Dear Film People:
I know that I’ve been lax in getting my film writings on this site. It’s because I’ve been busy getting my first book to press. How to Act Like a Grown-up is now available on createspace.com and Amazon. It will be available for e-readers very soon, too.
Check out more details at http://www.actlikeagrownup.com.
It’s the perfect book for…everyone else!
Mark DuPré
Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln may be the most beautifully photographed, best-acted procedural ever filmed. The core of the film is not Lincoln’s life, or death, or any of his many personal struggles. It’s the ratification of the 13th Amendment abolishing slavery, and what Lincoln did to make that happen. It’s Law and Order in the House of Representatives. It’s gorgeous to look at, solid, slow and wordy. That’s not so much a disparagement as a description. The story, the acting and the cinematography save the day.
The Best Actor race for this year is over. It’s Daniel Day-Lewis all over the place. He’ll likely win every major award and is a shoo-in for the Oscar. His performance is a sight to behold, and to enjoy, and will be a master class for every serious actor from this point on. His Lincoln is a man who has been crushed by life, perhaps several times over, and yet has emerged stronger, kinder, and smarter for the trials. He is direct, even bluntly so, when he needs to be, yet elusive and cagey at other times. Philip Seymour Hoffman as The Master offers the only performance in this league this year, and in many ways, Hoffman nails his part as much as Day-Lewis. But no one but critics seemed interested in The Master, and Lincoln is the kind of film that wins Oscars for its central performance: good enough, but not overshadowing the superior quality of its lead’s acting. It’s by far the best thing in the film, and it’s a performance for the ages. He has effectively erased nearly every other interpretation of Abraham Lincoln with this one.
Happily, the excellent acting doesn’t stop with him. Sally Field continues to show her skill and range as a tormented Mary Lincoln. The film presents her as suffering greatly from the loss of her son Willie just a few years before, though other mental or emotional issues are suggested by her behaviors. In some ways, her performance is also a master acting class, but in ways that hurt the film. Here she is whip-smart and sarcastic, there she is bitter and clueless, then self-aware but unhappy about it, and then irrational and unhinged. Field pulls all these together as best as she can, but the film presents her in bits and pieces, in spite of the actress’s best efforts.
Tommy Lee Jones is threatening, like Philip Seymour Hoffman and others of that rank, of being so consistently good that we don’t notice how good he is. Here he is great, but it’s almost lost in Day-Lewis’s shadow and the general good work of the cast. And here is one of the problems with the cast. Other than DDL, who so disappears into his part as to hide all vestiges of a working actor, the cast of Lincoln is packed to the gills with recognizable faces, often distractingly so. The most successful at transcending their own persona is Sally Field. She will always be Sally Field, but she manages to break through by sheer virtue of talent here. But Tommy Lee Jones is still Tommy Lee Jones, no matter what he does with his hair. And then there is Oscar nominee (ON) David Strathairn, ON Hal Holbrook, and ON John Hawkes, who will become another ON this year for The Sessions. Then there are ON Jackie Earle Haley, Tim Blake Nelson, and Jared Harris, all doing yeoman work but unable to hide their recognizability. Worst of all in that category is the talented Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the Lincolns’ oldest son Robert. He does a fine job, but there’s no hiding the fact that it’s the star of 500 Days of Summer, Premium Rush and Inception playing the role. Perhaps the one who fares best here is James Spader, nearly unrecognizable under a one-for-the-ages moustache, and offering a juicy, slightly overripe performance that pulls the film in a much-needed comic direction, risking a buffoonish quality in his character and actions to breath some life into the oft-times trudging proceedings.
The real problem is one that few will point out. As a screenwriter, the highly respected and highly rewarded Tony Kushner is a great playwright. The solid structure is there in Lincoln, and Kushner knows how to build dramatic tension, but the wordiness makes Joseph Mankiewicz’ All about Eve seem like a silent film. There are plenty of opportunities to show off great talk—Lincoln’s folksy stories, his cabinet meetings, his talks with Mary, the rough-and-tumble of political clashes as the bill moves forward. But perhaps the most effective moment in the film isn’t a verbal exchange, but the quiet move of young Tad Lincoln as he wordlessly crawls on his dad’s back as Lincoln lies down next to his sleeping son on the floor and quietly awakens him to get him into bed. The move is tender and speaks volumes about their relationship and the “quality time” they’ve obviously spent together. The film needs a lot more of those kinds of visual moments. It’s never anything but lovely to look at and delightful to the ear, though John Williams’ music is a bit much at times. But Spielberg is such a visual director that you wonder how much he sacrificed to get every last word in. It’s similar to the stranglehold that the music had over the direction of Phantom of the Opera, which ended up being a music video rather than a film. We certainly get a great history lesson in Lincoln, and we never lose our place in the story. But the film borders on being illustrated at times rather than filmed.
