Signoret, wonderful as always), the men work to topple the Nazis. In the course of the movie’s two hours, these men will make plans that will not come to fruition, get captured, fail to save their comrades, get captured, save a comrade, and finally, execute one of their beloved own.

We are never privy to the group’s attempts at unsettling the Nazis. The assumption is, of course, that the French Resistance worked diligently to fight against their oppressors, but Army of Shadows is a story of internal strife and conflict. Jean-Pierre Melville drops you right in the middle of a complex web of relationships within the Resistance, whose existence seems solely to survive. Only one Nazi is seen killed, and that is in Philippe’s initial escape–the rest of the film is about bumping off traitors in their camps and trying to bust their compatriots out of Nazi prisons. The streets are empty, but without the foreboding mood of films like The Third Man–these are simply empty streets, devoid of life, space to fill in-between assignments.

In the course of the movie (and in a strangely homoerotic scene), Le Masque, Felix and Philippe have to kill a traitor, who can only whimper by way of resistance. Men don’t struggle against the approach of doom, they seem to either steel themselves for the worst, chomping on the bit of philosophy, or cry quietly and die. Philippe ends up in London to attend the decoration of his hero Luc (by DeGaulle), and then returns to France when fellow fighter Felix is captured. At times the existentialist symbolism is an obvious slap in the face–Philippe stares down into the blackness before parachuting into France, and in another instance, during a daring rescue, is confronted by a wall of pitch black smoke that he must plunge into for freedom. The attempt to save Felix comes to a lot of nothing, resulting in the death of Felix and the younger Jardie, both by cyanide pills. Remorse seems to have been bled out of these people, along with their hope.

Melville creates perhaps the most banal wartime land in film history. France is eternally overcast, the whole film shot in a dour blue and gray, the soundtrack a motley collection of old motors screeching, sirens bleating, lights clicking on and off monotonously. It appears as if the Nazis are here to stay, just another aspect of an already forlorn life. Does resistance, then, simply become a metaphor for the daily struggle, which will, inevitably, lead to a meaningless death?

It’s a lot to take in, and a great deal to turn over, which I did in my fitful sleep last evening. Despite its often creaky and overly coincidental plot, Army of Shadows is a great film because of its crack filmmaking, stellar and understated cast, its edginess and its willingness to ignore the world’s continued cries for simplistic heroes who do nothing to provoke questions. Perhaps like my understanding of the world’s conflicts, if there’s one thing I know about this strange film, it’s that I probably won’t grasp its entire meaning, ever.

The Magnificent Ambersons, 1942. Directed by Orson Welles, written by Welles (and fully credited to him), with additional dialogue by fellow legerdemain Jack Moss and pal Joseph Cotten. Starring Tim Holt, Anne Baxter, Joseph Cotten, Dolores Costello, the incredible Agnes Moorehead, Richard Bennett, and narrated by Welles.

Available on DVD exclusively at Cinema Revolution.

In this state, which is not madness
but Michigan, here in the suburbs
of the City of God, rain brings back
the gasoline we blew in the face
of creation…

From the files of street critic Sandoth “Guy” Fresno.

I’ve spent a good quarter of my life looking for the lost hour of The Magnificent Ambersons. I’ve trudged through old warehouses, stolen into the archives of RKO, been locked away for a month waiting for a lawyer just to give the world what it deserves. Because Ambersons is a signpost, a warning. It’s Michigan, man. Sure it takes place in Indian, God-freakin’ Indiana, home of the Danforth Quayles, but it’s about Michigan, Damnit. Or: it’s about what was coming to ruin us all.

Welles was looking for something lost, a time of innocence, of simplicity. Just like always, he wanted the dreams of childhood which, when he grew old, he mistook for reality. Check out those Ambersons in their buggies! Dancing in a ball, laughing, scraping their upturned noses against the sky. Bastards. It kills me to watch the thing, knowing I’m supposed to care about these sons-a-bitches. Only I don’t. Care about them, that is. Who I care is Joe Cotten, reeling over what he’s done. He’s brought the gasoline-soaked clouds down on top of all of us. And now he’s sorry.

