Saturday, December 22, 2012

White Christmas (1954)

White Christmas (1954)
Directed by Michael Curtiz
Screenplay by Norman Krasna, Norman Panama and Melvin Frank
Runtime: 2 hr
Well, I couldn’t ignore Christmas entirely, now could I?  I originally figured that doing a month dedicated to Michael Curtiz films would be a substitute for talking about Christmas movies, because frankly I’m not a fan.  But then I discovered that Curtiz was the man in the chair for one of the biggest Christmas hits of them all, leaving me little choice but to close out the year with some holiday cheer.  Starring Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, I present the Irving Berlin song vehicle and smash hit of 1954, White Christmas.
During the Second World War, Phil Davis (Kaye) saves the life of soldier/crooner Bob Wallace (Crosby).  The two become lifelong friends and form the hit entertainment duo of Wallace & Davis.  After their most recent production shuts down for Christmastime, the pair see a sister act—Betty and Judy (Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen), who through wacky hijinks, they end up following up to Vermont to take in some snow.  Staying at an inn owned by the boys’ old commander (Dean Jagger), there’s no snow to be found and they find business is in the toilet.  Song-and-dance routines to the rescue!
Right off the bat, White Christmas fails pretty hard at being a Christmas movie.  Very little of the film has any discernible connection to Christmas.  Most of the plot centers on the romance between Bob and Betty, and the song numbers have more to do with the entertainment business than with December 25.  It’s only the first ten minutes and the last ten minutes of the film that are in any way Christmas-related; in the end it feels as if the Christmas motif was tacked on because “White Christmas” had been a massive hit previously.
Granted, the Christmas theme is not entirely ignored.  The sets are frequently dominated by reds, greens and silvers, even if the songs and dialogue have absolutely nothing to do with holiday cheer.  And this being essentially an Irving Berlin movie, I can get not having that many Christmas tunes; one can only write so many.  But even with those concessions, White Christmas only connects on a holiday level in a superficial manner, and it sort of feels cynical for including it; as the characters might say, Christmas is the movie’s angle.
It’s better to think of White Christmas as a romantic comedy that just happens to take place in December.  And in that regard, it doesn’t work, either.  The love connections here are just off.  Bob and Betty are supposed to be the main couple, but it seems as if Phil and Judy, who explicitly state that their “relationship” exists solely to give Betty tacit permission to find a man, have better chemistry.  How is it that that the two people who are just pulling strings are lovebirds, but that the central romance comes off as contrived and engineered?
Now, Bob and Betty are being engineered into a relationship, so not having chemistry would make sense.  But the film plays it as if the two were meant for each other.  I lay most of the blame on Crosby’s shoulders.  He’s got a hell of voice, but his stage presence is just awkward in his scenes with Clooney.  He’s constantly too confident in his delivery for me to buy a budding relationship, especially since his character is supposed to be perfectly content with waiting for the “one” to find him.  Clooney’s not great, but at least she doesn’t have the same character inconsistency.
The supporting cast is at least a tad more varied.  Kaye’s Phil is very young-teenager in presence; his voice cracks a lot and he will never, ever stop guilt-tripping Bob for saving his life.  Vera-Ellen is a little snarky, but doesn’t leave much of an impression.  And while Jagger has his moments as the general, especially when he just wants to watch the TV, damn it, he too is rather tedious.  This is the sort of situation that Curtiz should have stepped in and given his cast some direction; even the best players here feel more like zombies than people.
Furthermore, the plot to this movie is full of romantic comedy clichés.  You’ve got the characters who think they don’t have time in their lives for a significant other until they just happen to meet each other.  You’ve got the best friends who try playing matchmaker because they’ve evidently got nothing better to do with their time.  And, of course, you’ve got the third act misunderstanding that threatens to ruin the relationship and takes thirty minutes to fix even when just two sentences could clear things up.
I realize that White Christmas is simply some old-fashioned Christmas(y) cheer, but would it have really killed three screenwriters—all three of them—to come up with something a little less formulaic?  Or, hell, at least something that reminded me of Christmas; I could accept the overdone schmaltz if the old “true meaning of Christmas” bit was thrown into the mix.  But, alas, such is not the case.  White Christmas might not be a patently unwatchable film, but it certainly an un-rewatchable film.  A shame for a Christmas flick, since I thought that was the point.

Note: I'll be taking a break for Christmas and New Year's; there will be no article on December 26 and no review on December 29.  Normal service will resume on January 2.  Until 2013!

Saturday, December 15, 2012

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)
Directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley
Screenplay by Norman Reilly Raine and Seton I. Miller
Runtime: 1 hr, 42 min
So far in Michael Curtiz Month, we have seen his efforts take the form of a patriotic musical and a melodramatic film noir.  But as I said last week, Curtiz’s films were varied greatly and genre, and today’s picture is no exception.  A film that was originally to be directed by William Keighley and starring a great deal of actors that I actually recognize, The Adventures of Robin Hood finds Curtiz in action-adventure mode, and of all the films I’ve covered for this month, it is easily the most enjoyable.
Starring Errol Flynn in his signature turn as Sir Robin of Locksley, The Adventures of Robin Hood finds Prince John (Claude Rains) ready to take the throne belonging to his brother, Richard the Lion-Heart, who has been taken captive while returning from the Crusades.  As the Norman taxes on and cruelty to the Saxons increase while Richard’s away, Robin Hood turns outlaw to aid the poor and challenge the oppressors, forming his band of Merry Men and gradually wooing Richard’s ward, the lovely Maid Marian (Olivia de Havilland).
Firstly, Errol Flynn’s performance is superb.  Not only does Flynn deliver his lines with a wonderful mixture of joviality, disdain and honor, but he is also nimble and does a convincing job in the acting sequences.  Yes, he does allow Robin Hood to come off as something a jerk at times, especially when recruiting his partners into the fold, but it is a reasonable portrayal.  I would expect a troublesome rebel to be hard to deal with on and off the battlefield, and one cannot deny that Flynn makes it fun to watch.
Robin Hood’s crew is motley one, and the variety of characters present is one of the film’s strongest points.  Among his eventual comrades are the skillful and sturdy Little John (Alan Hale), the tubby yet strong Friar Tuck (Eugene Pallatte), and the youthful, wisecracking Will Scarlett (Patric Knowles; there’s also a bit of Alan-a-Dale to the character).  These characters provide texture to their leader’s exploits, though it is a shame that some, especially Scarlett, don’t get enough screen time to fully flesh out their roles.
The Merry Men are all interesting, but it’s the Normans who turn in the best performances.  It would be hard to do otherwise when Melanie Hamilton, Louis Renault and Sherlock Holmes are coming to bat.  De Havilland’s performance as Maid Marian is nuanced and understated, Claude Rains is proper and prissy as Prince John, and Basil Rathbone lends dignity to his role as Sir Guy of Gisbourne.  But my favorite role of all is Melville Cooper as the Sheriff of Nottingham, secretly aware and intelligent yet completely ineffectual; one gets the feeling he’s the Norman version of Piggy.
I’ve gushed about the performances, but The Adventures of Robin Hood is intended as a spectacle, and it succeeds there as well.  The archery tournament sequence, complete with arrow-splitting feats of wonder, is tense and expertly staged.  The fight scenes between Robin Hood and whoever gets in his way are exciting; every blow he shares with Sir Guy has the potential to end everything right there.  And the Technicolor filming looks gorgeous, coming a full year before Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz brought color film to the next level.
On top of the color filming, the film looks great because the world the crew constructs is lively.  Curtiz gives equal time to emotion establishing close-ups and wide-angle shots to show off the scope and grandeur of this medieval England.  The clothes of the nobles are appropriately showy, while the castle architecture is cold and basic with ample empty space.  In fact, every detail shines through, from the poverty of the oppressed Saxons to the rich food freely available to the Norman nobility.  Despite centuries of time difference, there is a clear “you-are-there” effect.
However, as appears to be a recurring theme this month, The Adventures of Robin Hood has some problems with pacing its plot properly.  Rather than follow the narrative of Robin Hood keeping Prince John from taking Richard the Lion-Heart’s throne straight through, the screenwriters opt for an anecdotal approach which gradually builds up to the central conflict.  This does allow for the characters to have their moments, but having Robin Hood and Maid Marian taken captive at different points makes the film a bit repetitive in its obstacles.
Yet whereas the poor structure of Yankee Doodle Dandy ultimately sank the film, the pure spectacle of The Adventures of Robin Hood is enough to rise above the plot difficulties.  Indeed, the episodic nature of the film almost aids it, highlighting the mythic nature of the Robin Hood tales.  Triumphing as a series of performances and as an action-adventure, The Adventures of Robin Hood is great fun, pure and simple, and when well executed, that’s all that one really needs out of this sort of movie.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