Some have touted this as Spielberg’s best. That’s still Schindler’s List, which has the same breadth but the energy and momentum that Lincoln lacks. I’m hoping that the pictorial excesses of War Horse and the static nature of Lincoln are temporary hiccoughs, and that Spielberg gets back to making move-ies.
Finally saw 2011’s Soul Surfer, mostly because I like to keep track of how “nearly mainline” Christian films are faring these days. It was…OK.
As a story, it’s more than inspiring, and if that’s what motivates you to see it, then it really does the trick, and is well worth the time. It’s based on the true story of teenage Bethany Hamilton, an up-and-coming surfing champion living in Hawaii who survived a vicious shark attack in which she lost her arm. Bethany and her family are strong Christians, and the story is really two parts—the story of her attack and survival, and the story of how she integrated a faith-shaking incident into a faith-filled life and oh, yes, how she managed to get back to championship surfing.
In the age of special effects landscapes, alternate universes and zombie/vampire worlds, it’s refreshing to have a simple story sold simply. It would have been easy to gild the lily of such a powerful story by cranking up the dramatic moments, of which there are inherently plenty. But while the story comes through in some of its power, the film is less emotionally powerful than it might have been, and it seems to have its Christian identity a bit tamped down.
Perhaps in an effort to keep things from becoming melodramatic, the film tends to treat nearly every scene equally. There is a night surfing scene that is allowed to play out somewhat in its beauty and awe, but that is the exception. The family scenes, the missionary scenes, the times of doubt and discouragement, even the shark attack scene—-they are all fairly straightforward in treatment. Perhaps it’s the script, perhaps it’s the camera placement, or the direction, but most scenes look and feel like the rest. The emotions never get out of hand, and perhaps they should.
The Christianity is also curiously presented. According to the extra materials, the Hamilton family was insistent that two things were gotten “right”—the surfing and the Christianity. When an early scene had an outdoor church service with the worship team leading Matt Redman’s “Blessed Be Your Name,” a fairly current and popular Christian chorus, I was anticipating a film that would present today’s Christian evangelical believers with a degree of reality. Questions of faith and expressions of faith are in there, but are curiously non-specific when they should be pointed. Pain and doubt are real, whether God is in the picture or not. When He is, it can be more dramatic rather than less. Giving real thanks and glory to God is also real, and film needs to find a way to express the profound joy of getting to that place.
I’m reminded here of one of the supposed ironies of Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. It’s as focused in time and place as a film can get. It’s all about a Manhattan Upper West Side, intellectual group of creative people in the mid-1970s—some of them New York Jewish. And it’s also a love story universal in scope and appeal. Its universal appeal comes out of its specificity. Soul Surfer offers some moments of spiritual reality and depth to the underfed Christian American filmgoer, but falls into platitudes about human strength and willpower. Bethany is clearly an amazing person, but I’m guessing she would be the last to credit herself with as much of the “survival miracle” as the film gives her.
The parents are played by top-tier actors Dennis Quaid and Oscar-winner Helen Hunt. Both are talented actors, but sometimes even the best non-Christian actors have a hard time suggesting the depths of spiritual struggles that involve God. Hunt is an excellent actress, but her cry to God to not “take” Bethany right after the attack, for example, is the work of an accomplished actor, not a woman crying out to a God she knows. Sometimes the lack of personal experience shows in an actor’s work.
Carrie Underwood stretches herself by playing Bethany’s youth leader in a role that is curiously written or poorly edited. There seem to be some issues in the first half of the film that don’t get resolved in the second. As an actress, Underwood is a great singer. (I say this with tenderness—she and my son and daughter-in-law attend the same church). I applaud her move as a step of public expression of her faith. Some singers do become good actors. Not sure I see that potential here.
