Murder, My Sweet will never sparkle on the screen. It's made of muck and sleaze, and it'll stay that way, but it is darkly grand in a sharp new Blu-ray release from Warner Archive.
This quintessential film noir was crooner Dick Powell's stab at another screen life. He knew he was getting too loose in the jowls to keep playing a boyish musical star--and frankly, he was tired of the unrelenting cheer of those roles. So he made a deal with RKO: he'd make the struggling studio a series of musicals if he got to make a crime picture first.
Under the title, Farewell, My Lovely, that of the original Raymond Chandler novel, audiences figured Powell was singing up sunshine again and stayed away. With the title change came success, and the actor never did make those musicals. He found a new career as one of noir's most weary leading men and found he was even better in darker roles. Even Chandler approved of him as his famous private detective Phillip Marlowe.
Powell's Marlowe is a wary guy, more observant than tough. He's always got his eyes open for danger, which makes sense. He wouldn't last long if he were just a fighter. To stay alive in these grimy surroundings, you've got to be smart.
Still, Marlowe takes his share of black jacks to the head, involuntary druggings, beatings and threats as he attempts to solve the mystery of a missing singer, a mysterious murder and the disappearance of a valuable piece of jade jewelry. He may be a survivor, but he's not invincible.
Murder, My Sweet lets you feel Marlowe's pain, the edges of the screen oozing into a black abyss as he loses consciousness, a hazy web of misty clouds across the picture indicating the detective's druggy stupor. While these gimmicks should date the film, they're only slightly corny, because they force you to feel how vulnerable he is in this dark world. They make you afraid for him.
And if it isn't an attack that threatens him, it's a dangerous woman. Claire Trevor sets the template for film femme fatales, with a slippery, insouciant performance where she manages to seduce even though she is clearly up to no good. When Marlowe first sees her, with that shapely leg seemly casually presented, you know she's going to cause trouble. Her appearance over his shoulder in a mirror, shot full length, dressed in evening black, would be as horrifying as a scare in a slasher flick if she didn't look so scrumptious.
With her haughty, sensual cadence, Trevor is the birth of dangerous noir women. Every time you hear a dame in a noir parody, she sounds like the actress in this role. Every syllable promises sex, throwing up a smoke screen around the danger within her words.
In her last role, Anne Shirley is the only character who doesn't end up grimy. She should probably stay away from Powell, but a damaged man who needs affection can have the same appeal as a shapely leg. The actress had a fresh, and unusually unsentimental appeal for a performer who specialized in good girl roles, it's a shame she decided to retire at twenty-six.
Like some of the best noirs, the plot is not worth much worry, but the dialogue is and the narration even more so. People don't speak this way; they don't think this way. You need movies so that you can hear phrases like: "My throat felt sore, but the fingers feeling it didn't feel anything. They were just a bunch of bananas that looked like fingers" or "Remarks want you to make them. They got their tongues hanging out waiting to be said". These are lines you can see; they flap in your face, demanding to be noticed.
Of all the great noirs, this one has always been essential. It got everything right and set a template that continues to be followed.
Special features include a commentary by author and film noir specialist Alain Silver.
Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing a copy of the Blu-ray for review. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.
Eight-year-old Bobby Riha and Gene Kelly are a charming pair in the 1967 Hanna-Barbara television production of Jack and the Beanstalk, now available on DVD from Warner Archive.
This animation and live action hybrid musical features high spirited dance numbers and pleasing, if not especially memorable tunes written by industry veterans Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen.
To stretch out the orgin story, the old English folktale Jack the Giant Killer, to a fifty minute length, there are additional characters added to the mix, including an army of mice and a pair of dancing birds. Kelly also plays the role of Jeremy, the magical bean seller, whose part is greatly extended to give him opportunities to dance and sing.
While adding new character arcs to classic tales can be tricky, the inclusion of Gene Kelly turns the story into an agreeable buddy picture. The dancer was apparently fond of working with children, and he has a nice rapport with Riha. While understandably not as complex as Kelly's movie routines, their dances have a cheerful energy that makes up for the simplicity required by a time-intensive television production.