"It's Christmas All Over Again": On the Myriad Renditions of Christmas Songs

We once again find ourselves in the middle of December, and in the United States, that can only mean one thing: a never ending barrage of Christmas music.  Set one foot out in public all month and you are liable to get hit with a tactical campaign of Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby and children's choirs.  If my own family is representative of the population, then I can safely say that the annual influx of hymns, chestnuts and novelty records is cherished tradition, something to look forward to the moment that the weather precludes going down the shore.

You know who else loves Christmas music?  The music industry.  In the oft-talked about era of declining record sales, Christmas music remains a fairly reliable source of revenue.  Bing Crosby's rendition of "White Christmas" has been the best selling single of all time for over five decades, and the lucrative nature of holiday tunes continues on.  The individual songs may not be rocketing up the Billboard charts, but the albums are consistently push units.  Case in point: Josh Groban's Noël became the best-selling album of 2007, despite being out for less than three months at the time.

Looking over the Billboard 200 for the week of December 8, 2012, seven of the top 40 selling albums were Christmas records, ranging from Rod Stewart's Merry Christmas, Baby (#6) to Trans-Siberian Orchestra's Dreams of Fireflies (On a Christmas Night) (#37).  Taking the entire chart into account, nearly 1/4 of the best-selling albums that week were Christmas albums.  And keep in mind, that "December 8" is the issue date, corresponding to the tracking period of November 19-25.  We'd just barely entered Christmas season by this point.

Yet the success of Christmas records has always kind of baffled me.  It's not that I don't get why people listen to Christmas music; that's not a particularly shocking phenomenon.  No, what I want to know is why people keep purchasing Christmas music.

There are three reasons for my confusion.  First off all, in relation to the calendar, Christmas music has a short shelf-life; even with the holiday season bleeding out of December, at most we're talking a ten-week period of relevancy.  No one is going to be spinning "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" in April without irony.  Secondly, during this brief period of relevancy, it's not as if Christmas music is difficult to come by.  Even if (or especially if) you're from a rural town like I am, you can probably find a radio station that switched to an all-Christmas format around Thanksgiving.

But I can come up with counterpoints to those arguments.  For one thing, even though non-seasonal albums can be enjoyed year-round, who actually listens to any given record that often?  It sort of makes sense to buy a Christmas record and let it gather dust in-between plays.  And while it probably makes more economic sense to just tune in to the local Clear Channel station, to do so makes it impossible to listen to whatever carol it is you want on demand.  Especially in the Internet era of instnat gratification, a personally-owned record seems like a good investment.

Here's the thing (and my third point), though: holiday music is a pretty static genre; it's not as if there is a steady stream of holiday classics coming out.  When we think "Christmas music", we're thinking the standards that have been put on record countless times by countless artists.  There's very little variety in terms of content, just in presentation.  It's this reason that trips me up.  There should be no rush to get new Christmas music because, when you get right down to it, there are only so many ways one can record "Jingle Bells", right?

Well, all this thinking got me thinking: why don't I put that notion to the test?  For this post, I decided to listen to a whole bunch of Christmas albums, from the mega-sellers to the obscurities, and see whether or not I can find some reason, some clue, as to why these things keep selling after all these years.  Maybe the end product is a cynical cash-in used to fill contractual obligations, but it could well be the case that such-and-such's performance of a holiday favorite does justify an album purchase.  Grab a carton of eggnog and stoke up the fire, because here we go!

Exhibit A: Barenaked for the Holidays - Barenaked Ladies (2004)


Well, we might as well start with a bit of the old hypocrisy, because I listen to this record every December (and because I need to start this piece somewhere).  Tie it in with the impulse to experience Christmas music on one's own terms, I suppose.  I absolutely love Barenaked Ladies, but they're not the sort of act that screams, "Christmas album!"  Even at 12 years-old, I doubt that I was clamoring for BNL to hit the studio and record their variation on "Jingle Bells", complete with the "Batman smells" lyrics thrown in for good measure.

Yet, it kind of works.  I know, I've got my own biases, but the arrangements the band gives the material keeps it fresh.  Okay, sometimes the results don't sound remotely Christmas-y ("I Saw Three Ships"), but more often than not, they evoke the proper spirit.  The vibraphone driven "Carol of the Bells" sounds like an impending ice storm, while "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen / We Three Kings" captures the feeling of company surrounding a roaring fire on a cold winter's night, aided by Sarah McLachlan's airy vocals.

Further, I've always respected the high proportion of original tracks, and while some are dead-weight (the dour "Snowman" or the overly-goofy "Christmas Pics"), on the whole they give the album the band's signature humorous touch.  "Elf's Lament" always sticks out in my mind; I just love the image of Santa's elves trying to organize a strike, working through a dead end job "making crappy little gizmos".  And, for the longest time, I did not realize that Michael Bublé was a featured vocalist on it.  Speaking of which...

Exhibit B: Christmas - Michael Bublé (2011)


Staying in Canada but transitioning from goofy to classy, we move on to the living anachronism, Michael Bublé.  A Michael Bublé Christmas LP is such a no-brainer as a concept that I'm still shocked it took so long for one to materialize.  As the one of the few performers in the Frank Sinatra/Tony Bennett tradition of vocal jazz with mainstream recognition, a Christmas album was an inevitability, and a lucrative one at that.  Only Adele's 21 moved more units in 2011 than Christmas (though it was by quite a wide margin).

