And The Loser Is... #21- The Powers of Shane

Alan Ladd is a man who led a fascinating, but turbulent, life. A huge star in his heyday (throughout the '40s and '50s he was consistently named as one of the movie industry's top stars), his name recognition has dwindled over the years in comparison to many of his peers. Some light research into Ladd's background reveals that he burnt down his home at age 5, whilst playing with matches; he trained to be a part of America's 1932 Olympic swimming team, before injury ruined his chances; he witnessed the death by suicide of his alcoholic mother; he attempted to take his own life in 1962, shooting himself in the chest; two years later he died due to a combination of alcohol and sleeping medication, presumably an accident. In his professional life, he had an unbilled part in Orson Welles's Citizen Kane, prior to finding fame.

The film I'm going to talk about today is the film for which Ladd is best remembered; the 1953 George Stevens Western, Shane. Ladd plays the titular hero, a gunslinger who has hung up his six-shooter, and just wants to live a peaceful life. It's an intriguing character, a man who is clearly trying to escape from something - probably a part of himself - and who seems to carry with him some terrible burden. It is also a character which seems both perfect for, and totally in contrast to, the actor. Ladd, you see, is a beautiful man; blonde hair, soft features, slight frame. As he himself put it: "I have the face of an aging choirboy, and the build of an undernourished featherweight." In appearance he seems totally unsuited to the role of a deadly Western hero. But, with his striking countenance comes a sensitivity which elevates Shane from those around him. It allows us to feel that he is something special, almost a mythical, angelic figure, whose pure-heartedness can win out over evil. It also conveys to us the necessary depth, which implies that Shane is leaving behind some great sorrow, even though it is never referenced in the film.

Ladd's beauty is matched by that of the Californian landscape, standing in for Alabama. There we meet the Starretts; Joe, wife Marian, and son, Joey. They, along with a small group of neighbouring homesteaders, are seeing their claims to their land questioned by a local rancher, Ryker, and his posse. The Ryker boys are becoming evermore aggressive in their attempts to run the homesteaders out, but Joe vows to stay put. The opening sequence of the film gives a little window into the way of life that Joe is defending; a fawn splashes about in the river while 9-year-old Joey takes aim with his rifle (not loaded), the hardworking Joe takes an axe to a troublesome tree-stump, while Marian prepares dinner inside. It's an idyll, with the aim to show us just what the stakes are. Moments later a lone horseman crosses the horizon, and approaches the farm. This is Shane, and it isn't long before he has all of the Starretts charmed. Heading North towards a new life, Shane is invited to work on the farm instead, and soon becomes a part of the family.

While the film's central premise is fairly standard Western fare (land dispute turns ugly), there is an abundance of subtext. For example, one of the more interesting elements at play is the way Shane's arrival disrupts the family dynamic. Most explicit is the idea that Joey hero-worships Shane. He scarcely has a line of dialogue throughout the film which doesn't pertain to Shane, begs Shane to teach him how to shoot, and even says to his mother at one point that he loves Shane almost as much as he loves his own father. Taking this further, Brandon De Wilde, who plays Joey, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, looks much more like Ladd than he does Van Heflin, who plays Joe.

The other relationship that the film impresses upon us, is that between Shane and Marian (Jean Arthur). It is made fairly clear from an early stage that Marian is quite taken by the newcomer, and, through his lingering glances towards her, we guess that he feels similarly. However, ther is never the sense that anything might happen between them. Marian loves, and is committed to, Joe, but there is almost a kind of pure love between Marian and Shane, something that even Joe picks up on. When he prepares himself for a final confrontation with Ryker, he intimates to Marian that he knows she will be looked after if he doesn't come back, perhaps even better than he can look after her. It is also fitting that one of the last lines of the film is Joey shouting to Shane as he heads off to new pastures "mother needs you. I know she does".

Ladd and Heflin: power couple.

But, far more interesting to me, is the relationship between Shane and Joe, and the implicit love that they share. Yes, Brokeback Mountain said explicitly what countless other Westerns have been saying implicitly for years, and, from the moment Ladd arrives on the scene, it is hard not to see this film as the story of a gay cowboy trying to make his way in the world. The Shane/Joe relationship is certainly central to the film, as first Shane must earn Joe's trust/respect. He does so by helping Joe to remove that tree-stump, and, with the two men sweating, and Shane bare-chested, they finally manage to uproot it in one orgasmic last thrust, in what is the physical consummation of their friendship.

Like in any Western, masculinity is a key theme, and perhaps none more so than here. Shane's next task is to prove his masculinity to the rest of the town, something that won't be easy given his desire to leave behind his violent past. Early in the film he goes into town on an errand for Joe. At the general store he buys himself some nice clothes, and then stops in at the adjoining saloon to buy a soda-pop for Joey. The saloon is apparently the permanent residence of Ryker and his men, and, when they see this slight, blonde man, in nice new clothes ordering a soda-pop, they immediately have an invitation to make trouble for him. Because of his appearance, and the fact that he is buying a non-alcoholic drink, Shane is presented as being 'not a man', or a sissy. The film doesn't say it, of course, but the implication is that Shane is, in the eyes of Ryker's men, "a queer". One man, in particular, Chris (Ben Johnson), makes things difficult for Shane, throwing a drink at him so he can "smell like a real man", and telling him that he doesn't belong there. Shane, probably because he doesn't want to re-visit his past, takes the high ground and leaves, but, this being a Western, that only leaves himself open to more questioning of his masculinity.

Later, after all the homesteaders decide to go to town together (strength in numbers), Shane decides that he needs to confront those that have humiliated him, and cast him in a bad light to the rest of the townsfolk. He goes back to the saloon, where he is told that he would be better off next door with the women and children. This time, though, instead of turning the other cheek, Shane proves his manhood by returning the favour of throwing a drink at Chris, and then knocking him on his ass. This act starts one of those good old-fashioned barroom brawls (complete with chairs being cracked on people's backs!), in which Shane is strongly outnumbered until Joe comes in to fight alongside his man.

Now that Shane's true prowess is known, Ryker must up the ante, and he does so by bringing in an outsider of his own, the feared gunslinger, Jack Wilson. Wilson is played in suitably dead-eyed manner by noted character actor, Jack Palance, whose dark hair and impossibly sharp cheekbones put him in perfect contrast to Shane. It is an interesting twist on the tale that, in a film where the central conflict is about rights to property, it should be settled between two men who have no stake and nothing to lose.