Bobby Riha was fairly new to the entertainment industry when he was selected to play Jack. In the decade to follow, he would have a modest career in television, appearing in several guest roles on various series. He would eventually leave acting behind to become a journalistic photographer.
Riha was clearly hired for his dancing ability (Dick Beals would cover his vocals), but that is as it should be and he is a strong partner for Kelly, matching the legendary star step for step. Considering the pair had three months of rehearsal to perfect several fast-paced routines, all of them eventually performed in front of a blank screen on which they had to imagine all sorts of amazing sights, it is remarkable what they were able to achieve.
The voice talent includes Ted Cassidy (Lurch on The Addams Family) as the giant and voiceover queen Marni Nixon (The King and I , West Side Story ) as an enchanted princess who has been transformed into a singing harp.
Kelly had previously worked with the Hanna-Barbera team on Anchors Away (1945), where he filmed a memorable routine with Jerry the Mouse. Two decades later, technology still had not advanced to the point where animation and live action could be easily integrated. The success of the film depended on precise performances from Riha and Kelly and frame-by-frame integration by animators.
While the special effects here are understandably not as slick to modern eyes as they were at the time, they do not significantly date the show. It is still delightful entertainment, appropriate for families and of interest for Kelly fans.
Though Kelly fretted over the loss of craft necessary to keep with a tight television filming schedule, he was able to create an enduring work. While clearly not a lavish MGM production, it never feels cheap or slapdash. In recognition of his success, the dancer won an Emmy as producer of the program.
The picture quality is good and relatively sharp and clean. There are no special features on the disc.
Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing a copy of the film for review. This is a Manufacture on Demand (MOD) DVD. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.
The First King of Hollywood: The Life of Douglas Fairbanks
Gatsby on a jungle gym.
-Critic Michael Sragow, about Fairbanks
In an epic new biography, pioneering film star Douglas Fairbanks finally gets an in depth exploration of his eventful life. This entertaining book is heavy on the detail, but also humorous and full of compassion for its subject.
Fairbanks was responsible for an overwhelming number of firsts in the Hollywood movie industry. Among the biggies: he co-founded the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, was a founder of United Artists, the first major distribution company for independent filmmakers, and his marriage to fellow trailblazing actress Mary Pickford made them the first celebrity movie couple.
He was one of the first international movie stars, a cultural icon who popularized tan skin, casual dress and a jaunty superhero stance that would inspire comic book artists. When Technicolor was in danger of going out of business, he used the process to tasteful effect in The Black Pirate (1926); he promoted young directors like Victor Fleming who would change the industry (the filmmaker would skip the Gone With the Wind premiere to attend the actor's funeral); and while sound might have hastened the end of his career to some degree, he embraced it and many other new technologies.
In her study of Fairbank's life, Goessel has used research from never published material drawn from film historian Kevin Brownlow's files, and the contents of several of the many love letters and cables Fairbanks and Pickford sent to each other. These personal elements, coupled with a thorough examination of the actor's public life do much to reveal his true character. It turns out the enthusiastic, joyful face he showed to the world was much like his own, though he had his weaknesses, including crippling jealousy and the inability to make himself unpopular by rebuking anyone directly, and that especially on the set.
Fairbanks is revealed to be an essentially humble, kind man who rejected social norms like racism and who not only didn't mind that his wife was more famous than he, but promoted her and listened to her advice about how to improve his own films. This is not to say he didn't love the perks of fame, using his notoriety to meet royalty and heads of state, though he was equally at home with prizefighters and cowboys. He had the common touch, but he could also be a snob.
Aside from the ups and downs of Fairbank's love life, including his scandalous affair, marriage and divorce from Pickford, he managed to avoid public shame or personal degradation at a time when the industry seemed in danger of collapsing due to both. From an early age he rejected alcohol and followed a strict physical fitness regime. Staying fit wasn't difficult for the actor; he could never sit still anyway.
