The Whirlwind of Paris

Another Duvivier retrospective! Since I went to the one in New York, and since this one’s just across the water in Paris, and since a chunk of it coincides with my Easter break, maybe I should go?

“And then I saw her…”

“And then I saw her, coming out of the sun…”

“She waited until it was late… then she walked in, out of the moonlight…”

“…and then I saw her, walking up the road in the headlights…”

OUT OF THE PAST is as near to a perfect film as I can conceive of. Screenplay is credited to Geoffrey Homes, from his novel Build My Gallows High. Homes was really Daniel Mainwaring, who has a slew of credits but nothing that even hints at the excellence of this. I’d like to read his book though. I hear his femme fatale is called Mumsy McGonagall or something though, which doesn’t quite have the soft allure of Cathy Moffat, Jane Greer’s character name in the movie.

Uncredited work was also done by Frank Fenton, who started in England with, among other things, an awful travesty of PG Wodehouse called STEP LIVELY, JEEVES! (where there’s no Bertie Wooster and Jeeves is an idiot) but went on to some reasonable credits including HIS KIND OF WOMAN and RIVER OF NO RETURN. But they have none of the epigrammatic wiz of OOTP’s dialogue. (“I hate surprises, myself.”)

An uncredited James M Cain must surely be responsible for the injection of genius, including, I suspect, the series of entrances from the light by Cathy, which form a kind of refrain. If the other writers managed to get lines in there, by some remarkable alchemy, all the good lines have been preserved and no bad lines taken their  place. Homes can perhaps be credited with the unusual structure, which redeems the stock noir elements by reconfiguring them in an odd shape. How stock are they? Well, Mitchum’s man on a run is discovered working in a gas station by a hood who enters a diner, exactly like in THE KILLERS. There’s no reason why Mitchum, a man on the run and a former private eye, should be able to start a new life as a car mechanic. Where did he get the skills? But it works symbolically — the garage is a little bit of urban grime transported to rural small-town America, so it’s the place where he fits in. (The third “start a new life in a garage” movie is LOST HIGHWAY, where Bill Pullman literally regenerates and rejuvenates from a felon into a grease monkey.)

This particular cliché is amusing and odd, and it isn’t by any means overused (I think Arthur Lubin’s IMPACT trots it out again though, and there may be others — do you know of any?) and as I say, the film’s crazy structure stops any feeling of over-familiarity. In addition to the rural and Mexican idylls, which add an unfamiliar feeling, and the fact that no private eye hero ever fell down on the job as badly as Mitch does here, we have this strange shape: leisurely intro in small town, flashback that eats up half of act one, taking in the first job Mitchum undertakes,the Mexican romance, and a time-lapse leading up to the first murder, then we come out of the flashback at the halfway mark and we get the second job, in San Francisco with a whole new plot and femme fatale (flaming Rhonda Fleming), and then our third act with climax bringing us full circle to the countryside and the original characters. Impressively, it follows the standard proportions of the Hollywood drama without giving you that familiar feeling of knowing where you are in the story.

Plus director Jacques Tourneur, among a hundred thousand felicities, offers this shot –

“The kid” played by Dickie Moore, is a very cool character. Here, the shot is beautiful in itself, and part of its beauty comes from the long lens which softens the background, but also gives us the sense of observing from a distance with Mitchum. It feels very modern when you see it in action.

But ultimately, what’s beautiful about this film goes beyond what can be expressed by talking about individual elements — Tourneur never had such strong material before or since, though I am second to none in my admiration of CAT PEOPLE, NIGHTFALL, NIGHT OF THE DEMON et al. This is the one where his poetic sensitivity rebounded off the material in THE most beautiful way.

BAFTA time

So, I live-tweeted the BAFTA awards, mainly as a form of defending myself against them. The evening was planned to “climax” with an Academy Fellowship bestowed on Vanessa Redgrave, who can always be relied to drone on humorlessly until the assembled dignitaries have formed a geological strata. She did not disappoint.

Here are the tweet highlights (this is a low-budget low-effort blog post).

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Duncan Jones. First award, first weeper, start as you mean to go on.

3D is the wave of the future. Films used to be 2D, and before that they were 1D. Every movie was just a little dot.

“With no traditional cameras capturing the action” — AVATAR is a bit like a book, then.

James Cameron wins BAFTA, boldly resists the urge to yell “I’m King of the UK!”

