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The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
Epic War Drama Falters in Subplot but Soars in Tension Between Lead Characters
In most critical reviews of The Bridge on the River Kwai, the 1957 epic war film directed by David Lean, a common complaint arises: Alec Guinness's character, Colonel Nicholson, is depicted unfairly, with many objecting that no British officer would have collaborated with the Japanese as Nicholson does.
The film is based on Pierre Boulle's 1952 novel, which drew on his experiences as a prisoner of war in Thailand. Boulle, a Frenchman, allegedly modeled Nicholson on some French officers he encountered during the war. As a work of fiction, Boulle took liberties by making Nicholson a British officer-a decision that no doubt irked many Anglophiles. Yet, this fictionalization adds complexity to the story, particularly as Nicholson's relationship with the camp commandant, Saito (played by former silent screen star Sessue Hayakawa), evolves from outright opposition to uneasy cooperation.
Initially, the tension centers on Nicholson's refusal to allow his officers to perform manual labor on the bridge. His defiance and endurance, symbolized by his time in the "iron box," contrast with Saito's unyielding need to save face. But when Saito's engineers botch the construction and Nicholson's men subtly sabotage the project, the two forge a pragmatic alliance.
Here's where things get interesting. Nicholson, driven by a misguided desire to prove British superiority, strikes a deal with Saito to oversee the bridge's construction, all the while Major Clipton, the medical officer, acts as the moral conscience, unsuccessfully warning Nicholson that he's aiding the enemy.
The film loses some momentum, however, during the subplot involving the American Shears (William Holden), who escapes through the jungle and eventually returns to lead a British commando unit back to destroy the bridge. This sequence feels somewhat drawn out, with the predictable skirmish with Japanese soldiers offering little suspense until the mission reaches its explosive conclusion.
The climax re-engages the audience, as Shears and his team manage to plant explosives under the bridge. Nicholson, in a moment of tragic realization, utters the famous line, "What have I done?" before falling on the detonator and triggering the explosion.
The Bridge on the River Kwai is a good film, but not quite the masterpiece it's often hailed as. The central conflict between Nicholson and Saito is gripping, while the commando subplot drags until the thrilling finale saves it from losing steam entirely.
If Only (2004)
Poor Man's Groundhog Day is Poorly Executed
There are quite a few internet critics who unanimously agree that "If Only" is a dud. They are right. This time loop fantasy tries to capture the magic of "Groundhog Day" but raises the stakes. In "Groundhog Day," the protagonist repeats the same day until he learns compassion and wins the girl.
Here, British businessman Ian Wyndham must not only express true love for his American musician girlfriend, Samantha Andrews (Jennifer Love Hewitt), but also saves her life by sacrificing his own.
Unlike "Groundhog Day," with its numerous iterations, "If Only" gives us just two. The first day is marred by a series of odd events: Samantha burns herself on a kettle, Ian's watch breaks, Samantha gets Coca-Cola splashed on her clothing, and she disastrously interrupts Ian's important business meeting, believing he's forgotten a crucial folder.
Ian later has a cryptic exchange with a mysterious cabdriver who tries, unsuccessfully, to convince him he's prioritizing his career over Samantha. Ian declines to enter the cab that would reunite him with his girlfriend and the requisite loving attitude.
That evening, Ian and Samantha share a cab ride that ends tragically when another car hits them, killing Samantha. The next morning, Ian wakes to find Samantha alive and the day repeating, giving him a second chance.
This time around, the day isn't exactly the same. For instance, Samantha doesn't disrupt Ian's business presentation.
The redo proves tiresome as Ian relentlessly tries to show his love, while Samantha seems insufferably tolerant of his continued puppy-dog devotion.
It all comes to a head when Ian photocopies the lead sheet of Samantha's song for her graduation concert, which she sings with the orchestra somehow having to guess the orchestral arrangement from the unarranged lead sheet accompaniment.
The story takes a tragic twist when Ian becomes the victim in another taxi accident in the same cab, leaving Samantha to heal through her music in a live cabaret concert.
Avoid "If Only." The sentimentality is overwhelming, and the plot twists are minimal and predictable.
CODA (2021)
Glee Meets Deaf Culture in CODA: Unique Themes, Predictable Plot
CODA tackles the unusual subject of deaf individuals, but its narrative remains disappointingly conventional.
Ruby Rossi, a timid teenager, is the sole hearing member of her family, which includes her parents, Frank and Jackie, and her brother, Leo. The family depends on Ruby to interpret for them while managing their fishing business.
The central conflict emerges when Ruby decides to pursue a singing career, spurred on by her demanding high school music teacher, Mr. Bernardo "Mr. V" Villalobos. Ruby's budding romance with fellow choir member Miles takes a hit when he betrays her trust, revealing intimate details about her parents to a classmate. This breach leads to significant tension, with much of the film dedicated to Miles' attempts to make amends.
In CODA (Children of Deaf Adults), the film highlights societal prejudices against the deaf community. Although some instances may be exaggerated for dramatic effect, they serve to underscore the challenges faced by the family.
The movie oscillates between two distinct settings. The first is the fishing business, where Frank's decision to cut out the middleman and start his own enterprise reflects his frustration with exploitation. The second setting resembles the world of Glee, with Ruby's vocal talents showcased in a school concert.
The dark moment in the second act occurs when Ruby is swimming with Miles, and Frank and Leo go fishing with a federal observer unaware of their deafness. Their boat is fined, and their licenses are suspended by the Coast Guard for not responding to signals. Ruby refuses to take the blame, arguing she can't always be their interpreter. After appealing, their licenses are reinstated on the condition of having a hearing person onboard. Ruby decides to skip college to join the family business, supported by her parents but opposed by Leo, who fears she'll regret missing college.
The film follows a predictable trajectory from there. Ruby's parents eventually take her to audition at the Berklee School of Music, where she triumphs with a stirring rendition of Joni Mitchell's 'Both Sides Now.' An implausible twist occurs when the once-prejudiced fishermen rally behind Frank's new venture, learning sign language to ensure smooth operations.
Despite the formulaic plot, the performances are solid, particularly Emilia Jones as Ruby, who evolves from self-effacing to confident. Jones's captivating voice adds depth to her portrayal.
The Life of Emile Zola (1937)
Zola Plays Second Fiddle in a Film That Should Truly be Titled 'The Dreyfus Affair'
Some viewers might be disappointed to learn that The Life of Emile Zola is not so much a biographical account of the iconic 19th-century French writer as it is a depiction of 'The Dreyfus Affair'. The film's title suggests a comprehensive exploration of Zola's life, yet it deviates significantly from this expectation.
The film's first half-hour tries to establish Zola's prominence in French literary history, but it lacks compelling drama, a common shortfall in cinematic portrayals of artists. It briefly explores Zola's friendship with the artist Paul Cezanne and his evolution from a struggling writer to a bestselling author.
The film addresses Zola's role as a social justice advocate through a cursory montage that highlights numerous injustices in French society. It presents Zola's encounter with a prostitute as the inspiration for his first successful novel, Nana. However, the film briskly glosses over Zola's experiences with censorship and persecution by the establishment, leaving the audience questioning why they should empathize with him.
The narrative suggests that Zola's estrangement from Cezanne marked his complacency in later life, with the Dreyfus Affair reigniting his passion for social justice. Alfred Dreyfus, a career captain in the French army, is wrongfully accused of espionage, a charge motivated by his Jewish identity-though the film only subtly acknowledges this through a brief close-up of his indictment.
The film's reticence on the topic of antisemitism likely reflects the cautious approach of Jewish producers in Hollywood during a period of strong isolationist and pro-German sentiment in the United States. This reluctance might have stemmed from a fear that focusing too heavily on antisemitism could alienate audiences and impact box office profits.
One of the film's highlights is the portrayal of how Dreyfus was unjustly convicted, with new intelligence officer Colonel Picquart uncovering evidence that Major Walsin-Esterhazy was the actual spy. The narrative follows Picquart as he is wrongly accused and imprisoned after a military trial that exonerates Esterhazy.
Paul Muni's portrayal of Zola remains in the background during the libel trial, only coming to the forefront during his powerful closing speech. Despite this dramatic moment, the film underutilizes his character for much of the storyline.
Even though Dreyfus is ultimately exonerated and promoted, the consequences faced by those responsible for the false accusations seem insufficient. The Life of Emile Zola serves as an educational piece on a regrettable chapter in French history, but as a cinematic study of Zola's legacy, it leaves much to be desired. The film seems to question whether its creators truly captured the essence of Zola's greatness.
The Holiday (2006)
Watchable Yet Lightweight Rom-Com With Predictable Romance
Nancy Meyers's The Holiday dangles a promising carrot but ultimately trips over its own shoelaces, leaving critics with a mixed bouquet of reviews. The premise is a rom-com classic: two love-starved souls, one British and the other American, exchange homes via a digital magic carpet to escape their respective romantic doldrums.
Our adventure kicks off with Kate Winslet's Iris, a columnist from London's posh pages, swapping her cozy abode for Cameron Diaz's Amanda, a Los Angeles hotshot in the film trailer biz. Sounds like a recipe for comedy gold, right? Well, hold onto your popcorn.
Diaz's Amanda, unfortunately, stumbles onto the screen like a rom-com cliché on a bad hair day. We're supposed to buy her as a successful career woman who's also a disaster in love, yet her emotional rollercoaster ride feels more like a kiddie carousel. From slugging her cheating beau to neurotic shenanigans, Amanda's antics often evoke eye rolls instead of laughs.
Enter Jude Law's Graham, a widower with daddy charm and a penchant for swift romantic maneuvers. He's the silver lining in this rom-com cloud, making us wonder why he's smitten with our flustered American heroine.
On the other side of the Atlantic, Winslet's Iris is a tad more relatable, nursing a heartache over her ex, Jasper. Her escapades with Amanda's quirky neighbor Arthur Abbott, a screenwriter from Hollywood's golden era, inject Hollywood nostalgia into the mix. Iris's cunning persuasion to get Arthur out of his shell and attend a prestigious Writers Guild ceremony adds depth to her character's growth.