Bublé's set only shares one song with Barenaked for the Holidays, which would be the ubiquitous "Jingle Bells".  Yet I find they share a sense of humor, though Bublé's is far less overt.  Well, okay, there's his rendition of "Santa Baby", which is hilarious by nature, but mostly I find the humor derives from the vocal deliver.  It may just be me, but it sounds like Bublé is trying to stifle a laugh on the upbeat tracks.  Here's clearly having a good time.  And I am perfectly cool with that, since what is Christmas time if not a good time?

Further, the arrangements on Christmas are quite varied in tone.  Some choices are obvious, such as the requisite reverence paid to "Silent Night", but others genuinely surprised me, especially the melancholic take on "All I Want for Christmas Is You".  Oddly, though I normally love big, hot brassy arrangements, songs which feature prominent horn sections, notably "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" and "Blue Christmas", don't quite work for me; I guess that particular sound doesn't quite fit the Christmas mood.  But at least there's effort in that.

Overall, Bublé's interpretations are rather traditional, but that 1950s sound is a solid one for the occasion.  It's as if Bublé was made to sing Christmas carols.

Exhibit C: Christmas in the Heart - Bob Dylan (2009)


Bob Dylan, on the other hand, was not made to sing Christmas carols.  Now, don't get me wrong: I adore Dylan voice.  No, really.  I've long felt that his loud, nasal singing voice was an asset rather than a liability.  Even as it's disintegrated over the decades, it remains a powerful vehicle for his lyrics.  But gravel and sandpaper are not the sounds one associates with Christmas songs.  On top of that, a large portion of Dylan's work consists of songs which may be summarized as, "You suck!"  Really, he is just about the last person I'd expect to hear singing of peace on earth and good will towards men.

Yet, when I thought about it: of course Bob Dylan would record a Christmas album.  After all, he made his name in the folk revival scene of the early 1960s, and has built a career of recording and appropriating folk music ever since.  The vast majority of Christmas songs we hear are passed down and recast through the various cultural institutions to the point that the originators are historical footnotes.  In other words, Christmas carols may be considered a (very lucrative) subset of modern folk music.  Why wouldn't America's leading folk artist get involved?

One thing that sticks out about Christmas in the Heart compared to the Bublé and BNL efforts is the higher proportion of religious songs.  And it's on these tracks where the concept of a Dylan Christmas album really shines.  Yes, he sounds absolutely wretched on the ballads such as "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing", but I truly believe his inarticulate growl provides for a fresh interpretation of the time-honored tunes.  Rather than the soft, angelic, hopeful renditions I'm used to hearing, Dylan casts himself as man long in the darkness which Christ's birth was to illuminate, particularly on "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

And on a side note: the video for "Must Be Santa" is just hilarious.  I mean, just look at that wig.


Exhibit D: Elivs' Christmas Album - Elvis Presley (1957)


Moving from one American icon to another: the King.  All these decades later, Elvis still holds a prominent position in popular culture.  From the glamour of the Vegas years to the indelible vocal stylings, every element of the Elvis persona permeates the cultural landscape.  The man left his mark not only on the then-emerging genre of rock music, but also gospel, country and blues as well.  So it should come as no surprise to learn that, according to the Recording Industry Association of America, his first Christmas album is the best-selling holiday record of all time.

Elvis' Christmas Album is a split LP: the first side consists of secular Christmas tunes, the second side religious ones.  The two are a study in contrast.  On side one, Elvis' delivery is just dripping with sexuality.  This is, of course, best demonstrated on the definitive take on "Blue Christmas", but it blankets the entire first half.  There is just something righteous about the energy of "Santa Claus in Back in Town", in which the vocals combine with the classic blues lyric pattern to create an irresistible treat.  Even if the thought of Santa Claus is not at all sexy.

The gospel tracks of side two, however, suffer as a result.  The style is not my thing to begin with, but after hearing a similar vocal delivery on the love-laden tracks of side one, I become incapable of hearing it in a nonsexual context.  I realize that Elvis is going for a reverential tone here, and had I listened to say, "Silent Night" or "I Believe" first, I could probably appreciate the whole record.  Alas, given the image of Elvis which has been built in the collective memory over the years, I can't imagine that the sincere religious tunes would hold up very well.  Curse you, sexy Elvis!

Exhibit E: Miracles: The Holiday Album - Kenny G (1994)



Elvis' Christmas Album may be the best selling holiday collection as per the RIAA, but the top spot in the Nielsen SoundScan era (1991-present) goes to Kenny G.  I've always found it rather amusing that an artist as mellow as Kenny G is among the most loathed musicians, period.  Granted, under normal circumstances I would never consciously choose to put on smooth jazz--and I was hoping against reason that I would find a previously unreleased Bill Evans Christmas album--but, really, it's all harmless elevator music.  Boring as all hell, by harmless.

In fact, if there is one context where I can appreciate Kenny G's brand of musak, it's probably Christmas.  The whole mood of Miracles: The Holiday Album is burnt out.  I can just imagine walking into the living room after shoveling the driveway on a late December night, then plopping down in an easy chair beside the fire and falling asleep to Kenny G's warbling sax on "Winter Wonderland".  (And then Norman Rockwell could step in and paint a portrait for the Saturday Evening Post).

Yes, it's all wonderful background music.  And it fades into the background incredibly, blessedly quickly.  Perhaps too well, actually: the whole record comes off as a nonentity.  Still, if you need something to make your eyelids heavy on a cold winter's eve, it's hard to beat Kenny G.  The other 364 days of the year, though, just give me that John Coltrane.

Exhibit F: A Charlie Brown Christmas - Vince Guaraldi (1965)


Actually, let's stick with jazz for a bit.  I take it that all of you--at least you in America, I don't know about elsewhere--know and love A Charlie Brown Christmas.  The sad-sack protagonist, the aluminum trees, Linus' recitation from Luke: so much of this little special has become forever lodged in our collective Christmas consciousness.  Yet perhaps no element of the special has had as great an impact as the score.  Case in point: when I went on to Rhapsody to put on the album, I saw that Vince Guaraldi was listed among the 10 most played artists at the time.  I can think of no other reason why that would be the case.

It's not just nostalgia filters which makes A Charlie Brown Christmas such as delight.  It's just all around great music.  I especially dig the bass solo featured on "O Tannenbaum"; it's the same sort of experience I get listening to Sunday at the Village Vanguard, which is a quite a feat.  And maybe it's because the special is so engrained in my memory, but the drastic tonal shifts make perfect sense.  Of course "Linus and Lucy" gives way to two different versions of the downbeat "Christmastime Is Here".  It's a collection that gets the highest highs and lowest lows of late December.

Of everything here, A Charlie Brown Christmas is the least directly tied to Christmas traditions.  Many pieces are Guaraldi originals, and they don't have the immediate warmth that the chestnuts that Kenny G offers have.  Yet I feel the performances do tie in nicely with the more meditative outings from Bublé, Dylan and Presley.  But instead of communing with the religious or romantic aspects of Christmas, Guaraldi occasionally delves into straight depression--which is just perfect for a Peanuts special, now that I think on it.

