Cinema Talk

I don’t intend to be condescending, but this is pretty much textbook Mizoguchi right here: a beautifully crafted melodrama that is occasionally profound, often high in drama, but almost always entertaining. Even with the biographical aspects present, Mizoguchi manages to bring out his characteristic melodrama. This isn’t exactly a bad thing, but after watching so many of Hiroshi Shimizu’s subtle and beautiful dramas, it is a bit hard to readjust to Mizoguchi’s usual cinematic quirks. Of course, the maximality in the narrative is toned down by some of the loveliest visuals of the 1940s. For all of Mizoguchi’s faults at handling human interaction, (at least compared to his peers) he did consistently capture some of the most beautiful images in all of cinema.

In 18th century Japan, Kitagawa Utamaro is in his artistic prime and is already seen by connoisseurs as one of the greatest printmakers of all time. Unfortunately, his artistic success is starting to collide greatly with his personal life. Utamaro is arrested by a local judge for speaking his mind on the state of art and is sentenced to fifty days in handcuffs. The sentence seems harmless, but the handcuffs prevent Utamaro from participating in his greatest personal outlet: his paintings. With his only means of expression eliminated, his work becomes something of a life-or-death situation, which seems to correspond with the state of his relationships as well.

This film is such a curiosity, not only for the fact that it was the first period piece made in Japan during the Allies’ occupation, but also because it is the only example of Mizoguchi attempting a biographical picture. In fact, this may have very well been the first Japanese biopic, or at least the first personal one. I guess 47 Ronin can also be considered a biopic as well, but that film operates on a much larger scale, is much more vague. As someone who is fairly unfamiliar with Utamaro’s real life experiences, I can’t make much of a comment on the legitimacy of the story, but towards the end things tend to sway towards Mizoguchi’s usual type of melodrama. It is not even unrealistic, but perhaps more accurately, just too emotionally extreme to work with such a calm technical sensibility.

Once again, Mizoguchi showcases his poetic possibilities with the camera and the results are some of the most elegant and calm mobile tracking shots in his entire oeuvre. Even with the film’s print in not-so-great physical shape, the movements of the camera are so steady and relaxed. It’s quite possible that something as small as the camera’s fluidity would not be significant in a film with as many gorgeous static shots as this one, but instead, the juxtaposition of the two flows together perfectly.

All of this reassures the cinematic intelligence of Mizoguchi, which is rivaled only by his emotional angst as the biggest personal element in his work. The connection between Mizoguchi and Utamaro is inevitable, but it makes sense at least when using Mizoguchi’s vision of Utamaro as the point of comparison. That’s why, even with the usual melodramatic flourishes, this is one of Mizoguchi’s most emotionally mature works, if only for the fact that it is somewhat a reflection of the creator himself.

My first encounter with Jacques Tourneur is, for the most part, a very good one. All the hype about him being proficient in building and establishing a atmosphere is pretty spot on and seems to be the single most important element in this particular film’s success. It is, after all, a story that is largely based within the repercussions surrounding a central community, and his aesthetic precision helps in making the simple observations of a classic rural town so riveting. Otherwise, this would probably just be remembered as a really heavy-handed indictment of racism from 1950s America.

Josiah Gray, a country parson arrives in the small town of Wellsburg and through montage, we see how quickly alters the community so that it becomes almost his own. He has seemingly been a key figure in the town when it is struck with typhoid fever. The town’s new doctor is young and unsurprisingly, not welcomed by the townsfolk. However, the illness is spreading and Mr. Gray continues to see more of the young doctor, who strongly dislikes Gray based on his own belief that Gray may have spread the disease when he visited the school while his nephew was sick. Meanwhile, Uncle Famous, one of the town’s longest residents, is threatened to have his land taken away from him.

