Archive for April 19, 2008

Big Bad Night

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 19, 2008 by dcairns

Christopher Weedman is possibly the world expert on actor Donald Pleasence — he certainly has an unbeatable enthusiasm for that fine thespian’s work. For years he’s supplied me with fine quality movies from the US, until my shelving groans and warps beneath the accumulated weight.

In exchange I’ve been able to supply him with a few oddities, including a rare Pleasence TV interview, and the novelty Public Information Film LONELY WATER, narrated by the Great Pleasence, which so traumatised millions of kids around my age in the UK back in the ’70s. Warning: This Film Will Shit You Up Big Style.

Although intended as a gentle warning to schoolkids, and screened amid children’s programming, the short’s more natural home would be as support to Nic Roeg’s DON’T LOOK NOW… (Which would make an ideal “See Venice and Die” Fever Dream Double Feature with Schrader’s THE COMFORT OF STRANGERS.)

Anyhow, through a strange turn of events, I acquired a copy of Joseph Losey’s M (thanks, Brandon!) just as Chris was preparing to write something about Losey, and so another trade was swiftly consummated — David Ehrenstein and Dan Sallitt had both been commending THE BIG NIGHT as one of Losey’s very best US films, and Chris was able to send me a copy.

It more than lives up to the praise.

Losey’s films, to which I am only just becoming acclimatized, seem to fall into two camps: some are weird, disjointed, tonally or structurally peculiar — fascinating for their weaknesses as much of their strengths. His failures (a personal selection: BOOM!; MODESTY BLAISE; THE BOY WITH GREEN HAIR; SECRET CEREMONY; THESE ARE THE DAMNED) are more fascinating than many filmmakers’ successes. The other films are maybe still strange, but so thematically and structurally tight and well-organised, that their weirdness passes by as the most natural thing in the world. The theatrical dialogue and pacing of KING AND COUNTRY, and its tiny set, and Reginald Mill’s dislocated cutting, which drops odd inserts of pre-war life into the trenches, are part of a concept so unified and well thought-through that nothing can be questioned. The Pinter-scripted films are certainly peculiar, but the strangeness feels wholly necessary. THE PROWLER unfolds with the urgency and predestined horror of a bad dream.

THE BIG NIGHT is deeply strange, in a way that’s hard to pin down but seems very forcefully present, unavoidable. John Barrymore Jnr. plays a teenager seeking to avenge his father, who has been publicly beaten and humiliated by Al Judge, crippled sports writer. The film follows the boy through a long, long night, as he tries to track down the celebrity and confront him, seemingly with no definite plan of what to do when they meet — though he’s brought a gun along.

Complicating matters is Barrymore’s emotionally distant relationship with his father — he loves him but can’t communicate with him. Who is he avenging? Is this whole scheme just an attempt to get his father’s attention? This is very much a film about dads — JB Jnr. lived very much in the shadow of his famous father, and resembles John Barrymore caught in the act of morphing into Drew Barrymore. The fact that putative villain Al Judge is a sports writer, like uncredited screenwriter Ring Lardner Jnr’s famous dad, and the fact that the actor playing him (Howard St. John, beautifully repulsive) closely resembles Losey, and therefore perhaps Losey’s father, is all pretty fascinating.

The film positively invites one of those dull Freudian readings — bad father usurps the place of good father, and son must destroy him in order to become a man. It’s very much like the arc of Lynch’s BLUE VELVET, which author JG Ballard has subjected to a rigidly psychoanalytic reading, complete with primal scene (“Mommy loves you!”), but while the reading may be valid, and in Losey’s case quite possibly intended, to reduce the film solely to this schematic is to do it a disservice. Whatever the value of dream analysis, to translate a nightmare into symbols and archetypes is to rob it of much of its resonance and terror.

One of the odd thrills of the film is the strange way Al Judge is presented. Surrounded by goons and hangers-on (including the magnificently depraved Emile Meyer (from SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS — “C’m’ere, I wanna chastise ya!”) and regarded with fear and awe by everybody from cops to stationers (yes, even the stationers fear him!), he should be rights be a gang lord, not a sports writer. The film’s vision of the sports writer as all-powerful demi-god seems strange to me, rather like regarding The Guardian’s football columnist Russell Brand as Satan. Actually, maybe not so odd.

Howard St John gives the performance of the film, and of his life-time, a seething portrait of wickedness which surprises just because it’s so unconnected to his perfectly plausible psychological motivation. Judge, whose name comes to feel symbolic, but not in a CLEAR way, is awful out of all proportion to his situation, just as he’s powerful out of all proportion to his role in society. The journey to face him is frightening and suspenseful in part because we already have an idea how bad he is, and it pays off dramatically when he proves himself even worse than we suspected.

And when the villain turns out to have a pretty strong motivation for his foul act, yet still acts like a depraved sleazoid, we’re in Lynch territory again — some people are just EVIL. While the rich and powerful turning out to be corrupt and vicious seems understandable in a film made by left-wingers, the pervading sense of cruelty and viciousness in the film lacks any obvious motivation. We first meet the Great Profile Jnr. being bullied by other kids, and the barflies in his father’s joint seem like rubberneckers at an accident during and after the beating, and the news quickly spreads to the stationer’s next door, where one weedy customer clearly regards it as a Big Joke. Cops are corrupt and the only intellectual is a weak and unreliable drunkard.