Goessel goes deep into the events of Fairbank's life, recounting stories of a mischievous childhood troublemaker who was on the stage by age thirteen. She offers a detailed, rich portrait of the times he lived in while staying close to her subject. There's a sort of affection in the way she relates his life, even when there is reason to be skeptical of the actor's almost too perfectly organized tales. Lots of Fairbank's quotes are prefaced with, "he claimed".
In keeping with this respectful tone, the author is discreet when discussing more intimate topics, such as the Pickford/Fairbanks affair. The text is revealing, but there is no unnecessary or unseemly detail.
While there is plenty of space devoted to his personal life, the production of, and inspiration for his films is thoroughly covered. From his busy stage career to the actor's enthusiastic pursuit of movie stardom, and his rise from comedies like The Nut (1921), and the influential actioner The Mark of Zorro (1920), to his famous fantasy and swashbuckler roles like The Thief of Baghdad (1924) and Robin Hood (1922), his was an astonishingly successful career.
While the book is doorstop weight, it's lightly humorous, engaging style keeps the many details interesting, rather than overwhelming. It helps that Fairbanks was such a colorful character. There are lots of amusing anecdotes, including stories of the actor demonstrating to his stunt man how a scene should be approached by doing the stunts himself, the enclosed running trench he had installed in Pickford/Fairbanks Studios so he could go on nude runs, and his delight at making practical jokes and clowning around with best friend Charlie Chaplin.
I have to admit that I approached this biography with more a sense of duty than curiosity. It was partly my adoration of Mary Pickford and mostly a dedication to having a thorough cinematic education that drew me in. I didn't expect to enjoy learning about Fairbanks so much. Now I am inspired to see more of his films and revisit some of his classics that I have enjoyed, but maybe not fully appreciated in the past.
Many thanks to Chicago Review Press for providing a copy of the book for review.
Posted by KC on Sep 24, 2015
Labels: Book Review
I Lost it at the Video Store: A Filmmakers' Oral History of a Vanished Era
The Critical Press, 2015
What video stores and the proliferation of videos did was to democratize access to movies and film history.
-Tim Blake Nelson
There were once video stores I'd gone to so often that I'd memorized the way each row of cassettes looked, permanently associating those particular images with the films inside. When I didn't show up on Two-For-One Tuesday one week at the store I frequented in college, the lady at the counter told me she'd been worried and wondered if she should check up on me. In those days, it never occurred to me that there'd be a time when I didn't have my choice of brick-and-mortar rental places.
As it turns out, the lifespan of the video store would be relatively short--ranging from about 1980 to 2005. In I Lost it at the Video Store: A Filmmakers' Oral History of a Vanished Era, journalist Tom Roston explores that brief history and gets the perspective of several filmmakers, many of them former video store clerks, who share their experiences in the age of VHS. The interviews are arranged by subject, giving it the feel of a round table discussion though each person spoke with Roston individually.
Of the twenty-three interviewees, most are directors, with a sprinkling of producers and film executives. Many of them are independent filmmakers who made their names during the heyday of the video store, and often because of it as well. Allison Anders, Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino speak of their early fascination with the idea of renting films and how suddenly it became an option when before they had had so little control over what they saw and when.
These directors, and other independent mavericks like Nicole Holofcener, Doug Liman and John Sayles touch on both the emotional and practical aspects of the video age; they're as likely to talk about the impact of images on VHS boxes or the smell of the carpet in a favorite store as they are the education in film they received one rental at a time. The biggest thrill: having directed enough films to have your own director section in the store you frequent.
I found it interesting that younger filmmakers like Morgan Spurlock and Joe Swanberg were more open to streaming, and the latter despite the fact that he worked as a video store clerk. Though many of the more established directors have seen different cycles in the consumption of film, from the weakening of the theater experience in the face of video to the decline of VHS and DVD as streaming gained in popularity, they seem the most resistant to the loss of brick and mortar stores.
One of the most amusing aspects of the book is the way Tarantino and Smith's interviews are juxtaposed in such a way that they appear to be having a debate about the way films should be viewed. Smith loves both video stores and streaming and confesses that his addiction to film is so intense that he will watch a movie on a phone to get his cinema fix. On the other hand, Tarantino refuses to watch a movie on his computer and prefers to have physical copies of films, so much so that he bought the entire stock of the independent store Video Archive when it went out of business.