Exhibit F: The Beach Boys' Christmas Album - The Beach Boys (1964)


And now for something completely different.  I've never been much of a Beach Boys fan; that surf-y, beach music sound holds very little appeal for me.  Still, there's a certain charm to hearing "Little Saint Nick" every year in December: short and sweet and not in the least bit Christmas-y.  That "Little Saint Nick" steadfastly remains in holiday rotation is another surprise.  How is it that a group called "the Beach Boys" recorded such a winter-time classic?  The name alone should disqualify them, let alone the sound of the track.

Yes, yes, this is a very Northern perspective on Christmas, but there are some styles which just clash with my conception of Christmas.  The sunshiny music of the Beach Boys is definitely one of them.  This is less a problem with the traditional numbers than with the original compositions.  The combination of happy vocal harmonies surf-rock guitar and goofy lyics simply don't mesh with Santa songs.  Not that I can't imagine it working.  Perhaps if they wrote about Christmas in the surf culture, there'd be a place for it.

The traditional tunea and covers are a bit more interesting, in that they seem to be experiments I'm not quite getting.  Between the overblown strings and rather low vocals, "We Three Kings of Orient Are" sounds more morose than I'd expect, while the flute work on "Blue Christmas" gives the recording an underlying happiness.  Neither is a choice that I really agree with, but it at least demonstrates that these well-worn tunes are rather robust.  It doesn't take a drastic move to put a new spin on them, even if that spin doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

Conclusion:

I think seven albums are more than enough to make some tentative conclusions:

1) Is Christmas music a stagnant genre?

Yes and no.  It's stagnant in the sense that, in my investigations, a similar set of songs were present on most of the albums, while none of the original songs got rerecorded by another act.  Granted, seven records representing less than five hours of music is an extremely small data set, but I feel that patterns emerge rather quickly here.

On the other hand, if we treat Christmas music as a sort of folk tradition, then the reuse of chestnuts is not a problem.  In fact, the fresh interpretations I heard throughout were more than enough justification for me to say that it's alive.  Folk music is all about reinterpreting and recontextualizing the past, and it's a area where Christmas music can succeed.

2) Is there a reason to purchase Christmas music?

Even after all these albums have been spun and given me varying degrees of joy, I still say no.  Most of the marquee tracks from each record were singles, which makes them easy to access on the radio.  Even if that were not the case, the presence of the Internet makes laying down however-much-a-CD-goes-for seem like an odd decision.  Even in the case of A Charlie Brown Christmas, by far my favorite, I wouldn't think it vital to have a physical copy for the experience.

3) Why do people keep purchasing Christmas music anyway?

Here, I admit I don't know.  For all I know, a new Christmas album might be a salvage gift.  Don't know what to get someone for Christmas?  Then pick Christmas music!  I kid, but for all I know that could be true.  But, as I said, I don't know.  Maybe my readers do--that's right, all two of you.  If you have any ideas, let me know.

Until next time, Happy Holidays from Cinema Saturdays!

Oh, and one more:

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Mildred Pierce (1945)

Mildred Pierce (1945)
Directed by Michael Curtiz
Screenplay by Ranald MacDougall, based on the novel by James M. Cain
Runtime: 1 hr, 51 min
 