Miles (played by Jack Black), a quintessential American type, adds a delightful contrast to the Brits in The Holiday. His bumbling charm and musical prowess make for entertaining scenes, yet his vacillating behavior with his current girlfriend leaves us scratching our heads. Why is Iris attracted to him? Perhaps it's the allure of opposites attracting or just Hollywood's penchant for improbable romances finding their way to a happily-ever-after in the final reel.
As the credits roll, The Holiday leaves us with more questions than resolutions, especially regarding those pesky long-distance relationships. It's a watchable romp, but don't expect groundbreaking love lessons-this is predictable romance served with a side of British charm and American flair.
Ben-Hur (1959)
From Chariots to Chains: The Imposing Scope and Narrative Limits of Ben-Hur
Critics of Ben-Hur often concede that the chariot race remains one of cinema's most remarkable sequences. The film's expansive scope is truly spectacular, encompassing detailed costumes, elaborate set designs, exquisite cinematography, meticulous editing, and a rousing musical score. These elements collectively merit a higher rating, despite the screenplay's apparent constraints.
Adapted from Lew Wallace's 1880 novel, the film attempts to modernize the Gospel narrative by introducing Judah Ben-Hur, a Jewish "prince," as a relatable protagonist for contemporary audiences. While the story of Jesus's ministry and crucifixion recedes into the backdrop, it still provides a crucial spiritual catalyst for the emergence of our titular hero.
Under the guidance of the iconic director William Wyler, Jesus is portrayed only from behind and remains voiceless. In a poignant scene, Jesus compassionately offers water to Judah after he becomes enslaved, at a moment when Roman overseers are particularly harsh due to his previous status. This simple act causes a Roman commander to hesitate and withdraw, subtly illustrating Jesus's influential presence.
Wyler, of Jewish descent, tactfully downplays the anti-Semitic elements typically found in Gospel portrayals, especially in the scenes leading up to the crucifixion. Instead of depicting a Jewish mob clamoring for Jesus's death-a common motif that has fueled anti-Semitism-the film opts for a more restrained approach.
However, the film falters by incorporating less compelling aspects of the Gospel narrative, notably in the lengthy prologue depicting Jesus's birth. Although this provides historical and thematic context, shortening it could enhance the pacing of the film's opening.
In "Ben-Hur," the depiction of Jewish characters and their cultural practices may not align fully with historical accuracy or contemporary perceptions of Jewish identity. This criticism could extend to casting decisions, script interpretations of Jewish traditions, or the portrayal of Jewish life and values, which may not fully capture the complexity and diversity of authentic Jewish culture. This challenge is common in historical and biblical epics, where cultural and religious nuances are often simplified or dramatized.
Rather than rehashing the well-known Gospel story, the film presents Judah's narrative as a refreshing alternative. His conflict with Messala, a childhood friend turned Roman commander intent on quashing the budding Jewish rebellion that Judah supports, infuses the Ben-Hur story with substantial weight.
Judah's fall from grace, precipitated by accidentally dislodged roof tiles, cleverly transitions the story into its second act, where he swears vengeance for the unjust imprisonment of his mother and sister, and his own enslavement as a galley slave. Although the galley slave sequence is extended, showcasing Judah's resilience under harsh conditions, shortening some scenes could have preserved the essence of his struggle without diluting its impact.
The sea battle, despite using miniatures, remains effective. The sequence detailing how Judah rescues Arrius and subsequently gets adopted by him adds an interesting twist. However, Judah's adaptation to Roman culture feels rushed and could have been explored in greater detail than some of the more protracted sequences.
The character of Arab Sheik Ilderim, whose horses Judah uses in the chariot race, reflects the romanticized and modern notions of Arab identity prevalent in Western literature of the late 19th century, rather than an accurate portrayal of the historical 1st century AD.
The climactic chariot race and Messala's demise symbolize the peak of the narrative, where Judah achieves his revenge. Yet, the film must also pave the way for his redemption.
This redemption unfolds through the extended journey to the Valley of the Lepers. While these scenes are vital for character development and enhancing the emotional depth, their protracted nature may seem to drag the narrative without significantly advancing the plot.
From a storytelling perspective, the miraculous healing of Judah's mother and sister not only marks the culmination of his personal journey from revenge to forgiveness but also symbolizes a broader restoration of faith and humanity. However, this resolution might feel clichéd or unsatisfactory to those seeking a grittier or more realistic conclusion to the complex themes.
Charlton Heston's portrayal of Judah Ben-Hur is imposing, effectively capturing the transformation of a nobleman through adversity, although it can occasionally seem overly dramatic or stiff in quieter scenes. Stephen Boyd delivers a nuanced portrayal of Messala, blending charm with menace, though his motivations could be better developed. Jack Hawkins adds depth as Quintus Arrius, enhancing the mentor-student dynamic, albeit with limited screen time. Hugh Griffith, as Sheik Ilderim, infuses humor and cultural texture, but his portrayal risks perpetuating stereotypes of "exotic" characters. Haya Harareet brings emotional depth as Esther, balancing the film's intense drama, yet her role remains underexploited, often eclipsed by the more dominant storylines.
Wings (1927)
Historic First Academy Award Winner is a Fitting Swan Song to the Inferior Silent Film Era
As the inaugural Academy Award winner, "Wings" stands as a historical curiosity that merits viewing despite being an average film at best. As one of the most costly productions of its era, the film is celebrated for its realistic aerial combat sequences. Director William Wellman, leveraging his experience as a World War I aerial combat veteran, skillfully orchestrated numerous scenes, both aerial and terrestrial, that convincingly mimic actual wartime footage.
"Wings" holds the distinction of being the sole silent film to win an Academy Award. By the time of its release in 1928, it had been enhanced with a synchronized music score. The film underwent a meticulous restoration in 2012, and it now appears remarkably pristine for a piece from the silent era.
The era's leading star, Clara Bow, was cast as the love interest, Mary Preston. Initially, the narrative follows fledgling pilots Jack Powell and David Armstrong as they compete for Sylvia Lewis's affections-Jack mistakenly believes Sylvia is enamored with him, whereas she actually harbors feelings for David. Throughout, Mary silently harbors her own unrequited affection for Jack.
Bow herself was critical of her role, rightly perceiving that "Wings" predominantly catered to a male audience with its focus on war. Nevertheless, the screenwriters managed to integrate her into the European setting, where she served as an ambulance driver.
A memorable scene at boot camp features a boxing match that highlights the rivalry-and eventual reconciliation-between Jack and David, acknowledging each other's bravery.
The plot thickens when the protagonists, now friends, are stationed in France, sharing quarters with Cadet White, portrayed by Gary Cooper, whose brief appearance ends tragically in an aerial training accident.
In an extended scene set in Paris, Mary encounters a heavily intoxicated Jack on leave. During his drunken stupor, Jack persistently hallucinates bubbles, impairing his ability to recognize Mary. The situation escalates when military police discover Mary attempting to change back into her uniform after temporarily donning a borrowed dress. This incident forces her to resign and return home, a harsh consequence for trying to help Jack.
The film culminates in the technically impressive but emotionally subdued Battle of Saint-Mihiel. Unlike the visceral depiction of war in "All Quiet on the Western Front," this battle scene lacks the profound horror of war, reflecting the limitations of its silent film format.
The narrative concludes melodramatically when David, after being shot down behind enemy lines and stealing a German biplane, is tragically mistaken for the enemy and shot down by Jack. Upon returning home, Jack delivers David's keepsakes to his grieving parents, who forgive him during a ceremonious welcome. As expected, Mary ultimately reveals her feelings to Jack.
Charles "Buddy" Rogers, portraying Jack, had no prior flight experience and underwent training for the realistic aerial shots. Conversely, Richard Arlen, who played David, was an experienced pilot, contributing to the authenticity of the flying scenes. Both actors effectively maintain the film's dynamic pace.
As a dramatic work, "Wings" suffers from the inherent limitations of silent films, where title cards struggle to convey complex narratives-a stark contrast to silent comedies, which thrive on visual action.
"Wings" serves as an appropriate farewell to the silent film era, underscoring the significant advancements brought by the introduction of sound in films.
On the Waterfront (1954)
Lack of True-Life Political Context Diminishes This Tale of Union Corruption to an Engaging Yet Simplistic Narrative
Elia Kazan's On The Waterfront, an Academy Award winner, unsurprisingly takes a negative stance on the Longshoreman's Union, given Kazan's right-wing leanings and past actions before the House Unamerican Activities Committee. This bias is evident in Kazan's portrayal of the union boss, played by Lee J. Cobb, loosely based on Harry Bridges. However, Kazan's depiction of Friendly as a one-dimensional villain devoid of any complexity or redeeming qualities is a simplistic and shallow approach, devoid of the necessary political context that would have added depth to the narrative.
Kazan's failure to delve into the political intricacies surrounding the union and its connections, particularly to the Communist party, strips the film of its potential as a nuanced exploration of power dynamics and corruption. Instead, it regresses into a melodramatic caricature, reminiscent of 1930s mobster movies, lacking the depth and realism needed to make a meaningful commentary on the subject matter.
The constraints imposed by political pressures, notably from figures like J. Edgar Hoover, likely limited Kazan's ability to present Friendly in a more nuanced light. This limitation hampers the film's ability to engage with the complexities of union politics and corruption, reducing it to a mere clash between good and evil without acknowledging the shades of gray inherent in such narratives.
Setting aside the film's lack of political depth, one can discern its central theme, a struggle against unchecked tyranny. Marlon Brando's portrayal of Terry Malloy, a former boxer entangled in a web of corruption, resonates with viewers. Malloy's brother, Charley (Rod Steiger), serves as the right-hand man to mob boss Friendly, highlighting Malloy's role as a loyal follower who unquestioningly executes orders without scrutinizing their moral implications. This blind loyalty is evident when Malloy naively believes that his mob associates intended only to intimidate fellow worker Joey Doyle, rather than orchestrate his fatal fall from a rooftop.