Joe himself, makes the decision to face Wilson and Ryker at the saloon, after several of the other homesteaders have already resolved to leave town. Marian begs him not to go, but he is insistent, even when Shane emerges out of the shadows, wearing the six-shooter that had been conspicuously absent throughout the film. This leads to a confrontation between Joe and Shane, with both men determining that they should be the one to go. Marian, who of course, loves both, is in hysterics. The dispute ends the only way it can, with the two men fighting out in the yard, both trying to knock the other senseless so that he can go to die in his place. If that ain't love, what is?

Palance: the man in black.

This is a much more intelligent film that it may appear. The central dispute isn't as straightforward as the typical rich, greedy landowner trying to force the poor hardworking folk off their land. In one scene, Ryker makes a passionate speech to Joe about how he came upon the land many years before, along with other settlers, and they all made sacrifices (their lives, in some cases), to 'tame' the land, only for people like Joe to come along years later when all the work was done, put up fences, and call it theirs. It is a scene which brings up a lot of questions about right to land, while also touching on the subject of the unseen third part of the cycle, the American Indians whose land it was to begin with. Is Joe to Ryker what Ryker and others were to the Native Americans? Is Ryker just a greedy man who wants the land to himself, and will force off anybody, white man or Indian, who lays a claim to what he considers his to take? The film suggests the latter, but it is certainly refreshing to see a 'bad guy' whose motives are fleshed out a little.

Ladd's performance is iconic, but it was not Oscar-nominated. In fairness, the best actor category that year was stacked (Brando, Burton, Clift, Lancaster, eventual winner Holden- I mean, come on). Both the 11-year-old De Wilde, and Palance, were nominated in the best supporting actor category though, losing out to Frank Sinatra's turn in From Here To Eternity (which dominated that year, and rightfully so; it's wonderful). De Wilde is an interesting story himself- dead at 30 after an automobile accident, and immortalised in a song by his good friend, country music icon, Gram Parsons. This is actually a film full of great performances, but De Wilde's is actually one I wasn't keen on. The other would be Jean Arthur's turn as Marian. I found both to be rather too one-note in their doe-eyed infatuation with the hero. Van Heflin is strong as Joe, a man with an interesting face that makes him sympathetic as a cuckold, but also believable as a man of strength and determination. Palance is also very good.

George Stevens picked up a best director nomination, and it was thoroughly deserved. This is surely one of the most beautiful of all Westerns, but he also imbues the story with intelligence and sensitivity, and gives depth of meaning to every shot. A best picture nomination was also awarded to the film (Stevens also produced).

I tend to like my Westerns more Sam Peckinpah than John Ford. That is, I like Peckinpah's take on the Western as a dying genre, and the American West as a battleground for old men with outdated values. This is more a Ford-style celebration of Western values, but it's also one of the best Westerns I've ever seen. This is a film so rich in subtext. Even if you ignore the homoeroticism, which I saw in the film, there are still elements like the changing family dynamic, and the very real notions of masculinity to provoke though and raise questions. This, along with themes of loyalty, friendship, and what it means to have a home, make this one of the most interesting American films of the 1950s. It also has bar fights and shoot outs, if that's more your cup of tea. In short, this is a 5 star film.

Next time out I'll have a brand, spanking new review for you. Until then, here's looking at you!

And The Loser Is... #20- North and South

I recently watched two films from 1940s Hollywood, both depicting small-town American life. Despite some passing similarities between the two films (their portrayal of very particular forms of folksy American living, a focus on family life, and a supporting turn in each by Oscar-nominated character actress, Beulah Bondi), it is the differences which are more striking, starting with the respective settings.

Our Town  (1940), was directed by Sam Wood (director of many a Hollwood classic, from the Marx brothers vehicle A Night At The Opera, to Gone With the Wind, although he was uncredited for the latter), and based on a Pulitzer Prize-winning play by Thornton Wilder. The film is set in a small New England town, beginning at the turn of the 20th century, and tells a simple tale of community spirit, and the blossoming love between two neighbours. In this New Hampshire town, everybody knows everybody else's name, the milkman lets himself into the house to deliver his milk, and "a dog could lie in the middle of Main Street all day without being disturbed".

Life in The Southerner (1945) is a little different. The great French director, Jean Renoir (son of the artist, Pierre-Auguste Renoir) directed the film a few years after fleeing Nazi-occupied France and becoming an American citizen. I have come to the conclusion that Renoir is the greatest director who ever lived (an opinion shared by Orson Welles, although if pushed, Welles may well conclude that he himself is the greatest director who ever lived!). This is the man who, in a two year spell, made The Rules of the Game, La Bete Humaine and The Grand Illusion- all masterpieces, with the former and latter being in the discussion for greatest film ever made. His films are known for their exploration of class differences and human desires, are imbued with a rapier wit, and shot with elegance, making great use of mise-en-scene and location to accentuate the themes at play. The output from his period in Hollywood is considered mixed, and this is the first of his American films I have seen.

The Southerner is, of course, set in the American South (although the state is never mentioned) where a poor cotton picker and his family attempt to branch out on their own, turning a small piece of land into a home and a working farm. In comparison to Our Town, this is a bleak film, showing the hardships involved in rural living. The central family, the Tuckers- Sam, wife Nona, two young 'uns, and the caustic Granny (Bondi), meet many obstacles in their pursuit of the American dream, including a surly neighbour, illness, and a cataclysmic storm.

It is not without sentimentality though. Indeed, the Tuckers are one of those honest, hardworking families which always band together during a crisis, knowing they can overcome anything with the strength of their love. This is something of a Hollywood staple, and becomes somewhat cloying in a film which is effective in creating the appearance and feel of a dirt-poor Southern town, rife with difficulties.

If The Southerner is prone to moments of sentimentality, Our Town is positively teeth-rotting in its sweetness. Right from the opening scene, in which a kind-faced elderly man, leaning on a gatepost, introduces us to the town, its people and its way of life, this seems less like a film and more like an elongated bread commercial. Contrast this to the opening scene of The Southerner; an elderly man dies from exhaustion in the cotton field. In this early sequence, we meet the key players in the film, and get lessons about the town from local historians (when one man gives the town population, our narrator whispers in his ear that Mrs. such-and-such has just had twins, causing the man to add two to his total with a friendly smile). It's all rather nauseating, to be honest.