Tourneur seems to take a page from John Ford’s Judge Priest as he builds Stars in My Crown around a very similar concept. There are some dramatic flourishes in both films (such moments are the weakest in both movies) but for the most part, both are plotless and both are held together by a beautifully crafted sense of Americana. It seems like a small feat, but it is impressive how both directors create a sense of community without much exposition to clutter their efforts. This is actually where Tourneur’s film begins to be different. From the start, we are given a rapid-fire montage of how Josiah Gray became the single most important person in Wellsburg and Gray’s nephew narrates it. There are plenty of impressive shots in this opening, but that is pretty much the only compliment I can give this essentially meaningless bit of exposition. Had Tourneur stuck with this pace for the whole film, it would have been fine, but the changes are abrupt and the film settles down to the standard 50s Hollywood pace.

Not all is lost, though, as Tourneur’s shots still have a peculiar beauty to them. It’s that beauty that can only be found in Westerns from the early 1950s, a time when greats like Anthony Mann and Budd Boetticher were slowly transitioning from noirs to westerns. These pictures inadvertently spawned the “noir-western” which probably only become a genre (if one can call it that) in recent years. Stars in My Crown is neither western nor noir, but it captures the spirit of both and that is (probably) what counts the most. If there’s really any problem with this film, it’s that it doesn’t seem to be cohesively great. Some fantastic spots here and there, but some dry ones as well. Still, I’m definitely looking forward to seeing more from Tourneur.

Even with Kirk Douglas, who I usually cannot stand, in the lead role, this is definitely one of the best and most accomplished classic Westerns that I’ve seen. It probably helps a great deal that the narrative seems to have been a great influence on Monte Hellman for his great revisionist piece, The Shooting. Such a connection is probably loose considering that both films are essentially plotless, but that’s how Westerns should be. Gorgeous photography, snappy dialogue, and emotional backstories that unravel at a perfect pace. If this is not quite a masterpiece, than it is pretty close.

Marshall Len Merrick interrupts a necktie party hosted by an angry mob with the intention of bringing the mob’s captive to legal justice. The suspect is Tim Keith and he has been accused of murdering the son of Ned Roden, a ranch owner. His mob now shifts their focus to taking not only Tim Keith, but his daughter and Merrick as well. The latter group must now make it to Santa Loma, through the dry and hot desert, before the Roden clan catches up to them. Even if they get there, death is still awaiting Mr. Keith but if they don’t, then the body count might just be greater.

What better way to combat Kirk Douglas’ usual set-chewing persona than to place him on location? Perhaps that does sound a bit like a sad attempt at a pun, but honestly, his usual sensibility seems to take a back seat when juxtaposed with some of the most gorgeous visuals of any Western I’ve seen. The landscapes are sort of inherently astonishing, but the way in which Walsh captures them is even more impressive. There is a sense of wonder and mystery to the character’s surroundings that is reminiscent of the much more prominent (and famous) vibe in Antonioni’s trilogy. In addition, such visuals are handled a grace that rivals Hiroshi Shimizu, whose films place as much important on the natural as this one does.

Compared to the later work of Anthony Mann, or even Budd Boetticher, Walsh doesn’t seem to have all that much attention and interest in his characters. On the other hand, he does create an unbearable amount of tension that manages to squeeze some “emotional exposition” so to speak, from all the characters. They aren’t shallow like the first sentence in this paragraph may have implied, but just humans tortured by society’s own emotional expectations. Perhaps this is present in every remotely “deep” Western, since the confusion of masculine identity is inherently available in the plot description of any conventional Western from the 1950s, but here, it seems to be of particular interest to Walsh. Hopefully, all this analyzing doesn’t cloud ones appreciation of the film, as it is to be enjoyed on a much visceral level than this essay would indicate. But like all great films, there are plenty of nuanced details to be discovered on future viewings.

I suppose anyone that bothers to read this review will be turned off by my inevitable use of the dreaded “m” word – mumblecore. It is definitely one of the more daring and offbeat entries into this “cinematic fad” of sorts, but it by no means the best, either. Like many of its peers, Team Picture suffers from the dreaded aesthetic of digital video, but credit should be given to Kentucker Audley for at least trying something that will stylistically separate him from all the other young American independent filmmakers.