Terry's life takes a dramatic turn when he develops feelings for Edie (Eva Marie Saint), the sister of Joey Doyle, whose death deeply affects Terry. Meanwhile, Father Barry (Karl Malden), the local parish priest, takes a bold stand against corruption by organizing a meeting to encourage workers to testify against Friendly in front of the Waterfront Crime Commission. However, this noble effort is thwarted when Friendly's thugs disrupt the meeting. Despite the chaos, Terry aids Edie in escaping the violence. Unbeknownst to Terry, Father Barry's persuasive efforts lead to one worker agreeing to testify, only to meet a tragic end the following day in what appears to be a staged workplace "accident."
In a pivotal and iconic scene, Terry musters the courage to confess to Edie the truth about his involvement in her brother's murder. However, just as he is about to reveal the details, a train whistle interrupts, symbolizing Terry's naivety and the pervasive influence of the mob that prevents Edie from hearing his full confession. This moment underscores Terry's internal conflict and the barriers he faces in breaking free from the grip of organized crime.
In a harrowing turn of events during the second act, Terry defies his brother's plea to remain silent and agrees to testify against Friendly. However, this decision proves fatal for Charley, as Terry discovers his brother's lifeless body, gruesomely hung by a meat hook on a street corner-an ominous warning from the mob about the consequences of betrayal.
Amidst the turmoil, Father Barry emerges as a guiding moral force, preventing Terry from seeking revenge on Friendly and persuading him to take a stand by testifying before the Waterfront Commission. This pivotal moment showcases Father Barry's unwavering commitment to justice and Terry's transformative journey from reluctant accomplice to courageous whistleblower.
The climax of On The Waterfront intensifies as Terry, despite showing up for work, is conspicuously left out when others are called. Undeterred, he boldly confronts Friendly at his waterfront headquarters, provoking a violent confrontation. In a cowardly move, Friendly orders his men to mercilessly beat Terry.
However, in a somewhat fantastical and improbable turn of events, the workers, inspired by Terry's courage, overcome their fear of the mob and rally behind him. They urge Terry to lead them back to work, a symbolic defiance against intimidation and corruption. Despite the recent brutal assault, Terry, now a symbol of resistance, accepts their call and leads the workers into the work site, embodying a newfound strength and determination against all odds.
The sudden courage and revolt of the workers in On The Waterfront raise questions about the narrative's plausibility. While Friendly's thugs still wield considerable power to retaliate, Terry's testimony likely instills a sense of hope and empowerment among the workers. They may believe that exposing Friendly's corruption through Terry's testimony will lead to his downfall and weaken the grip of the mob on their lives and livelihoods. However, given the pervasive corruption in government and the complexities of justice, the possibility remains that Friendly could escape accountability.
Despite these narrative considerations, the performances in the film are commendable, with Marlon Brando's portrayal of Terry standing out. His character's evolution from a passive follower to a conscience-stricken individual resonates with audiences, adding depth and emotional resonance to the storyline. Brando's performance anchors the film, highlighting the internal struggles and moral dilemmas faced by the characters amidst a backdrop of corruption and power dynamics.
Eddie the Eagle (2015)
Heartfelt Chronicle of Olympic Underdog Fails Due to Fictionalization of The Narrative
In my memory, there are two films akin to "Eddie the Eagle": the Academy Award-winning "Chariots of Fire" and the more recent "Boys in the Boat." All three center on underdogs striving for a gold medal at the Olympic Games.
I've previously argued why I believe this subject matter is better suited for a documentary than a feature film. In the grand scheme of things, the Olympic Games are ephemeral, deserving only a fleeting mention in sports history except for notable figures like Jesse Owens whose political impact on world history cannot be ignored. Can we truly justify a detailed biographical treatment for athletes who didn't dedicate their careers to their sports?
"Eddie the Eagle" boasts one advantage over its counterparts: the sport of ski jumping is inherently more thrilling and visually captivating than track running or crew rowing. However, Eddie himself admitted that the film is 95% fiction, a significant strike against its authenticity.
The film encourages us to admire Eddie for his resilience, stemming from a childhood injury that could have dashed his Olympic dreams. Rejected by the British Olympic Committee for being 'uncouth,' he pursued an individual path as a ski jumper.
Eddie's qualification for the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, Canada, was facilitated by Britain's absence from ski jumping competitions since 1929 and lower qualifying standards at the time.
Although Eddie trained in Lake Placid, NY, the film places him in a fictional German training facility where he meets the entirely fictional Bronson Peary, a former American champion ski jumper who left the sport after a conflict with another fictional character, Warren Sharp, his mentor who rejected him due to his alcoholism and lack of discipline. Peary's redemption arc from a disgraced alcoholic to Eddie's mentor is clichéd and lacks depth.
Eddie barely meets the Olympic qualification standards with a 70-meter jump of 112 feet, but the Olympic Committee changes its criteria quite rightly as they deem the distance too short and unworthy of Olympic competition. While performing on a circuit, Eddie jumps the required 200 feet, but this is only for a qualifying run. During the official jump, he fails and is informed he did not make the Olympic team, but the Committee changes its mind, accepting the practice run total.
Undeterred by Peary's advice to wait for the 1992 Olympics, Eddie competes in 1988, setting a British record but finishing last. He also competes in the 90-meter jump and finishes last as well. His public appeal stems more from a novelty "Eddie the Eagle" dance than genuine athletic achievement.
Is it reasonable for Eddie to be hailed as a hero for finishing last simply because he's an underdog? Such adulation seems unwarranted and misplaced.
Taron Edgerton embodies adult Eddie well, but Hugh Jackman's portrayal of Peary is hampered by clichés, as is Christopher Walken's role as a wholly fictional character.
Rustin (2023)
Standard By-The-Numbers Biopic Lacks Verisimilitude Despite Strong Lead Performance
Rustin presents itself as a by-the-numbers biopic, tracing the life of Bayard Rustin, a gay civil rights activist during the tumultuous 60s. The standout element is Colman Domingo's portrayal in the title role, effectively capturing Rustin's spirit, a figure whose recognition has surged only recently.
The film unfolds in three main parts: Rustin's ties to Martin Luther King Jr. And fellow civil rights leaders, his homosexuality, and his pivotal role in organizing the 1963 "March on Washington."
While offering a historical primer, particularly showcasing King's rift with Rustin in 1960 due to pressures from other leaders like Roy Wilkins and Adam Clayton Powell Jr., the film falls short in character depth. Ameen's portrayal of King lacks the required weight, and attempts to age Chris Rock for gravitas fail, given Rock's limited range in serious roles. Jeffrey Wright shines as Powell, a shrewd power player.
Delving into Rustin's personal life as a gay man pre-Stonewall, the film centers on his relationship with activist Tom Kahn, yet this dynamic remains superficial. A potential conflict between Kahn and Elias Taylor, a closeted black man involved with Rustin, is hinted but not explored enough for impact. Taylor's resolution to return to his wife follows a predictable arc, missing an opportunity for nuanced exploration.
The film lightly touches on the challenges of being gay in a condemnatory era, an aspect that could have been more incisive.
The depiction of the March on Washington, visually and dramatically, is underwhelming. Only real-life footage adds any real interest. The film's attempt to elevate Rustin's significance in civil rights history, not just for the march but also as a gay man facing discrimination, feels forced. Rustin's lack of iconic recognition may stem from various factors beyond his sexuality, which the film doesn't delve into.
Rustin suffers from a reverential treatment that sanitizes its narrative, failing to achieve historical authenticity.
The Broadway Melody (1929)
A Historical Curio, But Not a Timeless Gem
The Broadway Melody, heralded as the first sound film to snag an Academy Award, deserves a nod for its pioneering role in cinematic history. Back in those nascent days of sound technology, the production was akin to a wild experiment, with sets being shuffled around like a deck of cards in a bid to capture even a whisper of audio.
Most of the film unfolds indoors, with only occasional glimpses of New York City's hustle, culminating in a bustling Times Square shot. At its core, The Broadway Melody follows the Mahoney Sisters' vaudeville escapades as they venture onto the illustrious Great White Way in pursuit of showbiz stardom. Harriet "Hank" Mahoney and her sister Queenie Mahoney take center stage, egged on by Broadway luminary Eddie Kearns, who's romantically entangled with Hank.
The showbiz extravaganza is orchestrated by Francies Zanfield, a thinly veiled nod to Broadway's iconic impresario Florenz Ziegfield. Tensions simmer when Eddie (reconnecting with Queenie from their childhood) falls head over heels for her.
However, the audition drama unfolds as a chorus girl pulls a sneaky stunt, sabotaging Hank's chance by stashing a bag in the piano. Zanfield, unimpressed by the duo, axes their roles but hints at Queenie's potential elsewhere. Queenie, in a commendable sisterly move, vouches for Hank's business savvy. Eddie, charmed by Queenie's loyalty, is further smitten.
Queenie's rise to stardom, spurred by a fateful substitution and entanglements with the dastardly Jock Warriner, rattles both Hank and Eddie. Yet, her maneuvers are a strategic dance to keep her distance from Eddie and safeguard her bond with Hank.
Amid confrontations, heartaches, and even a scuffle between Eddie and the roguish Jock Warriner, Queenie eventually retires from the limelight after tying the knot with Eddie. Meanwhile, Hank forges ahead on a new showbiz journey with a fresh partner, harboring hopes of a triumphant return to Broadway in the future.
Anita Page's Queenie and Bessie Love's Hank deliver commendable performances, seamlessly transitioning from silent-era grace to the demands of talkies. However, Charles King's Eddie falls into the "corny" camp, missing the mark on subtlety.
Despite its historical allure, The Broadway Melody's musical numbers lack lasting impact, and the choreography feels more like a quaint relic of a bygone era.
In sum, The Broadway Melody shines as a historical artifact worth a watch, but as a timeless masterpiece of drama and musical prowess, it falls more than a tad short.
American Fiction (2023)
Curmudgeon Writer's Relentless Cynicism And Anti-Commercial Stance Hinder Audience Connection
The introduction of Thelonious "Monk" Ellison, played by Jeffrey Wright, in American Fiction is initially promising. Here we have a non-woke African American novelist and professor who challenges black victimhood and upholds academic standards. Despite receiving praise in academic circles, his latest manuscript fails to gain commercial traction due to not being "black enough" for the mainstream public, especially a predominantly white liberal audience.