The central characters are young Emily Webb and George Gibbs. Emily is played by Martha Scott, reprising her stage role, and getting a best actress Oscar nomination in the process. George is played by William Holden in just his third credited role. Both are fine, although Scott, in her late twenties at he time, is very hard to buy as a school-girl. The two kids tiptoe around each other, Emily dedicated to her studies, and unsure of whether she holds any allure for the opposite sex, and George, shy and somewhat awkward, an underachiever at school who just wants to work on his uncle's farm.

Love's young dream: Scott and Holden

The film jumps forward several years to find Emily and George on their wedding day, and then back again to show how they finally got together. It's fairly typical romance stuff, but there just doesn't seem to be anything there. Interestingly enough, the film was advertised at the time as being much more dark than it turned out to be, and certainly I think any film with this kind of set-up made now would have to take the form of a critique of small-town American values, a la American Beauty.

To be fair, there are some diversions down relatively less-wholesome avenues, for example, the local choir master is a noted drunk, and we later find out, after jumping forward in time, that he ended up killing himself. This is an interesting aside that is unfortunately left unexplored. Later on, we get alarmingly close to tragedy, when Emily is taken sick whilst about to give birth. This gives rise to an inexplicable sequence in which Emily "dies", and her spirit travels back in time to visit her family when they were all younger. She ruefully laments the passage of time that has separated the family, as well as the fact that they never really made time for one another, something which doesn't really jive with the rest of the film. Anyway, she isn't really dead, just feverish, and wakes with a healthy child to resume her life on the farm with George.

Renoir frames the American South

Meanwhile, things on the Tuckers' farm aren't going so well. They arrive at their new property to find a ramshackle house, and a well that doesn't work. Granny does nothing but complain, and the kids need feeding. Sam visits the neighbour to beg use of his well, but finds a spiteful and jealous man, who promises to make Sam's life as difficult as can be. His attitude is rooted in his belief that some people are born to take orders and some to give them (Renoir finding time for some social commentary), and he resents the fact that Sam has taken a prime piece of land which could prove very fruitful, while he toiled for years (and lost his wife and child in the process) to earn what he has. Sam does his best to cultivate a working relationship between the two of them, but finally they come to blows after the neighbour destroys Sam's vegetable crop.

Eventually, the two work something out (strangely enough, an agreement based on the capture of a legendary catfish, which sounds like a plot that wandered in from another film, but just about works), and things seem to be on the up for the Tuckers. Their crops are doing well, and a wedding brings the whole family together for a party which comes as a nice change of mood in the largely bleak film. Then the storm moves in.

The central conflict in the film, above all else, is between Sam's simple dream of owning his own land, and the lure of the factory, represented by Sam's friend, a city man who says he can get Sam a well-paid job with him. After the storm detroys all of his hard work, Sam finally gives in, decides that he can take no more of living at the whim of the earth and the sky, and accepts the job. But, in true Hollywood style, it is when at his lowest ebb that Sam learns what is really important, as he returns home to find his wife, children, and even Granny, have fixed up the place, and are positive about the future. It's an ending which brings to mind It's A Wonderful Life, in it's message to never underestimate the decency of people. More than that, the message is that the love of a family, combined with hard work, can make anything possible.

There is a conflict throughout The Southerner, between a film which really wants to portray the realities of life for a poor farming family in the South, and a film which wants to celebrate the spirit of hardworking American people. I'm sure Renoir fought for a bleaker film, but compromised with the studio over the more Hollywood-ised aspects. It makes for a somewhat uneven, but nonetheless enjoyable film. Zachary Scott gives a fine performance as the dedicated Sam, and I especially enjoyed the performance of Betty Field as his supportive wife. Both are somewhat stereotypical characters, but the actors bring life to each of them. The grumbling Granny would be easy to dislike, but I thought Bondi brought some genuine humour to the film.

Renoir was given a Best Director nomination in a ridiculously strong field (Hitchcock and Wilder, who won, were also nominated), and brings a lot of class to the proceedings, particularly in his depiction of the American landscape. It's funny how many great films about American life have been made by foreign directors, but that's maybe a subject for another day. There is a realism and truth to this film which shines through, and it fits nicely into the director's oeuvre. 4 stars.

Our Town isn't a bad film, but I can think of absolutely no reason to recommend it. I suppose it does have a certain quaint charm to it, and fans of Holden may be interested to see him playing a much different role to what he would become known for. What baffles me is that this film was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, losing out to Hitchcock's Rebecca. Despite a few capable performances, and bits of nice scenery, there's really nothing to see here. 2 stars.

I'll be back soon with another new review, but until then, here's looking at you!

And The Loser Is... #19- The Duke and the Dude

There are very few instances in Academy Award history of a film, and its remake, both being nominated for awards. One such instance occurred at the 2011 ceremony, when the Coen brothers' True Grit, picked up 10 nominations, to go along with the 2 nominations that Henry Hathaway's original picked up at the 1970 awards show. This also became a rare case of two different actors being Oscar-nominated for playing the same character, Jeff Bridges and John Wayne joining the likes of Robert De Niro and Marlon Brando (Vito Corleone) and Cate Blanchett and Judi Dench (Queen Elizabeth). I watched both versions of True Grit over the past couple of nights, and will be talking about both films in this blog.

First, the story. Young Mattie Ross is a precocious 14-year-old girl, who turns up in Arkansas town in the late 1800s, bent on bringing to justice the man who killed her father. To that end, she hires surly, drunken, US Marshall 'Rooster' Cogburn, a man known for his 'grit' and who has knowledge of the Indian territory to where the killer, Tom Chaney, has fled. Meanwhile, a Texas Ranger, LaBeouf, is also tracking Chaney for a murder he committed in Texas. The three of them head off together, bickering along the way, but are forced to rely on each other to survive their perilous trek.

