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Reviews
Murder at the Vanities (1934)
No one EVER Made Movies Like This One!!!
There are moments in the film that are so dreadful, your teeth ache. But knowing that there were only weeks left before the Code made movies innocuous and bland, Paramount rushed this into production before innuendo and leering went out of style. Vanities is so horrifically anti-female that it's delicious. As Kitty Carlisle sings, women are displayed with price tags that would insult a Bronx hooker. They emerge from clams (nudge,nudge;wink,wink) in postures of absolute submission. Minions of the law, so stupid they cannot find the door, get to look up their skirts and snicker. Bare-breasted chorus girls sit uncomfortably in giant cacti (Could they be a source of hallucinogens, perhaps?) while we listen to "Sweet Marijuana" and watch as blood falls on a chorines's breast.
Sure, Carl Brisson learned his lines phonetically and doesn't seem to have a clue what he is saying. But it's all worth it as Norma steals the show while no one is looking.
Taking one moment of this fragile fluff seriously is missing the point of the whole exercise. Watch this with a charter member of NOW and prepare to justify the whole Hollywood machismo sch tick between body blows.
Toby Wing, by the way, is the icing on the cake. And Duke Ellington doesn't hurt either.
A must stroll down Memory Lane.
Sherlock Holmes Faces Death (1943)
Professionalism At Work Here
This is not a great film; however, it is great movie-making. The actors are all pro's who move the plot{sic} forward at each step of the film. Basil Rathbone, an excellent actor who all too often was given lines that would make a lesser man gag, remains the ultimate Holmes, sparing us the Freudian glimpses of his dark soul. The ending tends to be somewhat crass and contrived; however, it is carried off with panache and verve and the final speech doesn't seem quite as dated as it should. The photography, editing, and pace are examples of what movies once were and can never be again. At less than 70 minutes, this is an investment in excellence not to be missed by anyone who wants to know how to make something out of nothing.
Death, Deceit & Destiny Aboard the Orient Express (2001)
Not the Worst Movie Ever Made BUT....
With a small budget, Mr. Roper populates a railroad station with a large cast of extras who do very little but give a false sense of grandeur. We are introduced to a cast of characters who could, under certain circumstances, be interesting. There is a McGuffen that holds promise for fascinating interaction and believable action.
None of these things occur.
The mismatched cast bumbles through dialogue unfit for human consumption. The continuity is so bad that sections of the transparent plot simply seem to disappear. But it all grinds on in weary tedium until someone, I forget just who, blows up something and everyone kisses and makes up somewhere in Bulgaria or another.
In the fifties, this thing would go directly to a drive-in to be shown late at night to clear out the loiterers. Today, it has no place in the company of art and artists. Please, God, let there not be a sequel.
7th Heaven (1927)
A film which MUST be seen.
There is some pedestrian acting in Seventh Heaven; furthermore, there are situations which in the world of today seem crass beyond belief. But anyone who can watch this film, with its original tints and Movietone score, without a complete sense of wonder at what film once was, and might be again if the business of films allowed, is dead emotionally and spiritually.
It is no wonder Janet Gaynor won an Oscar for this, and other, film in 1927. Frank Borzage, who seems to be the forgotten director of all time, deserved sainthood for getting at least a credi8ble performance from Charles Farrell. His deft handling of the material and the camera is really astounding. His use of the helix as a symbol of re-birth, not original, is flawless and we still get fatigued walking with the two lovers up seven flights of stairs with his excellent crane shot. One suspects Lewis Milestone learned much from the war scenes and I wonder how Borzage would film Iraq, Afghanistan, or the World Trade Centre.
Simply put, no cinema fan can comment intelligently on film without seeing this masterpiece. I prefer it to Sunrise, no easy thing to admit. I rate it a 9 simply because Farrell is objectionable in so many ways. But Janet Gaynor is a wonder and Frank Borzage deserves a university course of his own.
Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow (2004)
A comic strip is just a comic strip -- a kiss is just a kiss.