Monk is forced to take an unpaid sabbatical from his job as a professor at a Los Angeles university after making what are deemed racially insensitive remarks to offended students. This sets the stage for his journey to Boston, where his family lives. At a poorly attended seminar about his latest work, Monk is irked to see fellow academic Sintara Golden celebrated for her bestselling novel "We's Lives in Da Ghetto," which he views as a collection of black stereotypes.
In response, Monk writes a satirical novel titled 'My Pafology' (later renamed with a four-letter expletive), mocking literary stereotypes of the black community such as gang warfare, drug use, and absent fathers.
In the source material, the film is based on-the 2001 novel Erasure by Percival Everett-the satire is developed as a faux novel as described in Everett's work. However, writer/director Chod Jefferson's adaptation falls short, offering only an unfunny live-action fantasy reenactment of a gang member confrontation in front of Monk as he pens his mocking diatribe. This missed opportunity leaves us without a clear depiction of the stereotypes that Monk vehemently objects to, diluting the impact of his satire.
Despite his principles, Monk's satire becomes a national bestseller. He initially resists selling the rights but eventually gives in due to financial needs, particularly to care for his mother who has Alzheimer's.
The film misses another opportunity to highlight the nature of Monk's objections when the novel's film rights are sold. Instead of delving into this aspect, we are presented with a pretentious director who briefly outlines his plans for the film adaptation to an unenthusiastic Monk. The potential for a "film within a film" scenario, which could have added humor and depth, is lost in this portrayal.
As Monk reluctantly agrees to judge a literary award as part of a "diversity push," he finds common ground with Sintara, his fellow judge and former adversary. While the white critics on the panel appear to receive short shrift here and hence can be viewed as stereotypes, the view of Sintara is more nuanced.
The film's strongest scene emerges during a candid discussion between Monk and Sintara after he wins the literary prize. Sintara defends her novel, arguing that she's catering to market demands rather than perpetuating stereotypes deliberately. This confrontation adds depth to their characters and the underlying themes.
However, much of the film devolves into a family melodrama, focusing on Monk's strained relationship with his gay brother and the challenges of caring for his mother. A subplot involving his romance with the neighbor who lives across the street Coraline lacks depth and fizzles out without significant impact on the narrative.
Jeffrey Wright's portrayal of Monk, while proficient, struggles to humanize a character whose relentless cynicism and anti-commercial stance hinder audience connection. The film's conclusion, suggesting Monk's story as a fictional creation, feels like a cop-out. The narrative's final twist, where Monk embraces literary exploitation he once condemned, presents a conflicting message about his character's integrity.
In conclusion, "American Fiction" attempts to tackle complex themes but falls short in execution, leaving viewers with a mixed bag of intriguing ideas and missed opportunities for deeper exploration.
Gigi (1958)
Playboy Robs The Cradle in Poor Man's 'My Fair Lady'
"Gigi was based on a 1944 novel by the French "Woman of Letters" Colette and the subsequent 1951 stage play of the same name starring Audrey Hepburn in her debut.
The parallels between Lerner and Loewe's acclaimed musical 'My Fair Lady' and 'Gigi' are undeniable. Both narratives revolve around the transformation of an unrefined young woman into the object of affection for a more sophisticated man. However, while the style of the music and lyrics may be similar, 'Gigi' falls short in comparison to its classic predecessor, particularly in terms of catchy tunes and a compelling libretto.
Set in 1900 Paris during the Belle Époque era, a time of flourishing arts and culture, 'Gigi' boasts a visually stunning setting. In contrast to the lackluster film reboot of 'My Fair Lady' in 1964, 'Gigi' stands out with occasional on-location cinematography and realistic costumes, contributing to its superior visual appeal. However, Vincent Minelli's decision to use cost-saving rear projection scenes at times mars the film's overall aesthetic, resulting in scenes that appear unrealistic and disconnected.
In 'Gigi,' the character of Honoré Lachaille, portrayed by the iconic Maurice Chevalier, serves as a narrator and confidante to his wealthy playboy nephew Gaston, played by Louis Jordan. Chevalier's rendition of the catchy opening number, "Thank Heaven for Little Girls," while once charming, is now viewed critically by modern audiences. Critics argue that the song's lyrics can be easily misinterpreted as promoting inappropriate attitudes towards young girls, raising concerns about its suitability in today's context.
Gaston likes visiting family friend Madame Alaverz, grandmother to the precocious Gigi, and acts sort of an uncle to the perky teenager played by Leslie Caron. You can guess where this is going from the outset as of course Gaston falls in love with his young charge.
Madame Alvarez regularly sends Gigi to her sister, Gigi's Great-Aunt Alicia, who grooms her to become a courtesan, which is another way of saying 'high-class prostitute'--a kept mistress of wealthy men.
Gigi is not at all sold on becoming a mistress but instead enjoys having fun with Gaston who reciprocates the good times they provide one another.
The narrative takes a frustrating turn as Gigi disappears from the storyline for a significant portion, undoubtedly causing a sense of annoyance among viewers. During this absence, Gaston's disdain for the affluent lifestyle is explored, leading to a public humiliation of his current mistress and her subsequent half-hearted, intentionally failed suicide attempt.
Amidst these events, Gaston loses a bet in a card game with Gigi, leading to a trip to the beach at Trouville with the grandmother in tow. There is a subplot, while seemingly inconsequential, provides insight into Honoré's past romance with Madame Alvarez.
Upon Gaston's return from Monte Carlo, tensions rise as Gigi flaunts a new gown, part of her grandmother and great-aunt's scheme to unite Gaston and Gigi as a couple. The ensuing events, while intended to be comedic, ultimately come across as trivial and lacking in substance. Gaston's initial reaction involves insulting the gown worn by Gigi, prompting him to storm out in a fit of frustration. However, he eventually returns to apologize for his outburst.
In an attempt to make amends, Gaston proposes a tea outing at the Reservoir with Gigi, only to have Madame Alvarez reject the idea of an unchaperoned date as scandalous. This rejection leads to another heated departure from Gaston.
As the situation unfolds, Gaston comes to a realization of his feelings for Gigi, acknowledging that he is in love with her. He then proposes that she become his mistress, but Gigi rejects this proposal, refusing to be relegated to such a role.
However, Gigi later has a change of heart, expressing that she would rather endure misery with Gaston than be without him. Ultimately, she agrees to the arrangement, setting the stage for a rather predictable romantic dynamic between the two characters.
Gigi experiences one final hesitation at Maxim's restaurant, where she realizes that assuming the role of a courtesan is not aligned with her values and desires. However, Gaston's subsequent marriage proposal ultimately persuades her to commit to their relationship, leading to a resolution marked by Honoré's reflective commentary as Gaston and Gigi embark on their journey together, now happily married.
Despite the character developments and resolutions, the principal players, Caron and Jourdan, find themselves constrained by the script's trivial machinations. The overarching theme of prioritizing the sanctity of marriage over issues of infidelity, while significant in its time, feels outdated and clichéd in today's context.
Additionally, the film's musical elements, including most of the tunes, are forgettable, and the story's stage-bound nature lacks meaningful choreography, contributing to a sense of underwhelming execution in certain aspects of the production.
Poor Things (2023)
The Bride of Frankenstein Meets Wonder Woman as Misandry Reaches New Heights
"Poor Things" is the kind of film that falls into a particular category, one that has been hailed as "important" and "meaningful" by critics and the general public alike. However, it's nothing more than a classic case of "style over substance."
Genre-wise, it's a bit of a head-scratcher. While it attempts to pass itself off as a satire on Victorian melodrama, it comes across as a crass farce that consistently misses the mark on humor.
"Poor Things" transports us into a fantastical realm, as if 19th-century futurists took a whimsical leap into the future, envisioning a world molded by their own era's perceptions. In this surreal landscape, their wild imaginations craft a whimsical tapestry, blending the speculative visions of Jules Verne with the fantastical allure of "Alice in Wonderland."
Unfortunately, beneath the visual spectacle lies an abundance of unconscious negative vibes, courtesy of director Yotgos Lanthimos, based on Alasdair Gray's 1992 novel of the same name.
From the outset, the premise raises eyebrows, echoing shades of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Mad scientist Godwin Baxter (Willem Dafoe) revives a pregnant woman, Bella Baxter (Emma Stone), through a bizarre surgical dance involving an unborn fetus brain. The resulting character channels Helen Keller during the expository first act, much to the annoyance of Godwin.
In a fantastical turn, Bella's intellectual growth spurt is nothing short of miraculous, and she soon explores her sexuality. Godwin, in an unusual twist, suggests his medical student, Max McCandles (Ramy Youssef), marry Bella. Contrary to expectations, Max embraces the idea with enthusiasm.
Ironically, the film portrays Godwin and Max sympathetically, despite their involvement in unethical and immoral scientific experiments. In this peculiar turn, Godwin and Max embark on yet another experiment, reviving the deceased Felicity through brain reassignment surgery. Bella's decision to break free from this odd company is fueled by the debauched attorney Duncan Wedderburn (Mark Ruffalo), hired by Godwin to handle legal matters.
The central theme revolves around female empowerment, yet Bella displays no reservations about enduring abuse and debasement from Duncan. In a disturbing incident, he locks her in a trunk and takes her on an ocean cruise without her consent, driven by his carnal desires. Bella, perhaps due to her naivety, navigates her sexuality without guilt. Interestingly, it's Max, the unhealthy control freak, who cannot tolerate a lack of control in every waking moment of the day.
Amidst an ocean cruise, Bella encounters philosophy courtesy passengers Martha and Harry, the latter ineptly played by comedian Jerrod Carmichael.
Note that it's not Bella who ultimately brings about Duncan's downfall directly-rather, it's his own vices of gambling and drinking that lead to his eventual commitment to an asylum. However, when the innocent Bella gives away all of Duncan's money in a misguided attempt to help the poor during a stopover in Alexandria, the unhappy couple finds themselves penniless in Paris, where Bella expels the now increasingly deranged Duncan.