Soul Surfer is a move in the right direction. But films with substantive, realistic spiritual themes can’t be left to the Europeans and Robert Duvall. American filmmakers—Christian or not—are going to have to find a way to dig deeply enough into the Christian experience to represent it in honesty, truth and artfulness. It’s a rich but under-unexplored terrain.
Strangers on a Train, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, is more than 60 years old and is as energetic, smart and fresh as anything released this year. Catching it on TV recently, I was impressed all over again with the film—one I haven’t seen straight through in too many years. Released in 1951, it was overshadowed then and still is by that year’s A Place in the Sun and A Streetcar Named Desire, both black-and-white dramatic classics. Those films are a delight to revisit, but watching them has something of a museum visit to the experience, whereas Strangers is a jazzed-up joy from beginning to end. It has the power to surprise, stop your heart, and put you on the edge of your seat as much as the best of today’s thrillers.
The greatest joy I received is the sheer delight of watching a master in complete control of his craft. I recently saw three Hitchcock films on a train ride—his first talkie Blackmail (1929) the regrettable Rich and Strange (1931) and his early classic The Lady Vanishes (1938). Blackmail shows a successful silent film director showing his genius by how he approached the new sound capabilities. Rich and Strange is mostly the latter, and could best be described in current language as lame. The Lady Vanishes is light years ahead of Rich and Strange, and shows a director growing in confidence and style.
But Strangers is something else again. It’s beautifully shot by Hitch’s frequent collaborator Robert Burks (who received the film’s only Oscar nomination) with a rich, unusually dark and deep noir-ish palette. The acting by leads Farley Granger and Ruth Roman is classic Hollywood studio acting—clear, clean and solid, if not particularly interesting in any way. Even with thoughts of nepotism floating over the casting, and with her slightly distracting speech impediment, Patricia Hitchcock is a breath of fresh air, bringing intelligence and comic relief in nearly ever scene she’s in. But this film belongs to Robert Walker as Bruno Antony, one of the great screen creations. Walker’s performance doesn’t belong to the ‘50s, but to the ages. Bruno is probably gay, definitely a Mama’s boy struggling with an Oedipal urge, and a stylish psychopath. There is more to discuss about his character and possible motivations than could fill many a master’s thesis. Suffice it to say that Walker gave his greatest performance here and completely re-started his career artistically. Tragically, he died shortly after the film’s release at the early age of 32. What a loss for film. We can only be grateful that we have at least this one performance to enjoy.
There are shots and scenes that simply need to be experienced: Bruno NOT watching the tennis game, Bruno reaching for a lighter, the murder on the fairgrounds, reflected in a pair of glasses. Then there is the incredible carousel scene near the end. No spoilers here—just enjoy a sequence full of suspense and energy, and enjoy a director who knows exactly what he wants to do and is able to do it. And who else but Hitchcock could make a man simply standing on stairs so chilling and gut-wrenching at once?
There are plenty of Hitchcock motifs and themes to go around. His views of marriage are there in all their confused glory. Critics and fans of Freud—plenty for you here. Knock yourselves out. But his themes of guilt and transferred guilt, generally more subtle, resonate so loudly that they almost reach the level of the carousel music in the climax of the film. That is, if you’re looking for them. Otherwise, it’s an intelligent thriller of the first order, with one brilliant performance, done by a film master at the top of his game. With all the film’s other strengths, Hitchcock’s artistic confidence and skill may well be the film’s greatest source of enjoyment.
I love movies like this because I like movies like this. My film students always assume that because it’s not classic or foreign or Oscar bait, that of course a film professor wouldn’t waste precious time on a film that’s just simple fun.
But Premium Rush is a great summer fun film. It’s not art, and doesn’t pretend to be. Full disclosure: It was doubly fun for me because I went to school at Columbia University in New York, and every shot in the film of the campus or 116th and Broadway was a personal joy. I’m also a fan of the present and possible future work of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, an immensely likeable film personality who is showing us an ever-greater range every year [The Dark Knight Rises, Inception, 50/50, (500) Days of Summer]. Casting such an appealing personality in a part that could be considered a little crazy goes a long way in holding the film together and creating sympathy for a character who makes questionable choices.