There's also some space devoted to the rise of corporate video stores, which may have hastened the decline of the whole business by killing so many mom and pop rental spots. These corporations had the money and volume of purchase necessary to cut deals with the studios, making it easier to profit. The rise of these companies led to a dip in film variety and quality, which has continued in many respects in the age of streaming.
The interviewees are for the most part white males, with a few important female voices included. I found myself curious to get the viewpoint of filmmakers of other races, such as Spike Lee, Gregg Araki, John Singleton and Robert Townsend. Perspectives like these would have brought an interesting dimension to the book.
I Lost It At The Video Store is a quick, fascinating read, consumable in an afternoon, but substantial. It gives equal attention to cultural and business matters and offers a lot of food for thought as we, to paraphrase Smith, leave behind the anticipation of video and embrace the instant gratification of streaming.
Many thanks to The Critical Press for providing a copy of the book for review.
James Dean Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die
Keith Elliot Greenberg
Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, 2015
The cult of James Dean has endured decades longer than his life, which barely extended into adulthood. His short, but eventful twenty-four years have been the subject of endless analysis and multiple biographies. Now in a new book, Keith Elliot Greenberg explores the day of the fatal crash that killed the actor and the unprecedented fandom that would grow after his death.
Though Dean was film actor for only two years, and not in the public eye for much longer as a stage and television actor, he made an impression that has endured for generations of fans. He had the good fortune of being born with both the talent and ambition necessary to make a splash in Hollywood quickly.
The James Dean you meet in Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die is not the angry rebel often associated with his legend, but a high-energy small town boy with a strong connection to his roots. Though the actor lost his mother at an early age and was not able to maintain a strong relationship with his father, he was loved and wanted by his aunt and uncle and lived a happy childhood on their Fairmount, Indiana farm.
Dean had an early love for speed. The actor bought a motorbike as a teen and would race it as fast as he could get away with. As a popular high school student he participated in sports and drama, and was known for his confidence and ability to excel in many areas. He was confident and destined for success.
Since his fatal accident, there has always been the rumor that young Dean had a death wish. He'd talk about "flaming out" and his idea to pose in a coffin for Life magazine photographer Dennis Stock in a famous photo shoot screamed symbolism to all who wished to see it. To those who knew him though, the actor seemed high on living, and almost too much so. As his friend and costar Natalie Wood said, "He may have grabbed to strongly at life." That impulse is likely what also helped him to rise so quickly as an actor.
During Dean's brief time in Hollywood, many of his peers were envious of the actor's fast rise to fame. His impact was almost immediate. Even in a bit part, where he spoke a few lines at a soda fountain, he oozed charisma. His inventiveness as an actor made a stir on his sets; the young actor was adept at accessing the emotions of his characters, and giving them bits of business that exposed their true selves more thoroughly than with any line they spoke.
The book explores this appeal as it leads up to the crash, searching for that claimed death wish. When you realize what he had going for him, it doesn't seem likely that Dean would be unnecessarily reckless. He had projects to look forward to, and he knew he had yet to reach his peak.
All three of the films Dean starred in were worthy of classic status. While East of Eden (1955), Rebel Without a Cause (1955) and Giant (1956) all showcased him as similarly rebellious, emotionally unsteady characters, there was no doubt he had the talent to grow as an actor as he found many nuances to distinguish these roles. He certainly had the role models to draw from too, meeting Alec Guinness, Judy Garland, Marlon Brando, Natalie Wood, Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor, Sal Mineo, Sammy Davis Jr. and Eartha Kitt, among many others in his short life.
When Dean bought the notorious Porsche in which he'd lose his life, many of those he knew were repelled by it. One time girlfriend Ursula Andress was too frightened to ride in the low slung car. Eartha Kitt had a terrifying drive with the actor and swore he'd die in the car. Guinness made the same comment when Dean coaxed him out of a restaurant to proudly showed him his new acquisition.