In looking through Michael Curtiz’s filmography, the least that I could say about the guy is that he was versatile.  Curtiz was in the director’s chair for movies ranging from romances to action epics to musicals.  I don’t know if he was a jack-of-all-trades or a studio’s hired gun, but he was certainly willing to give all sorts of films his personal touch.  Today’s film finds Curtiz helming a movie of yet another genre, the melodramatic film noir Mildred Pierce, one of the classic era films noir in the National Film Registry.
The film begins with the murder of Monte Beragon (Zachary Scott), a playboy from old money.  Several people are brought to the station for questioning, including Monte’s wife, Mildred Pierce (Joan Crawford).  The police believe that Mildred’s ex-husband Bert (Bruce Bennett) is the killer, but Mildred won’t let him take the fall.  Instead, Mildred tells the police how things ended up this way, a tale involving a cast of characters ranging from the perpetual charmer Wally Fay (Jack Carson) to Pierce’s cold-blooded older daughter, Veda (Ann Blyth).
The story of Mildred Pierce is essentially driven by one relationship, the one between Mildred and Veda.  As a mother, Mildred is from the get-go overly attentive, striving to give her children the best life possible even when the money is tight.  However, whether it’s redecorating the house to make it seem more upscale or buying Veda new dresses, Mildred only aims for the material goods for that purpose, effectively buying their love.  She fails as a mother to inculcate Veda with the proper values to function in society.
Veda, for her part, is pure evil.  Obsessed with money and status, Veda looks down on her mother for working in restaurant to earn her money, longing for the life style of old money folks such as Monte.  She is more than willing to manipulate people and situations to her advantage, and she’ll gleefully laugh while she does it to boot.  But because Mildred is so devoted to making her happy, she continually gets away with it.  I must give major props to Ann Blyth, who expressions and tone project the highest malice possible; if Jason Compson were a teenage girl, he’d be Veda Pierce.
Mildred’s inability to see or do anything about her daughter’s ways is ultimately what leads to Monte’s murder.  Going so far as to marry Monte—for whom she does show a little genuine affection—in order to impress Veda, Mildred lets her entire life get away from her to chase one unattainable goal.  She should not have to do this; she’s the owner of a successful restaurant chain and lifted herself up after throwing Bert out for infidelity.  Yet because of her tunnel vision, made all the more evident by Crawford’s manner, that doesn’t matter in the slightest to her.
The anti-chemistry between Crawford and Blyth is so strong that the rest of film feels a tad underwhelming by comparison.  The men in their lives, for instance, are not the greatest cast of characters.  Jack Carson’s Wally is not interesting enough as the charming real estate tycoon to warrant that much screen time, and Monte, while strong as plot point, is lacking as an actual character.  Bruce Bennett appears to be a in coma throughout the film; one would think that with all he’d gone through, he’d show some emotion once in a while, but dead Lord is the man stoic.
Detrimentally, while these characters are window dressing to the story of Mildred Pierce, they are integral to the plot.  They come into play to drive the events forward: Mildred’s divorce from Bert, Veda’s obvious affection for Monte, Mildred’s business relationship with Wally, etc.  This isn’t necessarily bad; in fact, it sets up numerous possibilities for who would want to off Monte.  However, it takes time away from the Mildred-Veda tension, and since that’s the meat of the movie, this represents a problem.
Curtiz does manage to recuperate some the momentum lost in the plot with the noir styling.  A standout scene is towards the end, in which Veda and Monte are laughing together: their bodies in the light, but their heads are entirely silhouetted.  Yet Curtiz and cinematographer Ernest Haller (who also did work on Rebel Without a Cause) mix the noir elements with the bright sunshine of Southern California, especially during the bright times of Mildred’s life.  This makes the dark, stylish later sequences all the more striking.
In the end, Mildred Pierce is a fun little slice of cinema, but it’s one which suffers from one extra powerful element.  Given the power of Blyth’s evil turns as Veda and Crawford’s frustration as Mildred, it’s a shame that the film doesn’t focus more on that connection than it already does.  Still, there’s some built up speed for the solution to the mystery, and there is great satisfaction in discovering who the killer is.  Mildred Pierce is a good movie, but it could just as easily have ben a great one.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)
Directed by Michael Curtiz
Screenplay by Robert Buckner and Edmund Joseph
Runtime: 2 hr, 6 min
Well, now we’re in the thick of December, and when December comes, that can only mean one thing.  That’s right; I’m dedicating the remainder of the month to reviewing films directed by Michael Curtiz, who was born this month in 1886.  Curtiz was born in Hungary, but moved to the States and became a ridiculously prolific director, perhaps best known for Casablanca.  I’d like to start by belatedly celebrating Fourth-of-July-in-December with one of his musical efforts, Yankee Doodle Dandy.
A very loose biopic of American composer George M. Cohan, the films finds James Cagney as its hero.  He recounts his life story to FDR, who has called him into his office for a meeting.  Cohan was born on the Fourth of July into a vaudeville family, with whom George quickly becomes a star.  Once he strikes out on his own, he teams up with Sam Harris (Richard Whorf) to produce a string of Broadway hits and American standards, while falling in love with fellow actress-singer Mary (Joan Leslie).  All with musical numbers galore!
Okay, I need to get this out of the way immediately: Yankee Doodle Dandy is a rather poorly structured film.  The problem is that the film follows the entirety of Cohan’s life; this is a problem because as a result there is no central conflict.  Sure, Cohan faces several conflicts during his life, but they are at best loosely interconnected and are solved almost instantaneously.  Whether it’s breaking through in the world of theater or trying to woo the critics, there is potential for a central struggle, but that doesn’t develop.
This is not to say that the miniature conflicts are not interesting, or that their quick resolutions are unsatisfactory.  That happens to be the case for quite a few of them, but not all.  For example, that as child actor Cohan is clearly too big for his tap shoes foreshadows his later bravado, which makes building business relations difficult, and getting himself blacklisted from theatrical productions for his attitude presents a struggle to break into the scene.  In fact, had Yankee Doodle Dandy just focused on his early life, I could see it working spectacularly.
Unfortunately, where I would end the movie is not even the halfway point.  About 55 minutes in, Cohan and Harris’ Little Johnny Jones premieres, and given its length, the staging and the presence of “The Yankee Doodle Boy”, it’s no wonder that it feels climactic, especially after Cohan’s struggles to get through the front door of Broadway.  But there’s still over an hour of film to go, and while other events happen and songs are written, it feels as if Yankee Doodle Dandy stops moving forward as a movie.
A shame, really, because Cagney puts his all into the performance.  He sings with emotion but without bombast and his dancing is lively.  On top of that, despite the fact that Cohan comes across as a bit of jerk, Cagney manages to imbue a lot of likeability into the character; this is most true regarding his resourcefulness, as he improvises his way into a play by going up to Harris’ table cold and pretending to have music and a deal with another production team.   After all, it’s that gusto and wit that you want representing America in the Second World War, right?
Speaking of America and the war, what surprised me the most was that, in this day and age, I did not find the ridiculously patriotic tone of the film to be annoying.  In fact, it’s rather charming to see songs such as “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and “Over There” sung with such energy and conviction.  Sure, the sheer amount of flag-waving gets a bit grating, and the more blatantly propagandistic elements of the production are uncomfortable, but overall the red, white and blue music festival is very easy to enjoy if that sort of thing is not an instant deal-breaker for you.
The other aspects of the film are take-it-or-leave-it affairs (except the blackface act; that can exit stage left).  Neither Joan Leslie nor Richard Whorf turn in bad performances, but neither does much to elevate their characters beyond merely supporting parts in Cohan’s life.  Though appropriate for the subject matter, the staging of the musical numbers is a bit too stagey, and Curtiz’s direction becomes predictable.  And though the script does get some good jokes in here and then, it also lays several eggs.  So much of Yankee Doodle Dandy is merely competent.
Keep in mind, I saw this move on Independence Day, so I was in about as patriotic a mood as I could muster.  And Yankee Doodle Dandy is not that bad as a musical, certainly better than others I’ve seen for this project.  But as a movie, its poor structure prevents any steam building up behind the plot, and though Cagney is on top of the world as Cohan, ultimately not even he can elevate the material enough to earn it a passing grade.  I say just skip the movie and sing along to the tunes; methinks you already know the words.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

A Tribute to "Singin' in the Rain"

I first saw Singin' in the Rain on April 1, 2010.  It was the first movie I viewed for the express purpose of gaining knowledge of classic cinema.  It has since become on of my all time favorite movies, and I find something new to love every time that I watch it.  2012 marks the fiftieth anniversary of the film's initial release, and I think it is only appropriate that pay tribute to this musical masterpiece.  Oh, but where to be begin?

Brace yourselves, folks, this is going to be a long one.

But like dancing in a downpour, it's worth every second.
What's the Story?

Well, I suppose summing up the film would be a good place to start.  Normally I'm not one for detailed plot recaps, but considering this isn't a review so much as a tribute, I'll make an exception.  If you haven't seen the movie, I'm about to spoil the entire thing.  Also, if you haven't seen the movie, what are you waiting for?  Go watch it right now.  Go ahead, I can wait for an hour and forty-three minutes.  You won't regret it.

Ready?  Let's go!

Singin' in the Rain (Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen, 1952) is set during the late 1920s, just as movies with synchronized sound are being unveiled.  At first, not many people in the industry take the new technology seriously; to them "talkies" are little more than a novelty, on par with Smell-O-Vision.  However, once The Jazz Singer becomes a smash success and the public starts clamoring for more talking pictures, Hollywood studios must struggle to adapt.

The film centers around one studio in particular, the fictional Monumental Pictures.  The studio is home to famed silent duo of Don Lockwood and Lina Lamont (Gene Kelly and Jean Hagen).  The great big publicity machine drums up a romance between the two stars, but while Lina believes it the love is real, Don frankly can't stand his partner.  Not only is Lina airheaded and unbelievably vain, she also has a voice that sets the dogs howling.

We first see Don and Lina at the premiere of their most recent film, The Royal Rascal.  Asked to recount how he got to this point in his career, Don starts spinning a yarn.  Stating that his motto is "Dignity, always dignity," Don claims to have been brought up on high culture, seeing Molière on stage and going to prestigious music conservatories.  His narration is malarky, however, as the flashback shown tells a decidely less classy tale.

Don and his best friend Cosmo (Donald O'Conner) spent their youth dancing in saloons and sneaking into movie theaters before taking up the vaudeville stage; the film's first number, "Fit as a Fiddle", shows them performing for crowds and getting a less than positive reception.  The pair eventually travel to Hollywood--and get jobs playing mood music for Monumental Pictures, with Don on violin and Cosmo on the piano.