The plot, for what it’s worth, is the story of a bike messenger in New York City who has no brakes on his bike and few on his temperament. He moves fast and thinks faster, and his quick decisions on the road combine the mental approach of Sherlock Holmes (in the Robert Downey films) when faced with a fight with the special effects of Wanted (but with much less seriousness).
The catalyst for all the action is a delivery that Wilee (Gordon-Levitt) has to make. Of course it’s a hot item, and needs to be intercepted by the bad guy for nefarious reasons. Eventually all the old standards are dragged in—the conflicted romance, the romantic competition, even the “I thought this was about something else, but now it’s personal” angle. Everything is eventually explained as we go along, but credibility is still stretched to the breaking point several times, especially in the scene of Wilee chasing down his romantic and business rival. But it doesn’t much matter.
Sometimes fun films or quickly made films (this film for the first, Psycho an example of the latter) can be studied for how they reflect society or deal with racial or political issues. This could probably be grist for the mill for a good university thesis. We have a white guy who has rejected the world of business, a black romantic rival who is jealous of the white guy’s success as a messenger and with “the girl.” Plus that girl is perhaps half-black and half-white or Hispanic or whatever. Then we have all the Chinese, corrupt both here and overseas, making life hard for all our characters in the film. It’s always intriguing to see who are the villains in films that just need a villain to keep things moving.
And then there is Michael Shannon, the villain, who is quickly becoming Mr. Unhinged of the American cinema. He’s an actor capable of subtle and lovely work (Take Shelter, Revolutionary Road), but here he chews up the scenery so often and so aggressively that I thought he’d ending up eating up the actors and having the messenger bikes for dessert. We can all hope it was just quick money and that he’ll go back to exploring the depths of his talents.
Ultimately, this is just a breezy, fun, almost unbelievable film. It’s got some good casting, some good actors not used to their fullest, and a solid if simple script. It’s also got energy and a solid rhythm. Check your critical faculties at the door and enjoy the ride. You’ll forget it all in a day or two anyway.
This semi-reboot of the Bourne trilogy with Matt Damon is a kind of “Whew, that was intense, wasn’t it!” reaction to the earlier series. The Bourne Legacy is simpler, easier, less layered and subtle, and heads in different directions.
Our central figure, still an action hero of sorts, isn’t plagued by the “Who am I and who are these people out to get me and why?” struggles that Jason Bourne was challenged with. We have a cleaner issue here having to do more with the simple survival of Aaron Cross (Jeremy Renner), a Bourne-like human experiment that (spoiler alert) must be put down. So the series is apparently shaking off the subtleties and ontological questions that made the earlier films so much more than well-done action films. The series couldn’t have gotten much more intense—between its explorations of identity and its ever-tightening editing rhythms—without inflicting some physiological and physiological damage on the audience.
The simpler line makes this film less interesting, less profound, and less exciting. But standing on its own, without comparisons, it’s a well-acted action film with only a slightly unbelievable story line and some decent action sequences.
This is apparently a family affair for the director, and that may account for its strengths and weaknesses. Tony Gilroy, the screenwriter or co-writer of the earlier trilogy, takes over Bourne directing duties for the first time. His earlier two films were Duplicity and Michael Clayton, both quieter, intelligent and dialogue-heavy films. This is anything but quiet, but the dialogue is smarter than most films known for their action. Co-writer is younger brother Dan Gilroy, and editing the film is Dan’s twin brother John Gilroy, who edited Michael Clayton and the more recent Warrior. The editing in the talking parts is a bit slow and boderline-ponderous, and the action sequences carry none of the emotional weight of the earlier films—Jason was always fighting for more than one thing at a time—and they just seem faster rather than an intensification of the conflicts in the slower portions.
Casting Renner in the lead contributes to and perhaps reflects the shift in emphasis. Renner is about as intense an actor as the American screen has at the moment. He’s a good actor (Oscar nominations for The Hurt Locker and The Town), but a different animal from the always-underrated Matt Damon, who brought such a high level of physicality and internal conflict to his character. Renner can show the inner life of his characters, but he isn’t much called on to do that here. When he does, it’s buried much deeper under the surface than Damon did, and he’s therefore a harder character to relate to. Few can match Damon for likeability, and Renner normally doesn’t even try as an actor. It takes longer to come up alongside him, but we eventually get there as more is revealed of the backstory. But it will never be as deep a connection with the audience as they had with Damon/Jason.