David is on the cusp of adulthood, but he is far from being ready to make that certain emotional step forward. Rather than applying to college or accepting the responsibilities of being a twenty year old, he spends his time lounging around in an above ground baby pool with his eccentric roommate, Eric. Following an inevitable breakup with the ambitious Jessica, David quits his job. Now, he displays little interest in the future and instead only lives within the present, which is when he meets Sarah.

Audley isn’t winning any creativity points with the narrative here. This is a fairly textbook story about people afraid about graduating from childhood. The main protagonist here, David, even is a wannabe singer-songwriter. The setup is rather cliché and the mannerisms of the performers are rather exaggerated as well. Normally, this would spell disaster, especially for a film that relies so heavily on being spontaneous and truthful. Not to make matters worse, but the actors themselves aren’t all terrific, either. Certainly their status as “unprofessional” implies a certain lack of grace (and I mean so in a positive light) but most of the performances here seem very forced in a sense. Audley’s very awkward sense of pacing certainly doesn’t help out, though. While so many of these films rely on the superficially mundane and undramatic, this one seems to thrive on it. Sure, there’s not a plot or even dramatic turns, but it seems to chronologically jump around so much that every sequence gives the impression of a scripted sketch.

These sketches are still incredibly charming, in spite of how constructed they seem. For as terrible as I’ve bad the film out to be, it is actually quite funny. It is certainly the most outrightly “comedic” film of the mumblecore bunch, which I suppose explains all the problems I mentioned above but also its unique positive traits. Towards the end, it actually becomes almost overwhelmingly said, if only due to the fastest romantic relationship in a film this side of Il Posto. On the whole, though, this is just too fast and too short to be as powerful as it wants to be.

There’s still far too many John Ford films I haven’t seen to feel even remotely comfortable categorizing any one part of his career as his golden years, but so far, his work in the 1930s is certainly the front runner. This film only reinforces just how unstoppable he was during that time period, even though it isn’t up to the standards of his very best work. Still, it is really great, and one of the first examples that I’ve personally seen of Ford as a fantastic “action” director, even if he only was one in a very general sense. It makes me sound like an old guy on a porch, but Hollywood simply doesn’t make them like this anymore. Then again, they never really could.

Late one night, a wounded and suspicious young man bursts into the home of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd. Mudd quickly attends to the man’s broken leg and the man quickly leaves, almost as quickly as he came in. The next day it is revealed that the man is, or more accurately was John Wilkes Booth. With Booth now dead, the Police begins to look for possible co-conspirators in Booth’s assignation of President Lincoln. Mudd is a prime suspect and a quick trial sends him straight to jail where he is to remain for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, his wife begins gathering information to provide reason for another trial.

Ford directs himself into something of a cinematic corner within the first few minutes by choosing to show the actual assassination of Lincoln. To make things worse, the character of Booth is revealed to us before he discovers the home of Doctor Mudd. Personally, I think the opening would have faired much better if the assassination had not been shown at all and if Booth was introduced to the audience and Mudd at the same time. Perhaps modern audience have a greater awareness of who John Wilkes Booth is, thus the opening exposition seems unnecessary. Even if movie-goers in 1936 were that uneducated, it still could have been abandoned since Booth’s crime is stated only a few minutes later. This is a very insignificant problem, though, and it happens within the first five minutes so it can easily be forgotten. Still, I think dropping all the patriotic Lincoln material would have made things seem a bit more spontaneous and interesting.

Outside of that (very) minor problem, the film is pretty much perfect. Bert Glennon, who frequently collaborated with Ford in the 30s, provides some of the greatest visual moments from any Ford film. In fact, I’d say that the seaside cinematography from the latter parts of this film is even more impressive than Gregg Toland’s much more recognized cinematography in The Long Voyage Home. The very textured-filled flourishes during the prison escape inevitably bring to the mind the similar sequence(s) in Bresson’s A Man Escaped. Remarkably enough, Ford’s film is just as subdued and controlled as Bresson’s, not to mention every bit as great.