Don's break comes when a stuntman gets knocked out while filming a fight scene for a western.  Don volunteers to fill his spot, and soon is performing all sorts of death-defying stunts for Monumental Pictures.  Lina, however, refuses to give Don the time of day--until studio head R.F. Simpson (Millard Mitchell) hears about Don's stuntwork and pairs him up with Lina for her next picture.  Now she's clearly into him, but Don turns her down and walks off, at which point the flashback ends and The Royal Rascal starts.

Once the film is over, Don and Lina take a bow on the stage.  Don does all the talking, much to Lina's chagrin.  She complains about not being allowed to talk to the audience and refers to Don as her fiancé.  Don tries to tell her in no uncertain terms that the cooked up romance is fictional, but Lina's in her own little world.  The cast and crew take separate cars to the after-party at R.F.'s house, in order to escape the fans and keep Lina away from Don.

On the way, however, Cosmo's car gets a flat tire, and Don is swarmed by fans who literally start tearing his clothes apart.  He manages to climb atop a trolley car and jump into a passing vehicle.  The woman driving (Debbie Reynolds) panics, thinking that he's a criminal.  A police officer reveals that the man is Don Lockwood, and all is set straight.  The woman offers to drive Don towards his destination, and introduces herself as Kathy Selden.

Things get messy, however, when Cathy starts to disparage movies in general.  "If you've seen one, you've seen 'em all," she tells Don.  To Kathy, it appears that screen acting is "dumb show", a series of exaggerated facial expressions.  Don does not take this well, and when he presses her, Kathy says that she's an aspiring stage actress soon to make her way to New York.  The two argue all the way to the end, and Don leaves the car feeling quite stung.

At the party, R.F. shows the guests a demonstration of a talking picture.  The crowd is divided on how to take the technology; some say it's wonderful, while one actress calls it "vulgar".  It's at this point that R.F. reveals that Warner Bros. is making a whole movie with synchronized sound, The Jazz Singer.  The party festivities restart, however, and a giant cake is wheeled in to celebrate the success of The Royal Rascal.

Of course, this is one of those cakes out of which a chorus girl pops, and who should be in the cake but Kathy Selden.  "Well, if it isn't Ethel Barrymore?" says an amused Don.  Kathy's embarrassed, but there's no time for that; the girls must sing the prophetic second number, "All I Do Is Dream of You".  Don seems impressed and tries to talk to Kathy, but she's pissed.  Lina's also miffed that Don's paying attention to Kathy.  Long story short, Lina gets a pie in the face and Kathy runs out before Don can talk to her again.

We cut to a busy day at Monumental Pictures, where it seems a year's worth of films are being made on one lot.  Don still has Kathy on his mind; not only does her talk about his acting still burn, but he feels bad that Kathy lost her job as a chorus girl.  Cosmo tries cheering him with a comedic song-and-dance number, "Make 'Em Laugh", in which he becomes a one man slapstick show, encouraging comedic acting and literally dancing up the walls of a set before collapsing from exhaustion.

Filming starts for the next Lockwood and Lamont picture, The Dueling Cavalier.  While filming a romantic meeting between their characters, Lina mentions how she had Kathy fired from her job.  Don is furious, but filming must continue, and so Don confronts Lina while his character is gently carassing hers (oh, the benefits of silent filmmaking).  The director, Roscoe Dexter (Douglas Fowley), declares the scene perfect, but R.F. has some big news and orders filming stopped.

It turns out that The Jazz Singer has become a massive hit, and the movie-going public is demanding more talking pictures.  R.F. has Monumental Studios converted for sound filming, despite the reservations of the cast and crew.  With that, talkies come to dominate the movie landscape, and if the montage that follows is anything to go by, flashy musicals are the style of choice to take advantage of the new technology of synchronized sound.

The montage culminates with the song "Beautiful Girl", sung by an uncredited Jimmy Thompson.  It turns out that Kathy is a dancer in the sequence, and R.F. decides to hire her for another picture.  Don and Cosmo walk up to them, at which point Kathy is ready to reject the offer.  Don, however, reveals that he's been looking all over for her, and that he does not care if Lina hates Kathy with a fiery, ditzy passion.  R.F. hires her, though he says Lina can't find out she's working for Monumental.

Don and Kathy walk the lot together, and Don discovers that Kathy is in reality a fan of Lockwood-Lamont films, having seen at least eight or nine of them.  The two starting hitting it off, and Don's got something he wants to say.  However, he can't spit it out without the proper setting, so he takes Kathy inside a soundstage and literally sets the stage for his grand romantic gesture.  What follows is the song "You Were Meant for Me", establishing the pair as a romantic couple.

Meanwhile, Monumental Pictures is preparing for their move to talkies.  Among other things, their silent actors needed to take lessons from diction coaches.  These lessons involve reciting tongue twisters, leading to the next tune, "Moses Supposes".  But speaking properly seems to be the least of the studio's worries; getting everyone wired for sound is a nightmare.  In particular, Roscoe is pulling his hair out that Lina cannot grasp the concept of talking into a microphone.

The production is a mess, and so is the final product.  Suffice to say, the preview for The Dueling Cavalier is an unmitigated disaster.  The sound mixing is atrocious, the dialogue is clunky and, worst of all, sight and sound become unsynchronized; characters appear to speaking the dialogue of others.  The audience begins to walk out, with some swearing off watching another Lockwood and Lamont film again.  How bad is it?  Lina enjoyed it.

Don, Cosmo and Kathy have a post-mortem at Don's house, which he claims will be up for auction in the morning.  Kathy and Cosmo try cheering him up, reminding him off all the (terrible) things he could when his career ends.  Cosmo evens jokes about them going back in vaudeville, which leads Kathy to suggest that turn The Dueling Cavalier into a musical.  This finally breaks Don out of his funk, and upon realizing that it's already 1:30 in the morning, the trio break out into "Good Morning".

However, Don remembers one major hurdle to that plan: Lina.  The musical idea now seems dead in the water, but when Debby brings up the synchronization problems in the preview, Cosmo gets a bright idea: have Kathy dub over Lina's voice.  Don's a bit reluctant, as Kathy would surely not get credit for that, but Kathy insists, seeing it would only be for one picture.  Once more, the gang are back in the hunt, and the movie might be saved yet.

After Don takes Kathy to he pad, he waves off the cab and starts walking (and dancing) in a downpour, which leads into, you guessed it, "Singin' in the Rain", a perfect representation of being over the moon.  The next day, Don and Cosmo pitch the musical idea and the dubbing idea to R.F., who's on board--though, again, Lina must be kept in the dark.  They plan to incorporate modern musical numbers into the script, and settle on The Dancing Cavalier as a title.

Don and Kathy get straight to work on recording vocals to dub over Lina, including the big romantic song of the The Dancing Cavalier, "Would You?"  Then Don and Cosmo unveil a sequence for the modern section of the picture: a dancer tries to make it big on Broadway while becoming infatuated with a mobster's lady, played by Cyd Charisse.  The sequence is set to a combination of "The Broadway Melody" and "Broadway Rhythm", and the scene concludes with R.F. claiming that he can't quite visualize it.