Dean felt confident in his abilities to drive the car safely though, and it appears he acted responsibly that final day. Greenberg follows his last ride and reveals that upon investigation of the crash he was sober and not driving excessively over the speed limit. The problem was more of visibility; the low, light-colored car was likely not seen in time for the driver that hit it to stop.
While the loss of Dean so young continues to inspire grief among fans, perhaps the most heart wrenching stories in Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die are of the men who survived the crash. Donald Turnspeed was a college student when he hit the actor's car, and the shy, reserved man was hounded for the rest of his life by fans of Dean. Even more heartbreaking is the story of mechanic Rolf Wutherich, who sat next to the actor in the car and never got over the trauma of both the crash and the way the world responded to him afterwards.
Perhaps the most interesting element of the book is its exploration of Dean fan culture. Greenberg describes the annual James Dean Festival in Fairmount and how the town has become a monument to the actor. Dean's cousin Marcus has accepted that the farm where the town's most famous son grew up will always be a tourist attraction, and he has tried to be friendly to curious visitors. There are some who have even settled in the town because they feel inspired by the actor.
At times the book can feel a bit padded. There's a long story about the supposed long history of bad luck associated with Porsches that includes a detailed description of the assassination of the Archduke of Ferdinand that feels unnecessary. Another lengthy detour into the chaotic funeral of Valentino in an attempt to draw parallels between the two actors is similarly superfluous.
This is a compelling read though, drawing on extensive interviews with what appears to be every living person who had any association with Dean. There are a lot of perspectives here and they are woven together into an interesting, meaningful narrative.
Many thanks to Hal Leonard Performing Arts Publishing Group for providing a copy of the book for review.
All images from Classic Film Scans.
After all melodrama I sniffled through in the pair of Francis flicks I reviewed earlier this week, I needed something lighter, and I got it with The Feminine Touch (1941). Francis takes a supporting role in this comedy about jealousy in romantic relationships now available on DVD from Warner Archive.
Don Ameche stars as a college professor who has been burning the midnight oil finishing his book, Jealousy and All Its Aspects and Universal Applications. As much as he seems to know about this disruptive emotion, he doesn't appear to feel it himself, much to the irritation of his wife (Rosalind Russell), who would like a bit more possessiveness in her man.
When Ameche's frustration with his university position drives him to quit, the pair takes off for New York to meet the publisher (Van Heflin) they hope will publish the now former professor's book. This pointy-bearded Don Juan and his sharp-witted assistant (Francis), give the couple a lot more field experience in what it is like living with the green-eyed monster.
The four are an amusing trio, though I always felt as if something wasn't quite working among them. Part of the problem is that Ameche,while very charming, is not nearly as dynamic as his costars. His chemistry with Russell is also a bit off, but then, I never thought he was brilliant in an onscreen pairing until he teamed up with Ralph Bellamy in Trading Places (1983).
Heflin charms everyone else off the screen, as he normally does, and Russell is full of her typical snap. Francis is more of a revelation, she is as beautiful and perfectly groomed as audiences expected of her, but backs that up with good timing and a light comedic touch.
|One of Ms. Kay's astonishing hats|
This is a solidly pleasing production: the costumes and sets are impeccable in that lush, MGM way and Francis and Russell get plenty of opportunities to look smashing in ridiculous hats that would destroy most ordinary women. The attempted seductions and misunderstandings can threaten to become tiring, but there's always a snappy line or a twist on convention that rescues the scenes that begin to flag.
After spending most of her career suffering in dramatic gowns, Francis seems to be enjoying jumping into a lighter role. She approaches her biting lines with gusto, seemingly less focused on suffering prettily, and relishing the chance to show off her comic chops. Though pre-code Kay will always be my favorite, her maturity here is appealing.
Though The Feminine Touch is often more amusing that funny, the last sequence is a hilarious bit of slapstick that is both original and incredibly silly, and elevates all that came before. It's a bright finale for an unusual, and essentially enjoyable comedy.
Many thanks to Warner Archive for providing a copy of the film for review. This is a Manufacture on Demand (MOD) DVD. To order, visit The Warner Archive Collection.