Bella's decision to become a prostitute is a narrative turn that reaches new heights of misandry. The parade of male deplorables servicing Bella includes a father acting as a tutor as he demonstrates sexual positions in front of his underage children - a cringe-worthy low.
If you believe the male-bashing can't intensify, brace yourself, for it certainly does. Upon returning to London and reconciling with Godwin, Bella is on the verge of marrying Max when her husband from a past life, General Alfie Bessington (Christopher Abbott), reappears through Duncan's manipulations. True to her commitment to embracing new experiences, Bella elopes with the sadistic Alfie, who imprisons her in his castle and decides on murder after she refuses genital mutilation. In a predictable twist, Bella turns the tables on the hapless Alfie, leading to him shooting himself in the foot and promptly passing out.
Bella's passive-aggressive character comes to the fore as she attempts to start a "normal" life with the ineffectual Max. The film's climax unfolds with Bella finding satisfaction in transforming Alfie sporting a transplanted-goat brain, now residing at Godwin's residence.
Despite Emma Stone's recent Academy Award win, her performance in "Poor Things" is more Wonder Woman-esque for her acrobatics than her delivery of dialogue. The film's dialogue by the way, is saturated with crass expletives, which further undermines the already scarce comedy.
"Poor Things" may achieve a triumph in production design, but its passive-aggressive tone ensures that it only secures a Pyrrhic victory against imaginary male straw men.
My Fair Lady (1964)
Poor Casting Choice for Eliza, Weak Direction, And Subpar Art Production Prevent the Film From Reaching Its Full Potential
My longstanding desire has been to witness a fresh film adaptation of the original "My Fair Lady" stage musical, widely regarded as one of the greatest musicals ever crafted, originating from George Bernard Shaw's clever play, Pygmalion.
Even with a remake, I harbor doubts that a film reboot can match the extraordinary chemistry of Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews in the original stage production.
The primary and glaring flaw in the 1964 film lies in the miscasting of Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle, the Cockney flower seller. Anyone who has witnessed Julie Andrews portraying scenes and singing songs from "My Fair Lady" from early 60s TV broadcasts would recognize her phenomenal suitability for the role. Producer Jack Warner, however, held a different perspective, deeming Andrews' unknown status in films at the time as potential box office poison, favoring the star power of Hepburn.
Firstly, Hepburn struggled to master the Cockney accent, being a non-British actress. I can't help but think it was an error to cast Hepburn in glamorous roles, given her excellence as a character actor but a misfit for the magnetic allure required for a transformed Eliza. When Higgins presents Eliza at the ball, inevitable comparisons arise, highlighting the discrepancy with Julie Andrews. Unfortunately, Ms. Hepburn falls short in the looks department. This is not a personal critique but a reflection on what works in casting.
Other issues plague the film version. The sets appear cheap, despite significant production expenditures. A more authentic touch could have been achieved by filming outdoors, perhaps at a real racetrack for the Ascot Gavotte number.
The costumes, drenched in Hollywood glamour, fall short of capturing the essence of the period, betraying a lack of authenticity. Additionally, George Cukor's direction exhibits a noticeable lack of inspiration, particularly evident in the 'Show Me' number where the inclusion of the king and soldiers feels awkward and out of place. It becomes increasingly apparent that Cukor, despite his directorial prowess in other genres, grapples with the unique demands and nuances of musical filmmaking, compromising the overall cohesiveness of the production.
Some online reviewers take issue with the character of Henry Higgins, labeling him a misogynist. I would contest this characterization, as Higgins openly admits to being a misanthrope, attributing his harsh treatment of everyone to his exceptionally high standards.
Contrary to Higgins, the principal characters in Eliza's sphere are largely supportive, including Colonel Pickering, Mrs. Pearce, Higgin's housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins (his mother), and Freddy Eynsford-Hill, the enamored young man.
Rex Harrison steals the spotlight as Higgins, portraying a multi-dimensional character who, in the song "I'm an Ordinary Man," elucidates his difficulty in relating to women due to their differing emotional nature.
The introduction of Eliza's father, Alfred J. Doolittle, brings comic relief, expertly played by Stanley Holloway. His confession that he has no morals because he "can't afford them" adds a touch of humor to the narrative.
Higgins' triumph in transforming Eliza is portrayed in the sensational number "The Rain in Spain," followed by the equally phenomenal and moving "I Could Have Danced All Night," reflecting Eliza's burgeoning feelings for Higgins.
Despite the poorly staged Ascot Racecourse scene, "Ascot Gavotte" proves to be another enchanting tune satirizing the emotional austerity of the British upper classes.
Freddy Eynsford-Hill, though besotted with Eliza, remains the least developed character, singing the great love song "On the Street Where You Live."
While the Embassy Ball scene before the intermission could have been better staged, Higgins's witty references to the pretentious professor Zoltan Karpathy inject humor into the storyline.
Higgins's insensitivity is starkly displayed in the number "You Did It," leading Eliza to turn on him, convinced that he was merely using her. This prompts the eventual realization that both need to learn to be more sensitive to each other's needs.
The film's climax is emotionally charged, with Eliza confronting Higgins at his mother's house, declaring her departure. Initially miffed, Higgins eventually acknowledges her uniqueness and sings "I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face." Eliza returns, accepting him despite his emotional shortcomings.
The interpretation of the ending, with Higgins putting on his hat and instructing Eliza to fetch his slippers, suggests his suppressed emotions. Remaining true to character, Higgins avoids revealing his vulnerability, but Eliza, and consequently the audience, experience a cathartic moment.
"My Fair Lady" is near perfection, yet the poor casting choice for Eliza, weak direction, and subpar art production prevent the film from reaching its full potential. Nevertheless, the music, lyrics, and Harrison's iconic performance make this adaptation still worth watching, flaws notwithstanding.
Cavalcade (1933)
Undeveloped Characters and Stagebound Dynamics in an Early Sound Family Saga, Despite Innovations in Special Effects and Editing
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has consistently strived to honor a diverse array of films with the coveted Best Picture Oscar over the years. One of their initial forays into the family saga category was the American-backed but predominantly British production, "Cavalcade."
British director Frank Lloyd made commendable efforts to elevate the visual elements of the film through innovative special effects and editing, given the early sound era constraints. However, these advancements only go so far, as the majority of the film remains tethered to its stage-bound origins, originating from Noel Coward's play, which premiered in London two years prior.
The narrative kicks off with the onset of the Boer War in 1899, introducing the audience to the upper-class Marryot family-Jane and Robert along with their two sons. Additionally, their butler Alfred Bridges and his wife Ellen, who recently gave birth to a new baby named Fanny, share their space.
The initial quarter of the film proves to be painfully monotonous as Robert heads off to war as an officer, and Alfred as a private. The critical issue arises from the absence of any depiction of the two men in South Africa, with the focus squarely on the women anxiously awaiting their fate. This lack of dramatic engagement leaves the audience yearning for some meaningful development.
Although Coward's anti-war sentiments are evident, they pale in comparison to the superior execution in "All Quiet on the Western Front," released three years earlier. Finally, with the return of Robert and Alfred, complications surface-Alfred succumbs to alcoholism after purchasing a pub and meets his demise in a street accident involving a horse-drawn fire engine.
Historical events, such as the death of Queen Victoria and Louis Blériot's historic flight over the English Channel, are interwoven into the narrative. However, the film's pace remains disjointed, hindering a cohesive exploration of these events.
Fast forward to 1912, where the Marryot's son Edward is now grown and falls in love with his childhood sweetheart Edith. We find out next to nothing about them, and they're both killed on their honeymoon on the Titanic. The glaring omission of details, such as why Edith doesn't end up in one of the lifeboats or how Edward handles the situation in his final moments, is left unanswered-contributing to a narrative void that leaves the audience yearning for crucial insights.
The World War I sequence has a nice montage covering the toll of war on the troops, which goes on for a little too long. There's also the romance between the other son Joe and Fanny, now a nightclub singer. There's not enough time to get to know Joe either, who is killed on Armistice Day after meeting up with his father overseas, both in the service. The rushed characterization of Joe and the brevity of his storyline, coupled with the extended war montage, leave critical aspects of the narrative unexplored, resulting in a missed opportunity for deeper emotional engagement.
Coward's general anti-war sentiments are conveyed through a montage blaming corrupt politicians for wartime tragedies. However, this simplistic analysis overlooks the looming threat of fascism during that period.
Fast forward to New Year's 1933, and the makeup department excels in aging both Jane and Robert. They raise a toast to the New Year, expressing a heartfelt paean to Britain and reminiscing about the good and bad times. However, the celebratory moment proves to be superficial, as the film lacks any significant character development throughout its duration.
Diana Winyard and Clive Brook give commendable performances with the limited material, but it's Herbert Mundin as the fallen butler who steals the spotlight.
In conclusion, "Cavalcade" stands as an early attempt at a family saga, marred by a lack of complexity and hindered by its stage-bound origins. While it may serve as a historical curio, offering insights into the lifestyle and attitudes of the era, its shortcomings are too pronounced to overlook.
Marty (1955)
Borgnine Shines in Academy Award Winning Role But the Plot Runs Out of Gas in Second Half
In his directorial debut, Delbert Mann faced the daunting task of replacing Rod Steiger, who had previously inhabited the titular role in the original teleplay of the same name, with Ernest Borgnine in the lead role of Marty Piletti, the 34-year-old Italian-American butcher residing with his mother in the Bronx. Fortunately for Mann, Borgnine emerges as a more fitting choice than Steiger, who appeared about as at ease in the Italian-American milieu as a cat at a dog show.
For the first half of the film, Marty's self-deprecating charm draws us into his world, where his nice-guy persona repels potential romantic partners. The butcher is bombarded by nosy middle-aged women in the shop, all wondering why he hasn't taken the plunge into matrimony like his seemingly more successful family members. Even his mother joins the chorus of discontent over his lack of romantic conquests.
Adding spice to the family dynamics, Marty's cousin Tommy's wife, Virginia, can't stand living with Aunt Catherine. This prompts an arrangement for Catherine to move in with Marty and his mom, Theresa, setting the stage for some sitcom-worthy interactions.