Opposite him is a fascinating casting choice. Oscar-winner Rachel Weisz (The Constant Gardener) dials down her normal luminosity (hard to do) and cranks up the intelligence and inner action star of her character. This could have been a casting mistake of the first order, as she can be cast in anything for her looks. But Weisz’s intelligence makes her character believable, and she is a gifted enough actress to pull off the scenes of confusion and conflict with ease, which brings some needed believability and weight to the surroundings. Her action scenes actually add depth to the film, as she is clearly not transformed into a Lara Croft figure, and her running around has some tension and meaning that goes deeper than Cross’s. (We can also be grateful that the producers didn’t foist one of the young pretty faces on us and tried to make us believe that a pair of glasses and a tight face make one a doctor. A real actress—not all that young—with real intelligence—thank you.)
The required romantic element is given short shrift here, and is abruptly presented at the end. That opens the door to the sequel/s, of course, but it seems both tacked on and too late. But a romance with these characters, played by these actors, written by the writer/director of Duplicity—there are some strong possibilities here for the future. So the Bourne series has been reinvented something along the lines of Spider-Man—simpler, with a straighter line, fewer nuances, and greater possibilities of romance. Do we see a trend here?
Some critics used to separate “films” from “movies.” Hope Springs is a movie; it’s mainstream and entertaining, with no aspirations to art. It’s solid as a film, hysterically funny at times, and painfully uncomfortable at other times. The direction is craftsmanlike and unoriginal, which works here. The entire worth of the picture is the script and the performances, and the three performers get their medals—one bronze, one silver and one gold. If this movie is going to be remembered at all, it will be because of the subject matter and its central performances.
The bronze goes to Steve Carell as a marriage therapist. We have to like his character in the film, and because of the casting, we do. It’s a good career move for the comedian, as he touches down delicately onto his character, exhibiting the tricks of the therapist’s trade without sending them up or without this character seeming as if he’s just going through the motions. It’s a stretch only in its gentle consistency, something we don’t normally associate with Carell.
The silver goes to Meryl Streep as the wife in a marriage gone cold who is willing to go to great lengths to revitalize it. Streep is simply the greatest American film actress and it’s easy to see the career step being taken here. After playing huge or intensely precise characters (think Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady and the editor in The Devil Wears Prada), Streep occasionally likes to play something closer to “real people.” The good news is that watching her and Tommy Lee Jones as her husband is a master’s class in film acting. Streep is funny, sad, even heartbreaking at times, but I was almost always watching a great actress working with her character, and even caught her acting at times.
It’s hard to play someone not as intelligent as you are as an actor, and Streep has to do that here. (See Bruce Willis in this year’s Moonrise Kingdom to see someone pull that off well.) Streep also has as much authority on screen as Russell Crowe, so playing someone just beginning to discover her personal authority is perhaps a bit beyond the actress. And there is a constant tension between the precision of Streep’s acting choices and her technique, and the fuzzy, half-thought-through life of her character. Some of this is performance, not acting. But the performance, especially by the grande dame of American cinema, accounts for a great deal of the fun. She’s the heart of the film, and her character and the spectacle of seeing the great Streep playing a relatable person, a “normal” person, is what draws the viewer in.
The gold here goes to Tommy Lee Jones, who settles into his character in a way that Streep doesn’t. If Streep is the heart of the film, he is the nearly immovable rock. Jones’ character is grumpy in alternately funny and offensive ways, and his slow progress emotionally is realistic and hard to watch. But he disappears into his character, making his actions all the more frustrating and sad. He adds the gravitas that the movie trailer doesn’t even hint at, and which makes the film richer and deeper than the viewer might be prepared for.
Apart from the performances, it’s the subject matter that makes the film and sets it apart. This is a study of a marriage that’s just “fine” for one but not for the other. Nearly all mature married people will find themselves laughing one moment and feeling deeply exposed the next. The last time the screen demonstrated the realities of a flawed mature marriage so fully, it might well have had a directing credit by Ingmar Bergman. But unlike an intense Swedish film, this very American movie has a great deal of humor and ultimately, hope. It’s not superficial or simplistic in its explorations of a union that’s lost its fire and intimacy, and that makes its victories that much more deeply felt. It’s ultimately a comedy, to be sure, but hits a number of uncomfortable truths along the way.