I can’t believe they gave best supporting actor to a NAZI.

Good to see Harvey Weinstein putting that weight back on. He’ll soon be back to his old gross national product

Harvey’s mojo is cellulite-based. His fat is like Samson’s hair.

And the BAFTA for MOST costumes goes to…

They should just call Best Costume “the Sandy Powell Award.”

Sandy Powell is the Edith Head of modern Britain. She has more gold masks than the vizier in GOLDEN VOYAGE OF SINBAD.

There should be a special Alfred Molina award for Alfred Molina. Or Jim Broadbent.

It seems like British films now scoop up the smaller awards, the way genre films do at the Oscars. Yuck.

Fiona reckons that the short dresses which are worn by some at the BAFTAs prove that it’s not taken as seriously as Oscars.

Still, Britain did well to get a gold face as its award. The body parts were divided around Europe. Estonia got the knees.

“Our vewwy own Wupert Evewett…” the line Jonathan Ross was born to say.

They should make the BAFTA in the likeness of whoever they’re giving it to. Only a hideously distorted likeness. Keep it real.

What’s Andrea Arnold wearing???

Actually, I warm to Andrea Arnold now that she’s started recounting her dreams as part of her acceptance speech. MAD.

(A fellow tweeter tells me that’s AA actually making an effort.)

Green biker jacket. “Effort”? What does she normally wear, topsoil?

They’re rationing their Mickey Rourke reaction shots, but when they use them they really fucking count.

Who’s that with Kate Winslet? Is it Dick Van Dyke?

Have you ever hefted a BAFTA? they weigh a ton. they give Liz Taylor one and it nearly killed her.

You could crack somebody’s skull with a BAFTA. Whereas Oscars are only good for penetrating them sexually.

Fantastically shambolic Kristen Stewart speech. Which I kind of like. You shouldn’t look too much like you know what you’re doing.

Fiona reckons Guy Pearce is looking like Mickey Rooney in BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S.

DISTRICT 9 won’t win anything. They didn’t give anything to Districts 1 thru 8.

Jeez, best animation — they ALL deserve BEST FILM

Scary seeing Terry Gilliam applaud. Short arms, huge hands. Can hardly get his hands far enough apart to clap.

Peter Docter has a head like a pinkie. But from within that pinkie came a GREAT FILM.

Why “best film not in the English language”? Why not “best film not in an English multiplex?”

Actually, the BAFTA only has one eye you can peek thru. They should give one to Peter Falk.

Gabourey Sidibe should win the Most Actress Award.

Yay! BAFTA for Deuce Bigelow, the first male gigolo to win best director.

Firth thanks the fridge repairman, which is nice. But what did he dream last night?

Carey Mulligan shouldn’t win, they should give it to somebody who actually NEEDS a gold mask. Like Mickey Rourke.

Mickey Rourke’s topknot is the only thing holding his face up. Can’t read autocue because his eyes are just drawn on.

Rourke: “and genuine…a plum.” He means “aplomb.” GENIUS!

Carey Mulligan mimes barfing when she wins. Possibly as a strategy to avoid snogging Rourke.

Thought for a mo Dustin H was here to give Vanessa Redgrave her gong. But he’d have put his back out handing it up to her.

It’s THE HURT LOCKER’s night! In your aged face, Cameron! rare to find prizes going to good films in major categories & wrong films in small.

Did Kathryn Bigelow CURTSY? seems odd, but nice.

(Prince William takes over Dickie Attenborough’s old BAFTA post. Uma Thurman introduces Vanessa Redgrave.)

“Born into one of Britain’s great theatrical dynasties…” is she talking about Prince William?

Serkis is drifting off.

Is Vanessa Redgrave going to talk for three hours as usual? They’ve allowed 20 mins for her bit…

Vanessa KNEELS before Prince W? I thought she was supposed to be a frickin Marxist revolutionary?

Vanessa should give Gilliam the use of part of her arms, which are long enough to reach through time & tickle her younger self.

(Gilliam’s arms are so short they’re actually indentations. Like opera gloves going into his torso. Negative arms.)

Audrey Tautou has been staring in incomprehension for this whole evening. “Who? What? Eh?”

Redgrave! STOP!! Think of the starving children!

I knew this would happen.

One wants to believe that Redgrave is senile or drunk, but she’s always like that.

Redgrave apparently thought the lifetime achievement acceptance speech should LAST a lifetime.