As we transition to the second act, Marty reluctantly steps into the Stardust Ballroom, accompanied by his sidekick Angie, portrayed by Joe Mantell with a mix of gritty charisma and a dash of crude swagger. Here, Marty crosses paths with Clara, a purportedly unattractive schoolteacher, played by Betsy Blair. The initial circumstances of their meeting involve a suitor who spurns Clara, attempting to pawn her off onto Marty for a mere five bucks, injecting an unexpected twist into the narrative. However, the subsequent cringe-inducing references to Clara as a "dog" don't necessarily diminish their connection but serve as a jolting moment for the sensibilities of a modern audience.
Marty initially rebuffs the crude proposal but can't help but witness the emotional toll it takes on Clara, who is left in tears. In an attempt to make amends, he offers comfort, and the two find solace in hours of conversation. However, Marty's subsequent awkward attempt to kiss her after escorting her home is understandable, considering the weight of peer pressure. The less self-aware part of him still perceives the kiss as a conquest, a moment he might later boast about to his friends.
Screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky's attempt to infuse depth into Clara falls disappointingly short, portraying her as a flat character who's most exhilarating aspiration is to become a school administrator in Port Chester. Her concern about venturing beyond the familiar environs of Brooklyn adds a layer of trepidation rather than excitement to her character. The lack of common ground between Marty and Clara raises questions about the foundation of their connection. Is Marty's desperation so intense that he latches onto Clara solely because she shows a modicum of interest?
A bizarre turn of events sees Catherine convincing Theresa that Marty finding love will leave her in solitude during her golden years. Theresa's complete reversal, badmouthing Clara to Marty's face, leaves both him and the audience bewildered.
The film takes an unexpected turn as Marty and Clara are inexplicably never seen together again. The promised romance never goes beyond one basic meeting, and we're left wondering about the potential future ups and downs of their relationship.
The contrived twist where Marty, after an evening of genuine excitement with Clara, inexplicably fails to call her right away, strains credulity. The sudden epiphany appears forced, leaving Marty's character development in the lurch. The audience is left questioning why a character who seemed genuinely interested would succumb to peer pressure and maternal influence so abruptly, creating an abrupt and less-than-convincing turn of events.
The film's second half falters, leaving Marty's fate as a potential butcher shop owner forgotten along with a true resolution to Marty and Clara's relationship. Despite this, Borgnine's performance as Marty shines, earning him a well-deserved Oscar win. However, Marty's narrative runs out of gas in the later stages, leaving the audience with a somewhat deflated viewing experience.
West Side Story (1961)
Revel in the Music and Dancing That Promise Endless Entertainment Not The Dated Dialogue or Implausible Romance
"West Side Story," the stage musical that shocked audiences in 1957 with its portrayal of gang warfare, made its way to the big screen four years later, still carrying the risqué charm of its origin. However, watching it now feels like a journey into "entertaining camp." The sight of juvenile delinquents twirling about and tossing around antiquated phrases like "daddy-o" may have been daring back then, but for a modern audience, it's more eye-roll-inducing than impactful.
Even in its original release, the notion of gang members scheduling their rumbles with a sense of premeditated formality stretched credulity. And in that pivotal scene where they actually heed the advice of a supposed mentor figure named "Doc" to avoid assaulting Anita - it's a hard pill to swallow. The idea that these street toughs had a wise elder guiding them feels like a far-fetched concept, even in the context of the 1960s.
The much-touted romance between Tony and Maria, at the heart of the narrative, falls disappointingly flat. Their love at first sight, forged during a dance where they seemingly know nothing about each other, strains credibility from the outset. Even with Spielberg's attempt to give Tony a backstory in the reboot, spending time in an upstate prison does little to enrich his character.
The 1961 film outshines Spielberg's revival in one aspect - concise and to-the-point dialogue scenes, accompanied by the underscoring of Leonard Bernstein's powerful musical themes. We don't watch "West Side Story" for its plot intricacies; instead, we indulge in the captivating music, Stephen Sondheim's clever lyrics, and Jerome Robbins' sensational choreography.
Critics may grumble about the film's departure from the stage musical's song order, and while Spielberg's decision in the reboot to swap "Cool" with a Tony-Riff dynamic makes sense, the same cannot be said for the rearrangement of "Somewhere" which the original got right. Despite these hiccups, personal highlights remain, including The Jets' song infused with Sondheim's clever wit, Robbins' innovative choreography in "America," and the satirical gem "Gee Officer Krupke," humorously skewering therapists and social workers in each version.
Natalie Wood commands attention as the enamored Maria, outshining Richard Beymer's Tony, who lacks the star power to match his leading lady. George Chakiris as Bernardo convincingly leads the Sharks, and Russ Tamblyn's Riff strikes a balance without overplaying his hand. Special mention goes to Rita Moreno, perfect as Anita, Maria's confidante, and Bernardo's girlfriend.
The narrative follows a predictable path with the inevitable demise of both gang leaders during the rumble. Maria's ardor for Tony, even after he kills her brother, feels more bewildering than poignant. The standout moment occurs in the second act when the tormented Anita falsely claims Chino killed Maria, leading to Tony's tragic demise.
As the film concludes with Tony's death supposedly bringing peace to the warring gangs, suspending disbelief becomes a necessity. Is it a genuine resolution, or just a temporary truce? Don't come to "West Side Story" for its dated dialogue or implausible story. Instead, revel in the music and dancing that promise endless entertainment.
West Side Story (2021)
Spielberg's reboot proves inferior to the Academy Award winning original
Spielberg's attempt to revive the iconic "West Side Story" falls short when stacked against the brilliance of the 1961 Academy Award-winning original. The unavoidable comparisons intensify when considering the substantial influence of screenwriter Tony Kushner, who leaned more on the original stage play than the earlier film adaptation.
The film's saving grace lies in Spielberg's treatment of the musical numbers. The true brilliance emerges when Stephen Sondheim's lyrics are sung, accompanied by Leonard Bernstein's unforgettable music. This is where the adaptation manages to shine, capturing the essence of the iconic tunes.
However, the film stumbles on two fronts: the casting and the handling of dramatic scenes. Kushner's inclusion of the new character Valentina, played by the original Anita, Rita Moreno, proves a redeeming aspect. Yet, despite Moreno's commendable portrayal, her rendition of 'Somewhere' near the climax lacks the potency of the principal character Tony singing it and is hindered by Moreno's aged voice.
Spielberg's casting decisions raise eyebrows. Rachel Zegler, while handling the musical numbers well as Maria, is too young and lacks the gravitas that Natalie Wood brought to the role. Ansel Elgort as Tony, though possessing a fine voice, fails to leave a lasting impression.
Moreover, Kushner's attempts to provide backstories for Tony and rival Bernardo (Tony did a year in the slammer and Bernardo now a skilled boxer) feel superficial and add little substance to their characters.
The film deviates from the original's concise storytelling, introducing unnecessary verbiage and omitting the underscoring of musical themes during crucial dramatic moments. The gang members, though effective in song, lack the memorability of their counterparts from the original, with the notable exception of the "Gee Officer Krupke" number placed in the original setting of a police precinct. The gang roles in Spielberg's version remain largely forgettable, failing to match the corny but still memorable supporting players of the original.
The underdeveloped romantic plot, reminiscent of musical theater tropes, is exacerbated by an unnecessary minimal expansion of Tony and Maria's relationship (for example their "date" to the Cloisters).. The film's choreography, though commendable in certain scenes, falters in the overblown gang dance sequences, particularly in the prologue and "Cool," where the clumsy handling of a gun detracts from the intended effect.
Ariana DeBose stands out among the supporting cast as Anita, a role that once made Rita Moreno a star. Chino's transformation from a nerdy outsider to a killer is an interesting choice, but the portrayal of the police detective comes across as overly malevolent.
Despite Spielberg's technical brilliance, his struggle to elicit compelling drama from the actors is evident. The film would have benefitted from a director with theatrical experience.
In the realm of intellectual engagement, "West Side Story" fails to make significant demands on its audience. Nevertheless, the exceptional music, lyrics, and choreography, ensure a captivating experience, regardless of which version of this iconic musical you choose to watch.
Oliver! (1968)
Adaptation of Stage Musical Based on Iconic Novel Will Mainly Enthuse a Pre-Adolescent Audience
The film adaptation of Lionel Bart's 1960 stage musical, itself derived from Charles Dickens' 1838 novel "Oliver Twist," serves as a commendable entry point to the classic tale. Primarily aimed at children in my opinion, it encapsulates the essence of Dickens's original narrative, though the film's prolonged 153-minute duration often dilutes the impact of the dark social critique with the exuberant music and choreography.
Mark Lester, the former child actor turned osteopath, delivers a commendable performance as the genteel orphan Oliver. His expulsion from the workhouse, triggered by a request for more food, unfolds more as a lively romp than a compelling inciting incident. Despite the infectious charm of "Food, Glorious Food," the whimsical and drawn out choreography sets the tone for a film that struggles to maintain a serious undertone.
The transition to Oliver's apprenticeship with the undertaker Sowerberry offers a glimpse into Dickens's critique of 19th-century British lower-class society, although the bullying by Noah Claypole is played for slapstick. Oliver's subsequent escape to London, where he encounters the young pickpocket The Artful Dodger, played by Jack Wild, adds an intriguing layer.
Ron Moody, reprising his stage role as Fagin, aims to humanize the character, steering away from Dickens's criminal portrayal, especially to avoid perpetuating harmful stereotypes. Oliver Reed, portraying the burglar Bill Sykes, adds a layer of cruelty, particularly in his mistreatment of prostitute Nancy, played by Shani Wallis.
The plot takes a riveting turn when Oliver is falsely accused of pickpocketing, leading to his redemption as he is taken in by Mr. Brownlow. This development adds a layer of complexity as Brownlow begins to suspect a familial connection based on Oliver's resemblance to a portrait of his deceased niece. The filial relationship is later confirmed by Mr. Bumble, who arrives with a locket identified by Brownlow as belonging to his niece.
Nancy's tragic love for Sykes is palpable in the iconic song "As Long as He Needs Me." However, the gritty realism of her eventual murder feels somewhat out of place in the context of the light-hearted musical.