Spoiler alert: I’m not going to give away major plot points, but have to note to the unsuspecting viewer looking for a simple and delightful marital comedy that la Streep engages in a variety of sexual expressions that help break her image, but might be a bit disconcerting for the viewer—both for what’s happening and who is doing it. There is also a minor plot point that seems to be somewhat important that is never followed up on; one wonders what might have been left on the cutting room floor.
Hope Rises is a pedestrian film in terms of production, yet with a king and queen of American acting in the leads. It does plow a little new ground in setting some especially painful human difficulties in the midst of its exploration of a marriage in need of repair. But for those weary of superhero movies, violence and the supernatural, it’s a refreshingly human comedy that just happens to include some embarrassing, awkward, and recognizable moments for adults.
The last installment of the Batman trilogy may not be looked at simply as a film for a while. The slaughter on opening night will likely be associated with the film for many a viewer and non-viewer. The real violence in Colorado that night has also made the film both a target and an example of violence in films, and has bent the loftier discussions of the film and its meaning in that one direction.
The relationship between images of violence and violence in society will be a subject of conversation as long as there is film, and the chicken-and-egg tension (is the film a reflection of or catalyst to social violence?) will always be fodder for columnists and thesis-writers in both the and sociology camps.
But The Dark Knight Rises is first and foremost a film, and more specifically, the final installment of an intelligently conceived reboot. It’s finely acted, perhaps more structurally sound (though too long by 20 minutes), and richer and deeper and in some ways more frightening than its predecessors.
How many acting Oscar winners and nominees can YOU put in a film? We have the central trio of Batman/Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale, Oscar for The Fighter), Alfred (Michael Caine, double Oscar winner for Hannah and Her Sisters and The Cider House Rules), and the inestimable Morgan Freeman as Fox (surprisingly, just one for Million Dollar Baby). Then there is Marion Cotillard (Oscar for one of the great film performances of all time in La Vie en Rose). And don’t forget Gary Oldman as Commissioner Gordon (nominated for Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy) and Anne Hathaway (nominee for Rachel Getting Married). Thomas Hardy as Bane either introduces the viewer to a future Oscar winner or reminds us again of what a powerful performer and presence he is. Lastly, Joseph Gordon-Levitt is growing into a solid and authoritative screen presence and making us forget he was ever on television when he was younger. He’s the heart of the film (a great concept, clever and thoughtful at once) and the maturing actor carries it on his ever-widening acting shoulders.
The film resembles Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life in one big way: It reaches farther than it can grasp, but its reach is breathtaking. Writer/director Christopher Nolan connects the film to the previous two narratively and emotionally, and then expands its scope nearly to the breaking point. Nolan continues the story of parental loss and isolation, and brings it to a satisfying but slightly facile conclusion. But it’s a conclusion that ultimately keeps the film a personal story of Wayne and his alter ego to the end, while using the issues and surrounding socio-political world created here to comment on our own society without turning the film into a screed. What is frightening is not the violence so much as the possibility that the film is a prophecy of where we’re going. As a society, we’re poised somewhere between Paris in 1789 and either 1917 Russia or 1933 America. Nolan doesn’t seem to take sides in the film, but acknowledges the greed of the rich, the class envy of the not-so-rich, the dangers of anger fueled by equal parts inequity and entitlement, and the folly of those who think that a “real people’s revolution” won’t quickly devolve into a dictatorship. What occurs in Nolan’s world is acceptable to us as viewers because we don’t live in Gotham, and this is something of a superhero movie, but the societal and governmental breakdown demonstrated is a little too close for comfort at times.
Technically, the film is as stunning to look at as the others, and the action scenes are less confusing and more clearly edited. The second half of the film wanders and begins to lose the first half’s energy, and may well be the film’s biggest weakness. For those who complain about the film’s villain Bane (Hardy), well, it’s hard to imagine how best to follow up Heath Ledger’s Joker. Nolan evidently didn’t want to repeat the issue of chaos while bringing the series to a conclusion, so he opts for “pure evil,” as Bane is called. Nolan pulls a 180 from the Joker to Bane. The Joker was external, crazy, a Fauvist nightmare motivated by an insane anarchy. Bane is brutal, far less demonstrative, crude, and monochromatic, and as played by Hardy (a physical beast here), he functions well as a one-on-one worthy opponent of “the Batman.” (I love it that they keep the “the,” unlike Facebook.) Batman could have snapped the Joker in two; it’s all he can do to stand his ground with Bane.