Both films are relatively close in story content, with a few key differences. First of all, the original film begins with a scene at the Ross ranch, where we are introduced to Mattie, her father, and Chaney, who has been hired and put up by the family. Shortly after meeting these characters, the main intention of which seems to be to establish both Mattie's strong affection towards her father, as well as her role as the bookkeeper for the family business, we witness Chaney's crime, a pointless murder over a quarrel about some money lost at cards. The Coen brothers decide not to show the murder, and their film begins with Mattie pulling into the town where the murder took place, in order to settle her father's business affairs. To my mind, this works better, as it serves to mythologise the Chaney character, who we don't actually see on screen until the last 20 minutes or so of the film. It also acts as a way to separate Mattie from any emotional ties to her family (we never see any of her family in the Coens' film), which is an important aspect of the film that I will come back to.

The other main difference in plot between the two films comes in the part played by LaBoeuf, the cocksure Texas Ranger. In the Hathaway original, the group of Cogburn, Ross and LaBoeuf stick together throughout their journey, despite the bickering. In the remake, LaBoeuf leaves the group on two separate occasions to go out on his own. I'm not sure which version is more loyal to the book in this regard, but I did think the choice to break the group up added more drama (in the sense that, while the action stayed with Mattie and Cogburn, you knew that LaBoeuf was still out there and wondered what role he would play later on), allowed the relationship between Mattie and Rooster, which is the emotional centre of the film, to develop more, and also allowed Mattie to do more. For example, there is a scene in the original where the trio come across a cabin in the wilderness, in which two outlaws are holed up. Rooster tells LaBoeuf to climb onto the roof and put his coat over the chimney, thus smoking the occupants out. In the remake, LaBoeuf has already left the group by this point, so Mattie performs the task.

As well as these minor story changes, there is a notable difference in tone between the two films. This might be expected between two films made 41 years apart, and more so when you have the Coens involved. The brothers have one of the more distinct styles in modern American filmmaking, and they incorporate a lot of their trademarks here. One of the things I appreciate the most about the Coens' work (and I have been a fan of theirs for a while) is that they can make very different films, but they all feel part of a wider body of work. Basically, you can tell a Coen brothers film when you see one, even though they are not visually showy directors.

The main thing that leaps out when watching these two films, it that tonally, the remake is much darker than the original. It definitely feels like a companion piece to No Country For Old Men  (2007), and you could even call it the third part of a loose trilogy looking at acts of violence against vast American backdrops, which began with Fargo (1996). Like No Country..., True Grit incorporates an abundance of nighttime scenes (tricky, as Hailee Steinfeld, who plays Mattie, had a working curfew due to her young age) to match the darkness of the characters and their actions. The original, conversely, actually looks like a film from an earlier period, its use of brightly-coloured landscapes bringing to mind the classic-era Westerns of the 40s and 50s, rather than its more gritty contemporaries, such as Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch, which was released in the same year. Both films look good, but I think the remake does a better job of creating atmosphere and mood with its cinematography. Roger Deakins always does a great job on Coen movies, and was Oscar-nominated for his work on True Grit. As well as the lighting choices, his camera always moves with such poise; his work is never flashy, but gives the films he works on an epic, classical feel, and I actually think that the Coen brothers are underrated in terms of just how good their films look.

Extending from the aesthetic differences as it relates to tone, Hathaway's film has a much more jovial outlook, I suppose in keeping with the 'throwback' feel to his film. It's important to remember that the original was made right on the cusp of the New Hollywood, at a time when films like Bonnie and Clyde, much darker in subject matter, where becoming increasingly prevalent in American cinema. There is humour in both films, but the original definitely has a more jocular tone, and seems to want to keep things from getting too dark. The original is also very much wrapped up in the more simple-minded bravura and heroism of classic Westerns, whereas the remake shows slightly more interest in the morality of its characters' actions. Rooster Cogburn is, afterall, an anti-hero, a drunkard who, as it is basically acknowledged in both films, is rather too quick to reach for his gun. While the original plays this up as the weaknesses of an old rascal, the remake is more willing (though not entirely willing, it should be said) to treat these character flaws with seriousness. This difference is also reflected in the music, the eralier film using a "The Big Country"-style rousing Western soundtrack, while the Coens incorporate a more low-key score, the kind of thing you might find in a Ken Burns documentary.

John Wayne: hammy.

John Wayne won his only Oscar for his portrayal of Cogburn, whereas Jeff Bridges was nominated, but lost out to Colin Firth for The King's Speech. At the time, Wayne's win was considered more of a lifetime achievement award, with the actor himself admitting that Richard Burton should have won for Anne of a Thousand Days. Also nominated that year were Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman for Midnight Cowboy. It was said that Wayne's performance in the film was too hammy. I'm no John Wayne fan, but I say if I'm going to watch Wayne it may as well be hammy Wayne, because he sure as shit can't pull off subtle and nuanced. He's fine here, good even, in a role that really was made for him. Bridges, too, is good, as he usually is, much more convincing in his delivery than Wayne, and with better timing, although maybe lacking in that honest-to-goodness Southern steel (or grit!) that the Duke has.

On the whole, the remake smokes the original performance-wise, in the key areas, at least. Wayne hated the performance of his co-star, Kim Darby (playing 14-year-old Mattie when she herself was 22), and Hathaway felt likewise about the performance of Glen Campbell as LaBoeuf. Campbell was cast in the hopes that he would have a hit with the film's title song, whereas Wayne wanted Karen Carpenter cast as Mattie. I actually thought the slight woodeness of Campbell's performance worked in his favour, considering that LaBoeuf is portrayed as something of a square in the film, even an object of pity. Darby definitely struggled, but a lot of my issues with her were more rooted in the character.

Hailee Steinfeld: revelatory.

To counter Darby and Campbell, the remake has Hailee Steinfeld, in her first theatrical role, and Matt Damon. Steinfeld is a revelation, and was Oscar-nominated for best supporting actress (Melissa Leo won for The Fighter). She plays Mattie with such steely determination, and such resourcefulness, that it is easy to believe that a 14-year-old could go on a quest to avenge her father's death. More impressive is that she never loses her sense of adolescence throughout the film. She somehow manages to be unerringly adult in the face of danger and hardship (not to mention witnessing several murders), while still capture the spirit of youthful eagerness. It's a performance I enjoyed a lot. Damon, too, is typically solid, capturing the bland virtue of LaBoeuf. The Coens are also really good at filling all the smaller roles in their films with interesting actors, so, while the original has great character actors like Robert Duvall, Dennis Hopper and Strother Martin, the Coen movie just feels much better-cast.