Moody's portrayal of Fagin steals the spotlight, presenting the character's internal struggle in the song "Reviewing the Situation." Despite fleeting thoughts of reform, Fagin ultimately returns to a life of crime in the company of The Artful Dodger.
In the concluding act, "Oliver" reaches its resolution with the deserved comeuppance for the menacing Sykes. The film sees Oliver finding solace under the care of Mr. Brownlow, signaling an end to his tumultuous past of abuse. While the movie excels in delivering catchy tunes, the abundance of extended choreography may test the patience of adult viewers. "Oliver" succeeds in captivating a younger audience but might be perceived as overly flippant by those seeking a more nuanced adaptation of Dickens's timeless novel.
The Last Emperor (1987)
Bertolucci's Excellent History Lesson Presenting The Last Emperor's Complex Journey of Collaboration and Redemption
A bit long-winded in places, The Last Emperor remains Bernardo Bertolucci's fascinating historical account of the final emperor of Imperial China, Puyi.
Bertolucci masterfully initiates the narrative in 1950, immersing the audience in a critical moment where Puyi finds himself imprisoned as a war criminal by the Chinese Communists, accused of collaborating with the Japanese during their occupation of Manchuria in the 1930s. The film seamlessly transitions into a compelling flashback, transporting viewers to the year 1908, depicting the installation of two-year-old Puyi on the imperial throne.
Puyi's childhood in the isolated Forbidden City, surrounded by palace eunuchs and maids, stands out as a bizarre sequence. Scores of attendants cater to his every move while ensuring he remains confined within the palace grounds. Bertolucci portrays Puyi's upbringing as tragic, highlighting the young child's desire to experience a normal childhood outside the isolated palace walls. The sequence, while crucial to the narrative, could benefit from judicious editing.
A bit later, Puyi receives a visit from his brother, a slightly older child, who delivers the news that he is no longer the emperor, given China's transition to a republic. The interaction between the siblings proves fascinating but is regrettably short-lived, as the boy and his mother are promptly denied permission to remain in the complex.
The film portrays the boy's sadistic tendencies, with severe mistreatment of the courtiers evident. Some critics argue that the depiction may have downplayed the extent of the young Puyi's cruelty, possibly aiming to render him more sympathetic. It's crucial to consider Puyi's treatment in his early years, as his misbehavior appears to have been not only tolerated but even sanctioned and encouraged by his adult handlers.
A pivotal moment unfolds when Puyi, in his teenage years, undergoes a Western-style education under the guidance of Johnston (portrayed by Peter O'Toole), an English tutor embroiled in conflicts with the traditionalists at the court. Notably, during this phase, small breakthroughs occur, such as Puyi being fitted for eyeglasses and learning to ride a bicycle. Puyi's own aspiration to study at Oxford comes to the forefront, but Johnston, understanding the intricacies of navigating the Forbidden City, suggests an alternative strategy-marriage. This recommendation leads to Puyi's marriage to Wanrong as his wife, with Wenxiu assuming the role of a secondary consort.
Puyi finally is exiled to the city of Tientsin as a result of the establishment of a Japanese-backed government led by a new warlord. In Tientsin, removed from the confines of the Forbidden City, Puyi delves into a decadent lifestyle, embracing the role of a playboy amidst the tumultuous political landscape.
Puyi's misguided decision to become the emperor of the Japanese-controlled puppet government of Manchuria reveals his vulnerability and misplaced trust. The film skillfully portrays the consequences of Puyi's choices, including his eventual capitulation after being blackmailed over his wife Wanrong's pregnancy from a relationship with his driver.
Bertolucci's decision to briefly touch upon Puyi's wartime activities and his subsequent capture by the Red Army might be attributed to the perception that these events lack inherent dramatic intensity. It appears that the director strategically focuses on pivotal and emotionally charged aspects of Puyi's life, potentially deeming the war years and his capture as less conducive to the narrative's overall emotional impact.
Puyi's initial denial of guilt during the Communist re-education program is explained by Puyi, citing the Chinese Nationalists' hatred for Manchuria (specifically the desecration of the Empress Dowager's body by Nationalist troops) coupled with the deceptive promises of autonomy from the Japanese during the occupation of Manchuria. These experiences deeply influenced Puyi's perception and decisions, providing context to his denial as he grappled with the complexities of collaboration, coercion, and betrayal in a tumultuous historical landscape.
The portrayal of Puyi's imprisonment, where he undergoes a profound shift from complete denial to complete acceptance of responsibility, is depicted with nuance in the film. Initially, Warden Jin challenges Puyi's steadfast refusal to accept responsibility, employing a strategic approach by showing newsreel footage of Japanese atrocities. This impactful revelation influences Puyi to reevaluate his stance.
As the narrative unfolds, Warden Jin Yuan's character evolves, and he comes to recognize mitigating factors in Puyi's decision to collaborate with the Japanese. This acknowledgment paints Warden Jin as a character with depth and understanding, challenging the initial perception of Puyi's culpability. Puyi, in turn, begins to recognize the complexities of his own denial and acceptance during the Communist re-education program, realizing that the situation was not as black and white as he once perceived.
As the relationship between Puyi and Warden Jin Yuan evolves, the subsequent scene during the Cultural Revolution takes a poignant turn. Here, Puyi, now an old man, attempts to stick up for Warden Jin, who was falsely accused during this tumultuous period. This ironic twist underscores the intricacies of the historical and political landscape, highlighting Puyi's endeavor to defend his former jailer. The scene further emphasizes the enduring impact of their connection and underscores Warden Jin's portrayal as a fundamentally decent individual, despite the requirements imposed by his communist superiors to treat Puyi severely during his rehabilitation.
John Lone's excellent portrayal of the adult Puyi captures the essence of a tragic upbringing and redemption after a colossal mistake. Despite occasional pacing issues, The Last Emperor stands as a valuable history lesson, weaving a tale of tragedy and redemption, with the bizarre nature of life in the Forbidden City adding a unique layer to the narrative.
Midnight Cowboy (1969)
Sympathy's End: The Unrelenting Unlikability of Midnight Cowboy
Midnight Cowboy boasts the prestigious title of being the sole X-rated Academy Best Picture Winner. Today, it might be considered as risqué as your grandma's knitting circle, but don't let that mislead you - this film has more issues than a subscription to a therapy app.
Let's address the primary quagmire of this cinematic adventure: the quizzical nature of its protagonist, Joe Buck, brought to life by a fresh-faced Jon Voight. Joe emerges from a Texan environment that, according to the movie, seems to consist primarily of fast-food joints, underpaid workers, child abusers, religious zealots, and criminals who appear to view sodomy as a casual weekend activity (because, you know, it's the late 60s).
So, our cowboy-clad hero sets off for the Big Apple, dreaming of striking gold by charming wealthy New York women. His exterior exudes geniality, coupled with a naive worldview that sees the world through rosé-colored glasses.
Beneath the seemingly good-natured façade lies Joe's extremely dark past, unveiled through flashbacks suggesting he and his girlfriend were gang-raped by a posse of intoxicated cowboys. To compound the absurdity, the girlfriend falsely accuses Joe of being the assailant. However, it becomes evident that these accusations never came to fruition due to her subsequent mental breakdown resulting from the traumatic event. The film insists we sympathize with Joe, portraying Texas as a wasteland of unrelenting nastiness, subtly insinuating that all Texans are probably right-wing conservatives with a penchant for Christian Fundamentalism.
Waldo Salt's screenplay, however, is an equal opportunity offender, finding no redeeming characters either in the grime-infested corners of New York City. Note Joe's initial encounter with a middle-aged Park Avenue woman who turns on him after he dares to request payment for his less-than-chivalrous services.
Now, let's spare as few words as possible for Rico "Ratso" Rizzo, the handicapped con man portrayed by Dustin Hoffman with the finesse of a sledgehammer. Ratso remains a stagnant caricature throughout, serving as a sympathy prop for Joe, who tends to him as he succumbs to a seemingly terminal respiratory infection.
As Joe's funds dry up and the hotel manager plays impound-the-belongings, Joe reluctantly ventures into the realm of male prostitution. The film's take on homosexuality showcases its outdated sensibilities, depicting every gay character as a slave to sexual compulsion, each portrayed as an ineffectual 'loser.'
The plot sees Joe and Ratso sharing quarters in a platonic relationship. Ratso's back story involves inhaling shoe polish from his Italian immigrant father's shoe shine business, causing his gradual demise. Meanwhile, Joe achieves his gigolo dreams, seducing socialite Shirley after meeting at a Warhol-esque shindig. The second act darkens as Joe resorts to violence, robbing and presumably murdering an effeminate man for Florida-bound funds.
The climax, or lack thereof, involves Ratso's demise on a bus. Somehow, we're expected to maintain sympathy for these two lovable losers, both victims of alleged tragic upbringings.
If you can overlook Joe's naivety and his murky, unsympathetic past that likely involves murder, perhaps you can tip your hat to Voight's performance. As for Hoffman, he fared much better a decade later playing an idiot savant in Rain Man, where the quirks were intentional.
The only silver lining in this cinematic storm is the cinematography, offering a stark portrayal of NYC's underbelly in 1969. But let's be clear, a shiny lens doesn't polish away the film's myriad shortcomings.
Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)
Moderately Successful Competing Narratives: Workaholic Dad's Redemption vs. Maternal Narcissism
Upon revisiting Kramer vs. Kramer, my initial recollection of it deserving every accolade seemed somewhat misplaced. While I once held enthusiastic praise for this film, a second viewing, many years later, has left me less enthralled.
In the majority of divorce cases, the husband tends to be portrayed as abusive or neglectful. However, writer/director Robert Benton decided to reverse this narrative, presenting Ted Kramer (Dustin Hoffman) as the wronged party at the hands of his depressed wife, Joanna (Meryl Streep in her debut role), who abruptly decides to abandon Ted and their seven-year-old son, Billy (Justin Henry).