Production is finally over, and Don is eager to have Kathy's name placed in the credits.  Lina, however, catches wind of this from a fellow actress, Zelda (Rita Moreno), and uses the terms of her contract to not only keep Kathy from getting recognition, but also to make Kathy continuing dubbing for her in perpetuity.  R.F. doesn't want to give into Lina's demands, but the threat of breach of contract suit is too much, and he gives in.

Opening night for The Dancing Cavalier comes, and it's a home run.  The audience is particular impressed with Lina's wonderous pipes.  When Don and Lina go out to take a bow, Don, Cosmo and Kathy hear about Lina's plot, and everyone who's not Lina begs R.F. to renege on his word.  When Lina goes onstage to talk to her adoring fans, the boys come up with a plan to reveal whose voice the audience actually heard that night.

Given her terrible voice, it's no surprise that Lina's speech gets the audience laughing, and she runs backstage to get "help" with her singing.  The boys convince Kathy to dub for Lina again, though she's clearly unhappy and tells Don she never wants to see him again.  Kathy whispers to Lina that she'll be performing "Singin' in the Rain" in A flat, and off "Lina" goes.  It appears that Ms. Lamont is going to have her way after all.

Just kidding--Don, Cosmo and R.F. raise the theater curtain to reveal Kathy singing at a microphone--and for the hell of it, Cosmo runs on and starts singing as well.  Kathy tries running down the aisle and out of the theater, but Don has the audience stop her and tells them that's the girl whose voice they loved.  The film ends with Don and Kathy singing "You Are My Lucky Star" to each other, fading into a billboard advertising the next Lockwood and Selden picture...Singin' in the Rain.

What's the Draw?

The first time I saw Singin' in the Rain, one thing above all else struck me: it's very, very funny.  Settng aside the film's broader context, watching Kelly and company on screen is a laugh-a-minute experience.  Whether it's the use of slapstick comedy (e.g., Kathy throwing the pie into Lina's face) or the constant quips from Cosmo, Singin' in the Rain is a movie which is constantly delivering jokes, rarely giving the audience time to recuperate from the previous gags.

Yet if humor were the only thing drawing me Singin' in the Rain, I can't imagine it having the rewatch value that it has for me.  After all, any form of humor, no matter who delivers it, will eventually get stale.  And while I still do laugh while watching the film, it's been more chuckling than out loud guffawing as time goes on.  But this doesn't mean my enjoyment has diminished over time--in fact, I'd say that my appreciation of the film has increased instead.

In a way, Singin' in the Rain was a perfect to start the process of absorbing classic cinema: it's about cinema.  Let's not forget that the narrative of the film centers around a pivotal moment in the history of Hollywood, and the process of making a movie drives the plot and characters forward.  It's a film which looks back on earlier films and the people behind them, so as I've seen more and more cinematic pieces, the more relevant Singin' in the Rain becomes.

The movie reflects on a bygone era of filmmaking, which is something that the film industry has always been fond of doing--look at The Artist for a recent example.  But Singin' in the Rain is a bit different in that it's not an entirely celebratory work.  It pokes fun at the conventions of the Hollywood machinery during the late-silent, early-sound era.  It's a movie that loves movies, but there's a recurring notion of whether the film industry of the time has any artistic credibility.

When Kathy tells Don that seeing one movie means seeing them all, the movie treats it as a serious possibility, and much of the film spends time addressing that notion.  At the start of his article "Dance, Flexibility and the Renewal of Genre in Singin' in the Rain", Peter N. Chumo II highlights the sequence directly before "Make 'Em Laugh", in which the audience sees the Hollywood machinery in full swing:
The silent films from Monumental Pictures recycle the same plot lines and generic conventions so that each new production is already old.  The assembly line-like sets which Don and Cosmo walk on their first day of work (generic jungle film, football movie, western) attest to the formulaic nature of such filmmaking.  One question this film poses, then, is indeed, "Why bother to shoot this picture?"  Can an original film be produced, and if so, how? (39).
This sort of problem is one that fascinates me personally, and I find it uplifting that the answer seems to be, "Yes."  But, ah, there are complications, for not only is Singin' in the Rain a movie about movies, but also it is in part a movie made of movies.  Both the narrative within the film and the context in which the film was made involve the recycling and appropriation of other filmic elements, which results in a well-made but somewhat confusing "movie-loaf".

It is fair to conclude, then, that what constantly brings me back to Singin' in the Rain is the desire to fully untangle its web of references, critiques and borrowed elements, both internal and external.  Trying to reconcile the characters' desire for originality with the recycled nature of the movies parts is a challenge indeed.  It's a sort of puzzle, one in which picture become progressively less clear the more I dig into it.  But that doesn't mean I can't try to clear things up.

What Exactly is Going On?

It is perhaps easiest to start with the context and production of Singin' in the Rain, then applying what is gathered to the film itself.  And I can think of no more obvious entry point that the songs of the film, this being a musical and all.

Famously, Singin' in the Rain was a movie built around its soundtrack.  Taking a bunch of Arthur Freed songs in the MGM vault, the filmmakers were instructed to write a movie around those tunes.  And these weren't previously unreleased songs, either, but songs that had been in previous musical films.  "The Broadway Melody" was from the Best Picture-winning film of the same name, "Would You?" appeared in the movie San Francisco, etc.  One could call it a jukebox musical, and I wouldn't say he'd be off the mark.

In fact, only two songs in the book were written specifically for the film.  One was  "Moses Supposes", a largely frivolous number which largely consists of iterations of a single tongue-twister.  The other is "Make 'Em Laugh", but its original in the loosest sense of the word; it's virtually identical in topic and structure to the Cole Porter number, "Be a Clown".  Thus, even in its stabs at originality, Singin' in the Rain recycles previous material.

How, then, does one reconcile the manner in which Singin' in the Rain was made with its story about originality and the creative process?  It may be a matter of working with one's predetermined boundaries.  After all, the production team did not consciously choose to use recycled songs for the film; the songs were presented as a framework.  The job of the filmmakers, then, was to create an original production given those arbitrary constraints.

In many ways, this mirrors the conception of The Dancing Cavalier within the movie.  Since the movie is set to be released in six weeks, Monumental Pictures has to incorporate the available elements from The Dueling Cavalier.  When Don, Cosmo and Kathy first hatch the musical plan, Kathy suggests that they can keep much of the story from the first picture, just with some needed edits.  Similarly, when Don and Cosmo present R. F. with the idea, they mention how they'd be able to reuse the costumes.

It is not hard to imagine that the story to Singin' in the Rain, "work with what you have", could be an unconscious metaphor for the process of filmmaking at a Hollywood studio, with details mandated by the executives at the top.  That said, Singin' in the Rain borrows a lot more than its musical numbers.  The filmmakers toss in elements of various other films as well, even when these elements are tangential or completely unrelated to the central narrative.