Adding to the oddness is the shoehorning of other issues into the narrative, with singer Mauri Lynn as The Tragedy of Race in America. Her role comes from nowhere and goes nowhere, but allows for a beautiful scene, and if it doesn’t really belong I can’t fault the filmmakers for wanting to raise the issue — certainly nobody was going to invite Losey and Lardner to make a whole film about the subject.

There’s Dorothy Comingore, too, soon to vanish from the screen as the McCarthy era began in earnest. Directors and writers could more easily work abroad and under pseudonyms (Losey’s included Andrea Forzano, Terence Hanbury, Joseph Walton), but film actors, whose faces were their fortunes, could be totally eradicated by blacklisting, especially if they lacked experience in theatre. Comingore’s gentle yet somewhat bitter performance here, far more modulated than her similar drunken good-time gal in CITIZEN KANE, is a sad reminder of the kind of talent the film industry squandered.

The movie isn’t your typical noir — the teen hero differentiates it at once, and Losey’s sympathy for the young man straining towards adulthood connects him to his fellow Wisconsonite Nick Ray and REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE — both films are unusual 50s stories for the seriousness and sympathy they apply to the problems of the young. Losey’s own fatherly concern for Barrymore was grotesquely betrayed when JB confessed, much later, to having followed Losey around, reporting to the F.B.I. on any suspiciously commie activities.

In his leading role here, John Drew Barrymore’s not exactly charismatic — he’s not his father or even his daughter — but he starts to exert a curious counter-charismatic appeal. He’s authentically awkward and self-conscious. The performance seems to mature as the character does. He ultimately seems more affecting and honest than a more slick or handsome boy might have been. And his very unsuitability for leading man status is appropriate to a film as off-centre, unglamorous and unpredictable as this.

Carpe Liber!

Posted in FILM, literature, Theatre with tags , , , on April 19, 2008 by dcairns

One of the wisest things I ever heard was in the Cinema Bookshop in London. I always like to go there whenever I’m down — come to think of it, haven’t been in YEARS — and on this occasion I was there with Fiona and producer Nigel Smith. I was trying to decide whether to buy a pricey coffee-table type volume about Sergio Leone. I had been amazed at finding it, having never seen a copy or even having heard of it, and this was before Sir Christopher Frayling’s mammoth biography, so there was a sparsity of Leone literature around. And yet, there was the price.

Nigel said, “If you want to buy it, buy it NOW.” He was right — I’ve never seen a copy of that book for sale since. It probably helped sway me that the Cinema Shop had been the site of one major deferred purchase I’ve always regretted.

I’d found a copy of Dan Leno: Hys Booke, written by himself, A volume of frivolities, etc. A slender volume at a high price, it was really beyond my financial limits at the time. And yet I bet it was a bargain. Leno had nothing to do with cinema, he was a Victorian music hall star — and a fascinating figure. His book seemed very funny, but I can’t remember any of what I read. I can only remember a joke I saw quoted by comedy expert Roy Hudd on TV: “I found myself washed up on a desert island. Discovering a piece of fruitcake, I noticed that all the currants had been removed, and I rejoiced at this sign of civilisation.”

Hys Booke, as the title suggests, was crazy with wordplay, like a mid-period Spike Milligan novel, which made sense given Leno’s eventual insanity — incessant punning can be a feature of mania. At any rate, I’ve always regretted not picking it up.

The other book I really really regret not buying wasn’t even expensive, I just couldn’t decide if I neededit or not. A couple of days later I returned to Till’s Bookshop in Edinburgh, and dealt with the art of Charles Altamont Doyle, father of the more famous son of Edinburgh, Arthur Conan Doyle. Doyle Snr suffered from depression, alcoholism and eventually, complete insanity, having failed to earn a living by his drawing and painting. But it’s wondrous stuff, and touched with madness from the get-go. Like his brother Richard, Charles Doyle painted scenes of Fairyland, with less skill but with more eccentricity — and eccentricity is essential in lifting Victorian fairy art out of the realms of the twee and back into the scary world of Celtic and Old English mythology where it rightfully belongs.

One ilustration, entitled Kissing the Sphinx, seemed to me gloriously perverse and erotic, though perhaps mainly for its title. Illustration-wise it’s admittedly trumped by THIS BEAUTY by Franz Von Stuck.

Stuck On You

Again, I’ve never seen the Doyle book for sale anywhere since.

HAPPY ENDING — I was forgetting, this is the Age of the Internet (how can I forget it when I’m ON it?) — the book, The Doyle Diary, is readily available secondhand on Amazon! Ordered — for 1 penny!

Dan Leno, His Booke, is likewise available, but even more expensive that it was in the Cinema Shop… I’ll have to delay that one until I’m rich.

Nevertheless, I think Nigel’s general point holds true.