Ted is initially portrayed as the workaholic advertising executive, lacking interest in being a good husband and content to delegate child-raising duties to his wife. The depiction of Ted at this early juncture feels contrived. His indifference to Billy is exaggerated, seemingly designed to underscore his later transformation into a "good father." While some fathers prioritize their careers, Ted's extreme inattentiveness seems implausible.
While Ted's character may stretch believability as a workaholic, Joanna's character lacks any semblance of verisimilitude. Her sudden departure and the reasons behind abandoning her child hardly seem plausible. The film fails to provide a convincing explanation for such a drastic action, making Joanna's character appear more like a plot device than a genuine portrayal of a mother facing personal struggles.
The bulk of Act II becomes more engaging as Ted grapples with the challenges of being a single parent while juggling work responsibilities. Tensions at work arise as Ted's boss expresses concerns about parental duties interfering with his job. Ted's gradual bond with Billy, despite its bumps, adds depth to the narrative. However, Joanna's sudden return, claiming transformation, lacks on-screen exploration of her journey, leaving her character development incomplete.
A crisis unfolds when Billy falls from a jungle gym in a playground, resulting in a trip to the hospital and stitches. This incident later becomes a pivotal point in the custody battle, as Joanna's attorney strategically employs it to undermine Ted, much to her own chagrin. In an effort to humanize Joanna and garner sympathy, Meryl Streep portrays her character expressing regret to Ted for her attorney's "scorched earth" tactics. This scene is presented as an attempt to soften Joanna's image and make her more relatable, showcasing Streep's endeavor to inject empathy into the character amidst the legal turmoil.
The plot takes an intriguing turn when Ted loses his job and must find new employment immediately to have any chance of winning custody. The custody hearing becomes a gripping focal point, with the respective parents presenting their cases amidst character assassinations by competing attorneys.
Unfortunately, the climax of Kramer vs. Kramer is one of the weakest among Academy Best Picture winners. In an attempt to rehabilitate Joanna's character, she inexplicably relinquishes custody to Ted, declaring it as the boy's true home. This unearned, feel-good moment reeks of contrivance and undermines the film's credibility.
Despite initial reservations about Ted's character, Hoffman rises above the unlikability, portraying his transformation through improvised scenes with his son, expertly played by Justin Henry. Streep, on the other hand, struggles to inject humanity into Joanna's inherently narcissistic character. Jane Alexander, in the role of caring neighbor Margaret Phelps, deserves the highest commendation for her performance.
Ordinary People (1980)
Confronting the Ice Queen: A Tale of No-Nonsense Therapy and Catharsis in 'Ordinary People'
For his directorial debut, Robert Redford made a commendable choice in adapting Judith Guest's 1976 novel, "Ordinary People." The narrative delves into the profound struggles of a family grappling with the accidental drowning of their older teenage son, providing an intense and captivating chronicle.
Set against the backdrop of a wealthy Chicago suburb, the focal point is Conrad Jarrett (Timothy Hutton), the younger son who has recently returned home following a four-month stint in a psychiatric hospital after a suicide attempt. The weight of guilt from his brother Buck's tragic drowning during a sailing accident exacerbates Conrad's internal and external struggles with depression. While the denouement of catharsis and spiritual awakening is foreseeable, "Ordinary People" transcends the realm of daytime soap opera, skillfully portraying the family dynamics and the transformative journey of overcoming agonizing despair.
Conrad's father, Calvin (Donald Sutherland), tiptoes on a delicate balance between support and enabling, fearing his son's potential self-harm. Caught between Conrad and his mother Beth (Mary Tyler Moore), who not only denies her emotions but also pins blame on the surviving son for the accident, Calvin faces an emotionally charged predicament.
Some internet posters found it challenging to accept Beth's rejection of Conrad, as conventional wisdom would suggest a parent clinging to the surviving child after such a loss. However, the revelation that Buck was Beth's favorite hints at underlying family dynamics preceding the tragic accident. Speculating further, the film subtly touches on the possibility of unconscious, complex emotions within families, suggesting that Beth may have harbored unconscious incestuous feelings toward the elder son, potentially contributing to Conrad's repressed anger and Calvin's eventual decision to dissolve his marriage to Beth.
The film's success is further highlighted in its exploration of Conrad's recovery through therapeutic sessions with psychologist Dr. Berger (Judd Hirsch). Hirsch delivers a standout performance as the pragmatic practitioner who skillfully encourages his patients to open up, earning praise from therapists nationwide as an exemplary model.
Mary Tyler Moore shines in her role as Beth, portraying the mother who strives to maintain an illusion of perfection and a desire to return to normalcy. Despite Conrad's suicide attempt, Beth's response is far from sympathetic, bordering on embarrassment. The film skillfully navigates the tense relationship between mother and son, culminating in memorable confrontations that expose Beth's emotional fragility.
As Conrad attempts to reintegrate into normal life by dating high school student Jeanine (Elizabeth McGovern), his internal struggles persist. Learning of a friend's suicide from the psychiatric hospital pushes him to the brink. A pivotal scene with Dr. Berger becomes the turning point, leading to Conrad's epiphany and catharsis, freeing him from self-blame and enabling forgiveness towards his mother.
Simultaneously, the parents' relationship deteriorates after a heated argument during a visit to Beth's brother in Texas. Beth's emotional withdrawal persists, prompting Calvin to express his loveless sentiments. The result: Beth leaves Calvin and Conrad, returning to her family in Texas.
It was a significant misjudgment to categorize Timothy Hutton as Best Supporting Actor, as his role in no way plays a supporting part. The assumption that a young actor might not secure the Best Actor Oscar was, in retrospect, a sorrowful miscalculation. Hutton did win the Best Supporting Actor award, but there is a strong argument that he deserved consideration and triumph in the Best Actor category.
"Ordinary People" may follow a predictable trajectory in the lead character's triumph over depression, but its intricate portrayal of characters like the icy mother and no-nonsense, pragmatic therapist provides enough twists and turns to keep the audience thoroughly engrossed.
Rebecca (1940)
Mystery at Manderley: Decoding Maxim's Deception and the Enigma of Rebecca's Vanishing Act
In the grand tapestry of Alfred Hitchcock's cinematic genius, Rebecca stands out like a well-dressed sore thumb - not for its brilliance, but for the confounding question of why this particular film snagged the Academy's elusive gold. Based on Daphne du Maurier's 1938 novel, Rebecca dives headfirst into the murky waters of Gothic romance, but it's less a triumph and more a head-scratcher, leaving you wondering if the Academy was caught in a spell of Manderley-induced delusion.
One can't help but chuckle at the audacity of Rebecca, making a major faux pas in the realm of onscreen presence. While other films of the era struggled with absent characters, Rebecca parades one around like a phantom limb, constantly referred to and crucial to the plot, yet suspiciously absent from the visual feast. It's like throwing a masquerade ball and forgetting to invite the guest of honor-oops, someone missed a memo.
The film tiptoes onto the stage at a pace that would make a snail yawn. Laurence Olivier, in the role of the brooding Maxim de Winter, takes his sweet time mourning his first wife's aquatic demise. Returning to his extravagant English estate, Manderley, after a whirlwind romance with Joan Fontaine's Mrs. De Winter, the film unfolds with the urgency of a tortoise on tranquilizers.
Florence Bates as the pompous Mrs. Van Hopper enters first at Monte Carlo with her young charge, acting as a chaperone. Bates adds a dash of comic relief as she attempts to dine with Maxim, only to be spurned due to her conspicuous pretentiousness. It's a welcome distraction from the film's romantic dalliance, providing a brief respite from the impending doom lurking in the shadows of Manderley.
The romance between Maxim and Mrs. De Winter is a page torn from the romance novel genre, complete with moody outbursts and the naïve young woman turning a blind eye to everything except the charm of her mature suitor. It's a formulaic dance that Hitchcock executes with all the finesse of a practiced seducer, but the predictability makes one yearn for a more complex choreography.
Judith Anderson as the sinister housekeeper Mrs. Danvers adds a touch of menace, but her obsession with the late Rebecca becomes more eye-rolling than spine-chilling. Recommending a costume ball gown worn by the deceased first Mrs. De Winter is the peak of her subterfuge - a twist that aims for shock but elicits little more than a raised eyebrow.
The film's major narrative twist is less a revelation and more of a head-scratcher. Maxim's sudden switch from broken-hearted widower to Rebecca-despising spouse lacks the necessary groundwork. Apparently, Rebecca's infidelity was the root cause, revealed four days into their marriage. Yet, the film provides no insight into this invisible femme fatale's motives, leaving us grasping at straws and Hitchcock at his most elusive.
Maxim's revelation that he feigned love for Rebecca to maintain his social standing is a hard pill to swallow. Not one member of Manderley's vast staff caught wind of this Shakespearean drama? The film leaves us scratching our heads, wondering if Manderley's extensive staff was engaged in a collective act of cluelessness. Showering praise on the deceased Rebecca while remaining oblivious to Maxim's true feelings suggests a level of obliviousness that not even a contortionist could convincingly achieve.
The film's dark moment arrives with the discovery of Rebecca's sunken boat and Maxim's confession. His convoluted tale of accidental death and staged suicide during an argument feels like a desperate attempt to inject drama into a plot that's already drowning in predictability. One can't help but wonder why Maxim didn't spill the murky beans to Mrs. De Winter earlier, sparing us all the drawn-out theatrics.
George Sanders as Rebecca's cousin and lover, Jack Favell, injects a much-needed dose of suspense, blackmailing Maxim and throwing a spanner into the predictability works. Yet, the narrative wraps up with a tedious, eye-roll-worthy conclusion, leaving us to endure a board of inquest's misguided verdict that Rebecca offed herself due to cancer - as attested by her physician, who merely confirmed the diagnosis of cancer, leading the inquest board to assume it was suicide.
Despite the film's perfunctory climax, Hitchcock retains du Maurier's macabre touch, letting Mrs. Danvers burn Manderley to the ground. Olivier, burdened with an unconvincing aristocratic role, stumbles through a web of dishonesty that jeopardizes a relationship that could have blossomed far sooner. On the flip side, Fontaine, playing the good-natured innocent, earns a few points for her commitment to "standing by her man" in a twisted tale that could have used a bit more Hitchcockian magic and a lot less predictability.