My main criticism of the original film is the way the Mattie character is presented. In the Coens' film, Mattie is cold, composed, and unmoving in her task. That isn't to say she is heartless. She is obviously driven by love for her father, and at several times throughout the film we see her acting in kindness (notably, to one of the outlaws that is suffering from a bullet wound in the cabin, and several times to LaBoeuf, in the face of Cogburn's flippant cruelty). However, there is very much the sense that she is hardened, and that the ability to detach herself from any emotional ties is the very thing that is driving her on to get justice for her father. In Hathaway's film, however, Mattie is a much more emotional character, more driven by her feelings, and more childlike (and particularly, one feels, girl-like). This really does the film no favours. One the best things about the remake is the sense that Rooster, LaBoeuf and Mattie are on equal footing- each brings something to the table, despite each having great impediments. Hathaway's Mattie often feels like she is just along for the ride, an annoyance for the adults to put up with. Because of this, the relationship between Cogburn and Mattie, which develops from one of distrust to one of genuine affection, doesn't resonate in the original the way it does in the remake.

Essentially, these two films are very much products, not so much of their era, but of the men involved. Hathaway started his career in the 30s, and worked on a great number of Westerns. Wayne, of course, is the most famous of all Western heroes. They represent a time and place where a man's heroism was judged by how many men he'd killed, and how little silliness he'd take from little girls and pretty boy out-of-towners. The Coens make films about a world without a real notion of heroism. Where everybody is as ridiculous and ill-prepared as everybody else. It's telling that the closest thing to a pure hero you might find in a Coens film is a heavily-pregnant small-town sheriff. The Coens, of course, always layer into there films these little 'Coenisms', quirky little sidetracks that don't add to the general feel of the story, but not the story itself. There are several such instances in this film, such as the appearance of a lone rider wearing a bearskin. I feel that in this film, these moments actually detract a little, and it owuld have been nice to have seen them play things a bit more straight, capturing the right balance as they did so well with No Country.... I also have my reservations about their choice to end the film with an epilogue, showing Mattie 25 years later, a stone-faced spinster who was never able to move on from the events of her childhood (not to mention the fact that she says LaBoeuf would now be close to 80, meaning that we were supposed to buy Damon as 50-plus when this took place).

On the whole, I think the remake is a better film. It's certainly more in tune to my tastes, but beyond that I think the changes the brothers made all bring something to the film that the original lacked. They gave the film a mythic quality, which makes it seem bigger than its genre and time period. As well as Steinfeld and Bridges' nominations, the film was also nominated for best picture, best direction, and a slew of other awards, but won nothing. I give the film 4 stars, and I give the original 3 stars.

Until next time, here's looking at you!

And The Loser Is... #18- I'm Henry VIII, I am, I am

The film director, Alexander Korda, who was born Sándor László Kellner in Hungary, is one of the most important figures of British cinema. He was the first film producer to receive a knighthood, the founder of London Films, which helped establish the careers of the likes of Michael Powell and Laurence Olivier, and he was the director of the first British film to be nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, which is the film I will be talking about today.

The Private Life of Henry VIII (Dir: Alexander Korda, 1933)
There is no mystery to this film- it does exactly what it says on the tin, that is, recount the personal affairs of the great 16th Century English king, beginning on the day of his third wedding, and ending with the king in old age. Henry is that most famous of English kings; he of the six wives, father of the future Queen Elizabeth, and founder of the Church of England. He has been depicted on the big screen many times, but the definitive portrayal comes in this film, from Charles Laughton, who won the best actor Oscar for his performance. Boisterous and temperamental, stout of belly and assertive in gait, Laughton captures the essence of a man who history remembers as a formidable and highly-strung ruler.

Charles Laughton as King Henry VIII

Matters of state are almost completely ignored by Korda, who quickly establishes Henry's character in the opening scenes, which cut from his simple-minded bride-to-be, Jane Seymour, who disturbs the king during an important state meeting to ask his opinion on what necklace to wear, to his current wife, Anne Boleyn, who waits patiently, and with admirable grace, to be called to the executioner's block. The scenes of the two women, for whom the day holds great significance for very different reasons, are brilliantly juxtaposed (Anne's mournful observation that it is a 'beautiful day' contrasted with Jane's more ebullient reading), and interspersed with scenes of court life, from gossiping ladies-in-waiting, to a curmudgeonly executioner, peeved that the job of beheading Anne has gone to a Frenchman.

These early scenes also establish the tone of the film, which drifts seamlessly between comedy (thanks to Arthur Wimperis and Lajos Biro's witty script), and moments of surprising poignancy. Henry's life is beset by tragedies (many of them at his own 'hand', of course), and Korda does a very good job of giving weight to things like Anne's execution, and the death of Jane during childbirth, without compromising the general joviality of proceedings.

It isn't until wife number four shows up that things really kick into high gear though. The real-life wife of Laughton, Elsa Lanchester is an English actress best remembered now as the streaky-haired Bride of Frankenstein in the 1935 classic film of the same name ("she's alive, ALIVE!"). She shows up here as the young German duchess, Anne of Cleves, who is recommended as a wife to Henry by Thomas Cromwell. The film's version of events remains somewhat true to accepted fact- an artist was sent to Germany to paint a portrait of Anne for the king, but it is suspected that he exaggerated her good looks, and when the king got a look at her in person, he found her not to be all that he had been led to believe. False advertising in its earliest stages.

History tells us that Henry kissed Anne on the forehead on their wedding night, before returning to his own quarters, thus never consummating the marriage, and that Anne, being an intelligent woman, knew not to stand in the way of an annulment. The film's version of events is far more entertaining, as Lanchester, gurning it up for maximum comedic effect, tricks Henry into the annulment, and into giving her land and her choice of his men-of-court (in this version of events, Anne has began an affair with the man who traveled to Germany to tell her of the king's proposal), by fleecing him in a game of cards.