The movie which Singin' in the Rain references most often is, unsurprisingly, The Jazz Singer.  Given the subject of Singin' in the Rain, some allusions wold be expected, but the frequency would suggest that the film is preoccupied with it.  An explanation which Carol J. Clover presents for this phenomenon is that Singin' in the Rain is concerned with the degree to which black dancers have influenced the dance numbers, and that these references are manifestations of this anxiety (728-9).

Clover raises some good points, and if The Jazz Singer were the movie's sole infatuation, she would likely be correct.  But Singin' in the Rain is stuck on other films and genres as well, which suggests that a one-to-one relationship is not at work.  For instance, gangster films feature prominently in the story as well: Kathy first assumes when Don jumps into her car that he's a man on a wanted poster, while a "Scarface" clone is an important figure in the "Broadway Melody" sequence.

As with the references to The Jazz Singer, allusions to gangsters could be spliced from the footage and have no impact on the story.  What, then, is the film trying to accomplish by incorporating elements of other pictures?  What is the endgame of tying in the dawn of synchronized sound films and a mainstay of Hollywood genre movies into what is really a jukebox musical that can stand independent of either's presence?

The best explanation that I can give is that Singin' in the Rain is ultimately a defense of the Hollywood system.  Even though it pokes fun at the rabid fanbases that the star system built, the frequent disconnect between an actor's public persona and her actual personality, and especially the formulaic nature of studio production, Singin' in the Rain argues that a quality, original film can still be made with the confines of that system.

In tying in blockbusters, genre references and songs previously used in glitzy Hollywood productions, Singin' in the Rain tries to show that the formula can still create golden pictures.  After all, it's not as if Monumental Pictures never thought of musicals, or that the French aristocratic setting is a new idea, or that really anything in the film hadn't been tried before.  But through all that, an engaging and moving piece of cinema can still be made.

In fact, that's what is most striking about Singin' in the Rain.  For a movie that is frequently piercing in its critiques of 1920s Hollywood, the story it tells is rather life-affirming: no matter what constraints one is given (the numbers to use, the time available, the actresses to incorporate), art can and is made all the time.  As someone who admires the artistic process and who desires to enter into a creative field, its a message that, however overly optimistic, bears repeating.

Works cited:
Chumo II, Peter N. "Dance, Flexibility, and the Renewal of Genre in Singin' in the
     Rain." Cinema Journal 36.1 (1996): 39-54. JSTOR. Web. 24 June 2012.

Clover, Carol J. "Dancin' in the Rain." Critical Inquiry 21.4 (1995): 722-747. JSTOR.
     Web. 24 June 2012.

Singin' in the Rain. Dir. Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen. Perf. Gene Kelly, Donald
     O'Conner, and Debbie Reynolds. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1952. DVD.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Blackboard Jungle (1955)

Blackboard Jungle (1955)
Directed by Richard Brooks
Screenplay by Richard Brooks, based on the novel by Evan Hunter
Runtime: 1 hr, 41 min
The post-WWII era saw a growing concern for the parents of American youth: juvenile delinquency.  To many it appeared that the teenagers of the 1950s, especially in the country’s inner cities, were completely out of control, and this had a profound impact on the nation’s popular culture.  From Dr. Frederic Wertham’s Seduction of the Innocent to the evils of that new fangled rock ‘n’ roll, those damn kids were front and center.  The plight of juvenile delinquency is at the heart of today’s film, Blackboard Jungle.
Richard Dadier, or as some students call him, Daddy-o (Glenn Ford), is a brand new English teacher at a high school filled with unruly teenagers.  They talk back, get into fights, and try to inflict sexual harm on female teachers—all the horrible things associated with problem children.  Despite all the trouble, Dadier is determined to get the kids to learn something, or at least behave.  Whether it’s the bright but resigned Greg Miller (Sidney Poitier) or gang leading and completely incorrigible Artie West (Vic Morrow), the mission is the same.
If Blackboard Jungle sounds like one of those movies with the inspirational teacher who has to somehow get his troubled students to excel in school, well, that’s because it is.  Of course, this one’s almost sixty years old, so this was before popular culture got filled to the brim with this sort of story.  Even better, Blackboard Jungle does not follow many of the conventions of its own genre.  Somehow the movie manages simultaneously to establish and subvert the foundations of the formula, and that makes for a more interesting movie experience.
Dadier is far from the savior figure.  For one thing, the problem at the school runs so deep that Ford’s character, by film’s end, still has a long, long ways to go to get things right at the school.  For another, Dadier has many moments where one must question his resolve and morality.  One of Ford’s best sequences involves getting drunk after school (a gradual process), getting mugged by West’s gang, and then refusing to tell an investigator which boys jumped him, claiming it was too dark.  At times he appears resigned; he loses his temper and wants to quit when West makes his life hell.
But, really, the appeal of the film lies not in the inspirational teacher figure, as intriguing as Dadier is.  No, the stars of Blackboard Jungle are the troublemakers.  The central figure, the leader of the rascals, is Miller.  Poitier gives the character a lot of street smarts and dignity, even if he is clearly too old for the part of a high-school student (he was 28 at the time).  West is must more anti-authoritarian, the last holdout as the class begins to turn.  And Morales (Rafael Campos) is easily the liveliest student, and the unfortunate butt end of the pranksters.
Indeed, the film is seen as a landmark for 1950s youth culture, despite (or perhaps because of) its depiction of the students as cruel and unduly disrespectful of authority.  In fact, sometimes the film seems to celebrate the rebelliousness of the youth, contrary to its stated intentions.  This manifests in the colorful cast of characters, but also appears in some of the directorial decisions.  When West’s gang jumps Dadier and a fellow teacher (Richard Kiley), there’s no ominous string section but a lively swing tune to underscore it.
As a matter of fact, Blackboard Jungle’s most lasting legacy is related to music.  The film is largely responsible for the success of Bill Haley and the Comets’ hit “Rock Around the Clock”, which plays during the film’s opening credits.  This may be further evidence that the filmmakers sympathize on some level with the youth of the 1950s.  Rather than ignoring the teenagers’ cultural institutions, Brooks places them into the film without explicitly condemning them (even though the student’s smash the math teachers old, irreplaceable swing records).
I’ve praised a lot in this film, but there’s one nagging problem.  This movie loves to obviously foreshadow things.  By this I mean that details are brought up, such as the math teacher’s record collection or Dadier’s wife’s (Anne Francis) previous miscarriage, which caused my dad and I to think, “Well, that’s clearly a plot point.”  I’ve my own problems with foreshadowing in general, but I especially find it grating when things are brought up specifically to foreshadow something else.  At that point, why bother?  The result is a narrative that tends towards the blindingly obvious.
It’s still a fine narrative, though, with a more open ending and complex conflicts than one might expect from such a film.  Not everyone has learned a lesson at the end, and even those who have still are far from completely converted.  Blackboard Jungle may therefore lack the inspiration potion of the “inspirational teacher” genre, but that may just be for the better.  After all, if the goal is to make a movie showcasing the problem of delinquency in America, it better damn well show the problem as complicated and not easily solved.  Blackboard Jungle excels on precisely that front.