It always astounds me that people were able to accept Lassie Go Home as a dog movie but seem totally unable to accept films like this for what they are--a joyous romp in a very limited genre. From the moment the film opens, with its distorted color tones, we are prepared for one graphic scene after another with a limited range of great drama -- thank God. This ain't Shakespeare!! It's Gwyneth Paltrow playing Lois Lane in elegant attire, ragging endlessly on stiff old Jude Law, who isn't quite sure if he should bed her or boot her. As Ronald Coleman, Jude Law does very well and if there is fault to be found with the film, it is to be found in the dim lighting which owes more to the budget than it does to the plot, which creaks excessively. If you want a good time, this is it. If you want great art, go to MOMA and pat yourself on the back for being a giant of intellect and taste. But a good time... it's here. Relax. It's just a '30's movie after all.
The General Died at Dawn (1936)
Hollywod At Its Very Best
There are better films than The General Died at Dawn; however, there are few films that make so much out of so little. The story itself is little more than fond manipulation of Asian stereotypes. Yet Lewis Milestone takes the material and in his hands, it becomes a cinematic jewel. Watch how the round features of a minor Chinese actor becomes a doorknob and then a billiard ball. Note how multi-imaging creates a visual record of the story being told. Watch how the stylized performances of Cooper and Carroll are used as foil for the larger-than-life storyline.
Sure, there are better films than this. But there are very few better entertainments - a concept that Hollywood lost years ago and which is only now infiltrating the thick skulls of TV land.
I Married a Witch (1942)
Haunt Me, Please Haunt Me!!
I'm sure there are many women just as beautiful as Veronica Lake. I'm sure there were, and will be, directors as gifted as Rene Clair. And I'm sure there are Irish mischief makers as amusing as Cecil Kellaway. And politicians as stuffy and pompous as Frederic March. But the combination here in this wonderful fluff is without equal.
Some Hollywood ace, befuddled and benumbed on a steady diet of coke and guacamole, has decided to remake this amazing film. Perhaps we will be shown a flash of real naked witch. But it will never be as sensual as the imagined view of Lake, as she appears in a smoke-filled hotel room. Perhaps in the re-make we will be shown the two characters locked together in a passionate embrace. But it will never equal what we imagine as we see the two ascend the stairs in this wonderful original.
It's not that Hollywood is doomed to produce banality in this new century; it's just that they seem to like it. There are very few films as good as I Married A Witch and there are very few directors who can call on studios like Paramount to supply them with gifted artists and craft persons to equal this witty and wonderful confection. Why even Susan Hayward, who did well with her strident image of bitchiness, is just right here. I suspect that new generations of filmgoers will never see this lovely film, for it is now OOP - out of print. But the horror of it all is I suspect those who made the new film never bothered to screen the old one, being convinced that they had nothing to learn about the craft of cinema.
That they were wrong becomes more obvious as the distance between the old and the new is measured in financial disaster. Perhaps next they might try to remake Sous Les Toits de Paris.
Consolation Marriage (1931)
Sparkling dialogue in a story that creaks with age, as it should.
Although the first ten minutes of the film are a trial, relishing as it does the cacophony of early films, the sheer bravado of Pat O'Brien and the iridescent charm of Irene Dunne soon make up for the horror of Myrna Loy, as stiff and plastic as her hairdo, and John Halliday, as a weak, chinless cretin musician. Once these two are left behind, the screenplay transcends its material and the dialogue and wit are as illuminating as the key lighting. The interaction between Dunne and O'Brien is what people mean when they say: "They don't make movies like this anymore." The two simply become more than the sum of their parts.
Discussing the ending would be akin to drowning a kitten. Suffice it to say that this is soap opera at its best and once the two weak sisters re-appear and disappear, we are left with an ending that allows us to feel morally uplifted. The material is dated but the inter-action between these two beginning stars of yesteryear makes up for any weaknesses. To fault the film for its age is simply ridiculous and makes such critics even less aware of just how good Hollywood films once were -- crowsfeet and all.