Aces high: Lanchester and Laughton

The interplay between Laughton and Lanchester is fantastic, providing the best moments of the film, and it is unfortunate that Lanchester doesn't get more screen time. But, with just over 90 minutes to get through five wives, you can understand the reasoning. And, while Anne of Cleves, erm, leaves, Catherine Howard enters. This is the romance that is given most play in the film, depicted as one of true love from Henry's side. Catherine, however, is having an affair with one of the king's closest aides, Thomas Culpeper (played by Robert Donat). It is here that we see the king in a slightly different light. Whereas before his buffoonery was played for laughs, and endeared us to him, now we see the king being taken for a fool by the two people closest to him. We now feel genuine sympathy for him, as he excitedly pays Catherine a visit in her quarters, simply because he wanted to see her, unaware that Culpeper is hiding in the next room. When Henry is finally told of the betrayal, he breaks down in tears, a rare show of vulnerability for a man who always exudes a veneer of strength and vitality.

After the revelation of Catherine's affair, we jump forward a year, to find the king alone and dispirited. Here he is paid a visit by Anne of Cleves, who recommends that he marry for a sixth time, this time to an older, less-capricious woman. And so, we jump forward several more years to find an aging Henry married to Catherine Parr, who nags at him to eat better, and to cover himself with a blanket to keep warm. Parr has no charms to speak of, but ultimately is exactly the kind of woman that the king needs. "Six wives, and the best of them's the worst", as Henry puts it.

As an account of Henry's personal life, this film is far from extensive, but it does take a very simple joy in the time period and the characters. As well as focusing on the king and his wives, the film also strives to give us a sense of court life (a witch hides a charm under Henry's pillow on each of his wedding nights, insistent that it will provide for him a son; the palace's cooks gossip about the king's love-life). Laughton is never less than compelling in the title role, and is ably supported by a strong cast. This is a fun film, and there are plenty of worse ways to spend an hour and a half. 4 stars.

I'll be reviewing another new film in ATLI... #19. Until then, here's looking at you!

And The Loser Is... #17- The Prime of Dame Maggie Smith

Dame Maggie Smith is one of England's most beloved actresses, best known nowadays for playing the role of Professor McGonagall in the Harry Potter series. She is a two-time Academy Award winner, the first of those coming for her leading performance in the film I will be talking about today, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (Dir: Ronald Neame, 1969).

The film is set in a conservative private girls school, in 1930s Edinburgh, in which the headstrong and progressive Miss Brodie is on a collision course with the more old-fashioned headmistress, Miss Mackay. Jean Brodie is a woman 'in her prime', as she is apt to remind her students, a lover of art and music (and fascism, which I'll get to!), 'truth and beauty', who neglects the school syllabus to share with her girls ('the Brodie Girls') her romanticised worldview. Mackay, meanwhile, is of the mindset that women are molded on the hockey field, too out-of-breath to concern themselves with high culture.

Brodie has a big influence on her girls, particularly her four favourites, Sandy, Jenny, Monica, and the stuttering new-girl, Mary, who is particularly besotted. So, too, are the art teacher, Teddy Lloyd, and music teacher, Gordon Lowther. The former, a married father of six, shared a brief fling with Jean, and is intent on winning her back. His impetuous artistic spirit is in contrast to the more grounded, somewhat dull, Lowther, who courts Brodie, but is dismayed by the rumours that pass through the school about their relationship. Through all of this, Brodie maintains that she is devoted to her girls, and that teaching is the only thing she needs.

The film is based on a play by Jay Presson Allen (which was, in turn, based on a novel), and you can tell. A lot of the time, describing a film as 'play-like' would be a criticism, suggesting that the film feels static, is maybe too verbose, and lacks a sense of the cinematic. When I use the phrase here, I'm talking about a richness of dialogue, characters that feel real, and are really given time to breathe, and a very particular way of developing the story, introducing conflicts that you don't initially see coming, but feel completely natural and organic. The script is tremendous, and the whole thing rests on the nature of Brodie's character.

Jean Brodie has all the attributes which one might find admirable in a character of this sort. She is an individual, who won't be beaten down by the archaic way of thinking prevalent in the system of which she is a part. She has a genuine love for her students. She wants them to blossom into ladies that can live a full life, enriched with romance and adventure, and is dedicated to making that happen. But, she has a fatal flaw, in that, while trying to impress upon her students the importance of individuality, she has become just as big a dictator as the conservative world she rails against. She has a narrow vision of what the world should be like, and wants the girls to fit into that. That is where her admiration for fascism comes into play, which seemed a strange plot-point, but came to make more sense the more the film developed. Brodie romanticises strong leaders, as she sees herself as one. She particularly admires Benito Mussolini. It is important to remember that the film is set prior to World War 2, and Mussolini's (and Fascist Italy's) relationship with the Nazis, and it is easy to see why Brodie might have taken to the ideals, as it stood opposed to socialism, and the downplaying of the individual. More to the point, Brodie is portrayed as a woman wise in cultural matters, but lack in real world understanding (when Teddy finds out that Brodie has started a campaign to raise money for Franco's efforts in the Spanish civil war, he declares that she never knew anything about politics).

And, yet, Brodie remains a truly sympathetic character. The writing plays a part, as does Smith's exceptional performance. Of the performances she was nominated alongside at the 1970 awards, I've only seen one, Jane Fonda's turn in They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, a fine performance in its own right, but not at the level of Smith's. She captures everything about Jean perfectly; her pride, her artfulness (reciting poetry, speaking Italian), the fierceness with which she defends her teaching style. One excellent scene sees Brodie finally let rip at Mackay, after the latter asks for her resignation upon finding out about the relationship between her and Gordon. Smith, with tears of anger forming in her eyes (but never escaping), exclaims that she will never be forced out, that she will fight to her last breath to remain in her position. That she is a teacher, first, last, always. It is a powerful display, typical of a performance which always strikes the right note, and really carries the viewer along with it, making us root for Jean, even as we question her methods.

The performances are actually strong throughout. Macay is excellent, as are Robert Stephens (who was married to Smith in real life) as Teddy, and Pamela Franklin as Sandy. Sandy becomes one of the film's key characters, as she is the one amongst Brodie's Girls who begins to see the damage the teacher is doing. In actuality, Sandy is taking Brodie's lesson a little too much to heart, as she develops the desire to break away from the uniformity of the other girls, staunch in their admiration for Brodie, and become the kind of woman, strong and independent, that Brodie should admire. However, to do this, she feels that she must take Brodie down, to 'stop her', as she says.