And I care about Agnes. Agnes Moorehead. It’s the movie that made me think Agnes Moorehead is a beautiful woman. That’s saying a lot because she seemed to make it a point to play spinsters, to tie her hair up tight and harden her features. Even here. Watch her while Tim Holt shovels his God-damn dessert down his throat and Agnes swallows her pain. Your throat will hurt for the rest of the movie, or you’re dead.

It’s the typical Welles soaker about lost love, an innocent past, men and women who don’t realize what they had in their hands until it had flown away, never to return. The Mighty Ambersons, holding onto the past, wasting their money in creaky investments and turning their nose up at progress. Only progress eats them alive.

Bratty little Tim Holt confronts Joe Cotten over the coming of the auto-age. No, not because he really gives a rat’s-ass about the automobile, but because he’s spoiled and his widowed mom is paying just a bit too much attention to old Joe. And Joe Cotten, doing what he does best, loping around, bewildered, even as a successful man knowing that he can’t hold onto the reins. He gives a little speech, when he’s been insulted and knows he, too, can’t have what he really loves. And it’s beautiful, man, a sweet punch in the face in a small but testy fight in some backwater arena.

Listen to Joe for a moment:

With all their speed forward, they might be a step backward in civilization. Maybe they won’t add to the beauty of the world or lift our souls, I’m not sure.

And it may be that George is right. Maybe that in ten to twenty years from now, if we can see the inward changes, by that time I shouldn’t be able to defend the gasoline engine.

I don’t know if Booth Tarkington wrote that, or Welles, or who, but that’s it, man, that’s Michigan. That’s the ruined wasteland of Detroit, Flint, Saginaw, Jackson, the whole rotten constellation of half-empty blue collar towns. A story of the bastard rich that reaches right down and scratches our flea-bitten heads. Rich and poor: we all breathe that gasoline air. We all punch our clocks and drink away our pain and then go through the same thing over and over and over again. Sometimes we quit drinking to think we can live better, but then the clouds clear and we sit over a ruined plate of eggs and know that life isn’t going to get any better than this, without any more color than the Saginaw Bay in February.

Ambersons is a wreck, though. You can see what a masterpiece it would have been, if they hadn’t taken sixty God-damned minutes out of it. From 150 to 88 minutes? Holy shit. I spent two years nonstop, with the memory of Detroit haunting my every step, just looking for the footage they lost. And keeping my eyes and ears open since. Everyone said it was gone, melted down for the silver, but I just couldn’t believe that. Those moronic scholars speak of it in hushed tones, but movies should never be analyzed, just felt. And I can feel in my bones that that sixty minutes is out there somewhere, like the Dead Sea Scrolls.

It was a corporate decision to hack the thing, just as it is a corporate decision to belch carbon monoxide into the air, just as it is to invade countries, just as it is to grind the human soul into a lubricant to run the machines.

I don’t know, man. Sometimes the movies just bring you down.

…If the Messenger entered now
and called out, You are my people!
the tired waiter would waken and bring
him a coffee and an old newspaper
so that he might read in the wrong words
why the earth gives each of us
a new morning to begin the day
and later brings darkness to hide
what we did with it.

—Philip Levine, “Rain Downriver”

The Philadelphia Story, showing tonight at the Walker’s Summer Music and Movies in Loring Park.

According to an History of the Movies class I took at Michigan State University–taught by one of the screenwriters of Top Gun, for God’s sake–when The Philadelphia Story was released, Katherine Hepburn was considered “box office poison”. Kate being Kate, she decided to expand her horizons, extended Hollywood her middle finger, and headed east to act on Broadway. They didn’t like that, naturally, so they said she was poison. Well, Kate being Kate, she was wise enough to buy the rights to the thing she was wowing them with in New York, namely “The Philadelphia Story”. Since it was a huge hit on Broadway, suddenly the moguls desperately wanted it, and discovered they had to go through Kate. So they gave her scads of dough for the rights to the story, and the lead role. Thus, the legend continued.

Frankly, I think The Philadelphia Story is the weakest of this lot, but I still enjoy the thing. Why they gave Jimmy Stewart his Oscar for this vehicle remains a mystery (he wasn’t even nominated for Vertigo), but you can do no better than spend a balmy evening watching this classic on the big screen. And take note: Stewart works for Spy Magazine, for which a short lived humor mag was named, and Hepburn’s character is named Tracy Lord, for which young porn star and John Waters ingenue Traci Lords named herself.