Archive for American International Pictures

Party Down

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , on May 5, 2014 by dcairns

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My impression of James Ivory was formed by the films I saw in the 90s, which seemed like the antithesis of cinema to me then but were often held up as embodying what our movies should be about. I didn’t enjoy A Room with a View when I was forced to read it at school — I found Ivory’s film slightly easier to take because it could be consumed more quickly, but really — he managed to get a bad performance from Denholm Elliott, which ought to be impossible, by miscasting him as a slightly vulgar lower-middle-class parvenu. It’s the only role in the book that doesn’t require a toff, and he cast a toff. I thought Daniel Day-Lewis was overdoing things too. What else did I see? THE REMAINS OF THE DAY, which was OK, but didn’t seem to know what to do with the book’s political dimension.

So THE WILD PARTY (1975) was something I entered into with middling expectations. It has an intriguing central duo: James Coco, who’s great, and Raquel Welch. at her loveliest — “THAT is a GODDESS,” declared Fiona — and giving probably her best performance, which is to say she’s OK, and she sings and dances real good. But here comes her director, cutting away from her big dance number in order to get back to his “plot” — unforgivable! Revenge for Raquel making him apologise to her in front of everyone after he criticised her performance a bit insensitively?

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Spirited rendition of “Singapore Sally,” sat in Buddha’s lap.

As is typical with Ivory, the costumes and art direction are a treat, and here the setting is one I like a lot more than the Edwardian era. And then there’s the movie’s strangest feature, the fact that it’s based, nominally at least, on a narrative poem by John Moncure March. Not many narrative poems get filmed. Dante’s Inferno, yes, but not so much Paradise Lost. In fact, Walter Marks’ script rewrites the story completely, upscales the social setting to suit Ivory’s poshlust, and makes it a kind of dream-amalgamation of the Arbuckle scandal and the Thomas Ince “shooting” — even the verse has to be substantially rewritten. Relatively small amounts of it are spoken in VO, but they’re my favourite parts of the film –

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Because, let’s face it, Ivory sucks at directing dramatic scenes. He can do homage to the decor, but his photographs of people talking are just that, and his scenes go so flat you could slide them under the door before they’re half over. Several times he actually keeps the film running as the actors walk off the set, as if what he really wanted was to film the empty room, all that scenic dressing at last unobstructed by the damn cast. The actors are all good — in medium shot and long shot. Everybody’s playing too big for close-up (except maybe Coco, sometimes), but they must have their close-ups.

I have to admit, though, the songs (by Marks again) are very enjoyable. The movie probably needed a Ken Russell to do full justice to them, but Ivory scrapes by.

Ultimately, the film stops an entire act too soon (but not soon enough). It mattered that Roscoe Arbuckle was a movie star accused of a crime because the press crucified him. It mattered that William Randolph Hearst was a press baron and his supposed victim a movie director because the press didn’t cover it at all. Why does it matter that “Jolly Grimm” is a famous comedian? After “fat guy goes nutzoid,” is he treated any differently than you or I would be? If not, why tell this story?

 

 

Life Without Soul

Posted in FILM, MUSIC, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 18, 2012 by dcairns

BLACKENSTEIN, or to give it its full, for-morons title, BLACKENSTEIN THE BLACK FRANKENSTEIN, is commendable for one reason — Sam Z. Arkoff at AIP was planning a film on this theme to  follow up BLACULA, but Frank R Saletri, an even cheapjackier producer, jumped in and made a film with that title before Arkoff (who, ironically, had a Mad Scientist Name) could get around to it. Which may have given AIP and Corman the idea of rushing out exploitation movie cash-ins before the studio’s big movies hit the screens…

Otherwise, BLACKENSTEIN is terrible, sometimes in interesting ways. It’s one of those sub-professional jobs that moves differently than normal movies, like the way THE ROOM or PLAN 9 wind up making you feel slightly stoned. One can’t judge the films as wholly unsuccessful because it’s not clear really what effect they’re aiming for. They may in fact be very successfully transporting us into the warped consciousness of their respective filmmakers.

Of course, film is a collaborative medium, and director William A Levey (beginning a flabbergasting near-20 year career, flabbergasting in that it wasn’t stillborn after this headless turkey), executing (in both the regular and judicial sense of the word) Saletri’s script of Arkoff’s title, had help. He enlisted a cast who could not only deliver his impoverished vision, but actually enhance it with ineptitudes of their own, and an editor (himself), who fails to see the difference between “dramatic tension” and “balls-achingly long shot of a guy crossing a room.”

BUT — add 1 point for audacity. Eddie Turner steps on a landmine in Viet Nam and loses all four of his major limbs. Prince Randian from FREAKS was apparently unavailable  that week, no doubt busy sorting his nifty collection of body stockings, so the role goes to large man John De Sue, who brings all of his considerable bulk to bear on it. His plywood fiancee (Ivory Stone) prevails upon Dr Stein (John Hart — underplaying to the point of astral projection in a desperate attempt to appear elsewhere than on this screen, in this movie) to attach new bits using his revolutionary DNA and laser fusion treatment. Despite this modern jargon, Stein still operates in a castle (in LA!) with Kenneth Strickfaden’s electrical toys from the original 1931 FRANKENSTEIN (the one touch of class in the movie). Oh, and the lab also makes pinging computer noises recognizable from Star Trek.