Smith and Franklin: the teacher and the pupil.

In some respects, it's hard to blame her. Brodie has her own ideas of what her girls will become, where their lives will lead them, and, while she declares Monica a future-great artist, and Jenny a future-great lover, the best she can muster for Sandy is that she is dependable. In fact, when Sandy tells Jean that she is to be painted by Teddy, Jean off-handedly tells her that she doesn't see her future in being painted. Sandy sees that as a rejection, and aims to get back at Brodie in the most hurtful way she can; first, by becoming Teddy's lover, and secondly, by taking away from Brodie the one thing that defines her above all else- her job.

This leads to a superb closing face-off between the two, again brilliantly written and performed. Smith first captures Brodie's resolve as she vows to fight the dismissal just handed down to her by Mackay, her fascist allegiances finally catching up with her. Then, the change comes, with the realisation that it was her dependable Sandy that had betrayed her, and the shift in Smith's countenance and tone is remarkable. Franklin, meanwhile, is positively scathing as the child betrayer ("you are no longer in your prime!"), who suddenly realises what she has done, and, more to the point, what she has become.

The scene is a fitting climax to a film which is full of these kinds of character complexities and parallels. It should also be mentioned that, as well as these great dramatic conflicts, this is a film full of humour, usually coming in the form of a Brodie witticism (upon finding out that Mackay wants to meet with her at 4.15 that day, Brodie quips "not 4, not 4.30, but 4.15. She thinks to intimidate me by the use of quarter hours"). This actually makes the drama more impactful, and adds resonance to the final stages.

The sets are great, as are the locations, and Neame directs with a sure touch, zooming in to capture the nuances of Smith's extraordinary performance. And, above all, it is that performance for which the film should be best remembered. Brodie is a deeply flawed character brouht to life by an actress who I'm beginning to think is completely flawless. 5 stars.

I should have another new review next time, but until then, here's looking at you!

And The Loser Is... #16- Doing it for the girls

The 1960s is considered by many to be a high watermark for British filmmaking, and it is an era known for its focus on the plight of the working classes, and, in particular, the 'angry young man', as seen in films such as Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, and This Sporting Life. The actors who made their mark playing this kind of role reads like a who's who of British acting- Richard Harris, Tom Courtenay, Albert Finney, Richard Burton, et al. But, this was, of course, also the Swingin' 60s, an era of women's lib, and sexual freedom, and today I'm looking at a 60s film that is doing it for the girls!

Georgy Girl (Dir: Silvio Narizzano, 1966)

Part rom-com, part raunchy comedy, part exploration of gender politics, Georgy Girl is the story of Georgy, a slightly heavy, but vivacious young woman, '22 and never been kissed', who finds herself the object of attention from two completely different men. Lynn Redgrave, she of the famous Redgrave acting dynasty, was Oscar-nominated for her lead performance here, and James Mason picked up a best supporting actor nomination for his role as James, the well-to-do boss of Georgy's father, who wants to make the young girl his mistress. Georgy's other potential lover is the boyfriend of her best friend, Jos, played by Alan Bates.

I had a sinking feeling about this film from the get-go, with the introductory song (also Oscar-nominated) suggesting that Georgy could be happy if only she made a bit more effort with her appearance. As the song (jaunty, though it is) plays, we see our hero nervously entering a boutique, getting her hair styled, and then recoiling in horror as she sees the (admittedly ridiculous) results. This is really a misleading introduction to film and character though, as Georgy is presented as such a charming, spirited girl, that I can't see her as anything but gender-affirming.

Redgrave is really tremendous in her role. She has a naturally pretty face, but is just forceful enough in manner that you can almost believe her as a virgin, if not quite the object of ridicule which she is sometimes made out to be (by her own father, amongst others). What puts it over the top is the casting of Charlotte Rampling as Meredith, Georgy's best friend/flatmate. Just about anybody would look plain standing next to the stunning Rampling. Beyond physical appearances (bear in mind also that Redgrave was known at the time for being the chubby younger sister of Vanessa Redgrave, who incidentally turned down the role of Georgy), Redgrave wonderfully captures Georgy's flair for the dramatic, playfulness, and quick-wit, all the while conveying the idea that these are just tools used by the character to cover up a sense of inferiority, and self-consciousness. It's great watching her share repartee with Mason or Bates, while understanding that just below the surface there is this very insecure young girl. In one stand-out moment, Georgy performs a rambunctious song and dance number ("I need a whole lot of loving, because there's a lot of me to love", or something to that effect) at one of James' high society parties. She's embarrassing herself, but completely embraces her role, as if to show everybody that they can't hurt her, and that she's in on the joke.

Mason is typically debonair as James, who, presumably has watched Georgy grow up, and, with an ill wife confined to her bed, suddenly finds her irresistible. Redgrave and Mason have some great exchanges, particularly when he presents to her a contract which outlines the terms of her becoming his mistress. Mason lost out at the awards to Walter Matthau for The Fortune Cookie. I rate his performance above that one, but not above that of Robert Shaw in A Man For All Seasons. Redgrave, in a category that also included a nomination for her sister, lost out to Elizabeth Taylor (Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?). Taylor's performance was good, but a little showy. Redgrave completely charmed me, and I would have given her the award.

Let's not forget Alan Bates. He gives a breathlessly energetic performance (it seems that comedian, Lee Evans, got a lot of his performance manner from Bates) as Jos, clownish, but handsome, and besotted with Meredith when he is clearly better suited to Georgy. The two laugh and joke around together, while Meredith, the cold and detached 'it girl' stands them both up at various times in the film, and conventional rom-com wisdom suggests they will end up together. A spanner is thrown in the works though when Meredith becomes pregnant, and she and Jos get married. For a time, the three of them live together in something resembling harmony, with Georgy acting essentially as the cook/maid. Meredith becomes increasingly difficult to live with as the pregnancy progresses though, and eventually things come to a head when she blows up at Georgy, calling her fat and ugly. It is only then that Jos realises that he is in love with Georgy.

Georgy and Jos; made for each other?