When the dust clears over the opening night tragedy, The Dark Knight Rises will merit and receive many second looks. As a rewarding and enjoyable conclusion to a powerful, well-reconceived trilogy, it’s a strong example of how to expand on and conclude what precedes it. As a possible prophecy about what is occurring and what may occur in society, culture and government, it’s scarier than the bloodiest horror movie.
If anyone is familiar with this 1938 British classic, it’s mostly because it’s been relegated to “the film that My Fair Lady was based on.” And being more familiar with the musical and film, you experience this film as almost a series of set-ups for songs such as “I Could Have Danced All Night,” “On the Street Where You Live,” and “Get Me to the Church on Time”—but without any of the music. But spending a little time studying British cinema lately, I decided to finally sit down and see the whole film. You should too.
The relative sweetness of the musical is completely missing. The film is strong, tough, edgy, funny, and occasionally as breathtaking as House MD could be when Hugh Laurie came forth with an unexpectedly arrogant but undeniably funny riposte to another character on the show. It’s the same story as My Fair Lady, but robbed of its softer edges and its lovely classic music, it’s surprisingly astringent and borderline outrageous, especially in the character of Prof. Higgins (Leslie Howard).
Now don’t stop reading this or considering seeing this because you remember Howard as the weak and soulful Ashley Wilkes on Gone with the Wind. Howard was right that he shouldn’t have done that film and was miscast; he wasn’t young enough and good-looking enough, and the attempts to move his look and character in that direction were only overcome by his sheer acting skill, which to be honest, occasionally fail him in that film. Here Howard is altogether extraordinary as the Professor. He’s entitled, brilliant, unspeakably arrogant, and you can’t take your eyes or ears off of him. (He was nominated for Best Actor, which while not unheard of—Charles Laughton had won five years before—was still a rarity for a non-American.) Howard’s the heart and soul of the film, and nails every scene. He’s an absolute delight, and it’s sad to look back and see what a treasure he could have become if he had not died (heroically) in the Second World War. See this and get Ashley Wilkes out of your head forever.
Wendy Hiller as Eliza Doolittle is nothing like Audrey Hepburn, and for those more familiar with the musical than this film, it’s a bit jarring at first. Hiller had an unusual look, and was a challenge for cinematographers to light her well. But that difference becomes a point of interest in that you wonder how she is going to develop her character differently than Hepburn (or even Julie Andrews, if you’re familiar with the original Broadway soundtrack). Hiller was nominated for Best Actress that year as well, and she supplies the opposite trajectory to the Professor’s. It’s a joy to watch her come into her own, growing in confidence and fire as she rises up to do battle with Higgins, who starts off as a force of nature, filled with upper-class conceit and intellectual smugness, and eventually begins to be at least introduced to his own humanity as things don’t plan out as planned.
I suppose any good film person should mention that this is based on a George Bernard Shaw play, and Shaw, with others, is credited with the screenplay, and won the Oscar for it (really, would YOU have voted for anyone other than George Bernard Shaw if you saw his name in the credits?). I suppose Shaw’s views of class and morality might have been shocking at the time. Now they aren’t noticed, or in the case of Eliza’s father, the “shocking” Shavian perspectives come off as musty and a little quaint in Mr. Doolittle’s contrary attitudes toward marriage and respectability. Shaw’s views might have been the most intriguing aspect of the film when it opened. Today, it’s the two central performances, as well as the grace of Scott Sunderland as Col. Pickering and the humor of Marie Lohr as Higgin’s clear-eyed mother, that make this film a joy to experience.
One film-nerd note: Pygmalion was edited by David Lean, who began his illustrious career as an editor and became one of Britain’s best before become its most famous director (Bridge on the River Kwai, Brief Encounter, Oliver Twist, Laurence of Arabia, Dr. Zhivago, etc.) It’s beautifully cut, and moves with an energy and grace that would be the envy of any film of any decade.
Film stuff by Mark 