But — and it’s a BIG but — what could have been an inspirational tale of medical miracles goes tragically crap when “Malcomb” (sic) the lab assistant/butler conceives a passion for Ivory Stone. She rebuffs him gently (“This won’t affect our friendship”) and he reacts as mildly as any of us might, contaminating Eddie’s DNA serum with concentrated madman juice. This plot turn is very funny since Rooseveldt Jackson plays Malcomb like Lurch from The Addams Family, sepulchrally monosyllabic, until he suddenly gains fluency for his confession of love — then reverts to total silence for the rest of the film.

“I don’t feel right,” says Eddie, whose whole performance has seemed sunk in a slough of despond, or a slough of something, anyway. I don’t know what you’d call it. But he wears misery around his neck like a toilet seat. True, he has just lost his arms and legs, but he never even looks cheered by the prospect of new ones. Timothy Bottoms in JOHNNY GOT HIS GUN looked cheerier, and he didn’t even have a face. But even as De Sue’s lack of expression hurts the film by turning the protagonist into a potato, it adds a sort of morbid credibility, enhancing the film’s primary characteristic: its squalid, depressant lifelessness.

Eddie’s loving partner and doctor react to his confession of “not feeling right” (and his sudden presentation of a bulging browline much like Bernie Casey’s in DR BLACK, MR HYDE or Carol Speed’s in ABBY — always a Bad Sign) by moving him to the dungeon suite (of course, every modern clinic has one). But they thoughtfully leave the door open so he can go midnight rambling murdering. Victim one is a veteran’s home attendant who tormented him in a crazy bit early on (a mixture of sneering mockery and pitiful self-exposure: nonsensical but, like Eddie’s low-affect gloom, oddly credible: “Aw, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”) Eddie finds the guy and pulls his arm off.

He leaves with the limb, but by the miracle of bad continuity, loses it somewhere. Then he kills a cute dog (I had hoped he’d give it the arm), disturbing the mutt’s mistress, Liz Renay, real-life mistress of mob boss Mickey Cohen. With her voluminous Diana Dors hair and voluminous Diana Dors body, Liz is actually a compelling screen presence, but not for long. Wandering outside to investigate in her see-through shorty nightie, displaying what I guess we must still technically call her “charms,” Liz is swiftly disemboweled by the not right linebacker with the flat-top afro.

The same dress turns up on two different characters.

Essence of Man.

Best dialogue –

Cop: “Tell me what happened.”

Bad nightclub comedian: “I already told you.”

Cop: “Well, try to describe it.”

The music is a joy throughout — misplaced cues of terror and suspense pop up seemingly at random, and the obligatory “teens making out in a parked car” bit comes with radio source music attempting a lush rephrasing of “Good King Wenceslas.”

A third-act attempted rape explains why the filmmakers couldn’t find a stronger actress than Stone for their leading lady: even in the seventies, when an ambitious actress was expected to play degrading trash and try to make something out of it, this is a horrible role.

The Viet Nam reference is never used for anything but a plot pretext, which makes the movie kind of a trailblazer, exploiting the attendant emotions of current events for “resonance” without making the tactical error of actually saying anything about them, which has now become an official policy in Hollywood (stand up, Christopher Nolan). Likewise, Blackenstein’s death, torn apart by police dogs, may be intended to hark back to slavery, but to what purpose? The only major white character in the film as trying to help Eddie — he was undone by Malcomb, a black man.

The main message we can take away from BLACKENSTEIN THE BLACK FRANKENSTEIN is from Eddie’s gratuitously murdering his fellow patients and then dying himself — sick people make us uncomfortable and we’d prefer for them to be dead rather than cured.

“But doc, I told you, there’s nothing wrong with that part…”

Honorable mention: the credits at the end descend, rather than ascending in the conventional manner, a homage to KISS ME DEADLY showing that some of the film’s awkward, peculiar construction is the result of a deliberate attempt to defy convention. Add one Shadowplay bonus point for effort.

Come to Think Of It…

Posted in Comics, FILM with tags , , , , , , , on April 18, 2008 by dcairns

American International Pictures? The name makes no sense. WHICH IS IT??? American or international?

Studio names have always been a bit baffling. As a very small child I had no idea that the “Bros” in “Warner Bros” meant “brothers”. And certainly I’d never encountered a human being called Walt, let alone Walt Disney (although the soundalike word “disnae” is Scots vernacular for “don’t”).

But the greatest mystery was always Twentieth Century Fox. What kind of fox is that? While I figured out Disney and Warner early on, it probably took me twenty years to learn how the Fox Film Corporation joined forces with Twentieth Century Pictures. A similar merger accounts for one of the comics I read as a kid being called Whizzer & Chips — an unlikely pairing! Although having that answer really just trades one question for two: why Whizzer?  Wherefore Chips?

Who whizzed on my chips?

I don’t think I’d ever wondered what R.K.O. stood for (although I certainly scratched my head over “An R.K.O. Radio Picture” — “radio picture”…???). Now that I know the answer — Radio Keith Orpheum — I’m none the wiser. But it sounds like an instruction, doesn’t it? If anybody knows what frequency Keith is on, please radio him.

On a marginally more modern note, Miramax, which sounds like a luxury hotel somewhere in the Arab Emirates, is actually a combination of the names of the parents (Mira, Max) of founding brothers Bob and Harvey Weinstein. If only Weinstein mere et pere had been called Fuchsia and Hedley, what a different and, on the whole, more enchanting world this might be.

(If somebody wants to photoshop the resulting logo, I’ll gladly run it!)

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