You could argue that the biggest flaw with the film is the way in which this situation is resolved. Meredith, by this point, has fully completed her transformation from self-centred egotist, to full-on bitch (she completely rejects her baby, refusing to touch it, and announcing that she wants it adopted)- a change that makes it easy (and rather too convenient) to accept the fact that she has been jilted by husband and best friend (we are even shown Meredith, upon leaving the hospital after giving birth, driving off with another man).

The film takes another interesting twist here though, as the new family of Jos, Georgy and baby proves less than perfect, due to Jos's immaturity and lack of interest in being a father. It is at this point that we slowly begin to realise that the only person throughout the whole film who has been nothing but accepting and supportive towards Georgy is James, so easy to write-off as a lecherous old man. Indeed, throughout the film, we see a contrast between Jos's careless attitude towards Georgy (jokingly referring to her as 'fishface', for example), and incidents such as James encouraging his party guests to applaud Georgy after her afore-mentioned performance.

Thinking about it now, the most interesting thing about this film is the way that it plays with your own expectations for the Georgy character. It's very successful in making you see certain characters in a certain way, and getting you to make snap judgments, based on what you know about films and society, about what Georgy needs, what she deserves, and what she will end up with. I think this is a film which is much smarter than it appears to me. Narizzano, a Canadian working in England, keeps the film at a nice pace, and the script is full of humour. It's the actors which really won me over with this one though, particularly Redgrave, who I had only previously seen in her later years. 4 stars.

I should have another new review in ATLI... #17, so until then, here's looking at you.

And The Loser Is... #15- How to win a battle against terrorism and lose the war of ideas

In ATLI... #14, I talked about Costa-Gavras' excellent 1969 political thriller, Z. This time out, I want to talk about another politically charged European film from the 60s, The Battle of Algiers (Dir: Gillo Pontecorvo, 1966). While it is easy to look at Z and The Battle of Algiers as companion pieces, and certainly both are made from the same left-wing political standpoint, there is a key difference. The former film is, in essence, a genre film; a taut political thriller, which, in many respects, one could see being made in America, certainly during the 1970s (think All The President's Men). Indeed, Z is a film that should be easily accessible to all audiences, as it really doesn't feature many of the traits people associate with foreign language cinema.

TBOA takes further the documentary style of Z, favouring an approach which puts more emphasis on realism, a simple presentation of events, which allows the spectator to digest the facts on their own terms. To simplify, you could say that Z uses rhetoric, presenting things in a way intended to incite a certain response (and does so successfully, I might add), whereas TBOA is simply a recreation of events, which invites one to draw their own conclusions.

The film is a documentation of Algeria's fight for independence from France, focusing largely on Ali La Pointe, a member of the Algerian resistance who rises through the ranks, and is committed to his cause, no matter the cost in human life. Pitted against him is the French officer, Colonel Mathieu, a man who uses the fact that he, and others like him, were once part of a resistance themselves (the French Resistance during World War 2), to justify the torturing of prisoners, and the bombing of innocent civilians.

Despite the even-handedness with which the film presents its story (it never shies away from showing the acts of low-level terrorism perpetrated by the Algerian resistance, including using bombs that they know will kill fellow Algerians), there is no question that this is a film sympathetic to the Algerian cause (it was, afterall, commissioned by the Algerian government, and an Algerian/Italian co-production). La Pointe is an extremist, a man who believes that independence can only be taken by violence, but the Algerians are a people with their backs against the wall, at the mercy of the French army's superior means and technology. La Pointe's is a just cause, and even then his methods are contrasted with those of the more experienced Ben M'Hidi, who tells La Pointe "Acts of violence don't win wars. Neither wars nor revolutions. Terrorism is useful as a start. But then, the people themselves must act."

There are some interesting stories surrounding this film, but first I want to briefly touch on the history of world cinema and the Oscars. Going into this project, I assumed that instances of foreign language cinema being nominated in the main Osar categories were few and far between. What was interesting to find out while going through the past ceremonies, was that at one point (starting in the 1960s, coinciding with a greater critical appreciation for world cinema) the Academy seemed to have something of a love affair with the more established directors of world cinema. Whether that was the a case of the Academy paying lip service to some of the perceived greats, specifically through nomination in the best director category, is impossible to tell, but there is a tradition there of the Academy reaching out to filmmakers from across the globe.

Pontecorvo directs Brahim Haggiag (La Pointe)

This film appears as part of this project, thanks to Pontecorvo's nomination for best director in 1969. Federico Fellini was actually nominated for best director 4 times, Hiroshi Teshigahara was nominated for Woman In The Dunes (1964), which strikes me as a sublime case of the Academy rewarding the deserving, and, later, the likes of Ingmar Bergman and Akira Kurosawa picked up nominations. It seemed that if a foreign language film was going to get recognised in any category (barring, y'know, best foreign language film), then best director would be the one. Even more recently we've seen the likes of Fernando Meirelles get recognised, although it would be great to see someone like Wong Kar-Wai or Michael Haneke get some recognition, to name just two of the more widely-known and appreciated directors fo world cinema.

Anyway, bringing this back to The Battle of Algiers, and this is actually a film which has made a bit of history. It is the only film in Oscar history to have nominations at two non-consecutive ceremonies (it had previously been nominated for best foreign language film in '66, before Pontecorvo's nomination in '69). Another point of interest surrounding this film, is that apparently the Pentagon screened this film for officers and civilian experts, as a way to encourage discourse about the challenges faced by the US army in Iraq. The title of this blog entry is taken from the flier which invited guests to the screening.

I'm not sure what was learned from such a screening, but I do know that this is a powerful piece of filmmaking, one of those rare films that manages to touch you in the heart, in the head, and in the gut. It stirred up a lot of emotions in me, as a film which says a lot about the right to freedom, and the sacrifices some people will take to achieve that freedom. It's hard to watch a film like this and not draw comparisons to the situation in the Palestine, but not only that, it's hard not to watch this film and not reflect on one's own life, the freedoms we take for granted, the general complacency of Western civilisation, and how different things could be. This may not be as attractive a proposition as something like Z, but it is a film of equal importance, which I would urge anybody to watch. It's a masterpiece, probably one of the handful of best films ever nominated for an Oscar, and a 5 star film.

I should have a new review for next time, but, until then, here's looking at you!