Archive for the Fashion Category

An Odyssey in Bits: The Fantasy Department

Posted in Dance, Fashion, FILM, MUSIC, Science with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 23, 2019 by dcairns

A spacecraft floats/falls through frame and at the exact moment we realise were going to lose it from view, the big blue balloon of Planet World drifts into view to replace it.

A series of different satellites and vehicles are picked up, as Johann Strauss’s The Blue Danube begins, not without controversy, to play. Here’s Quincy Jones:

“But you can’t get too cute with that sort of thing. I was really bugged by the over use of Strauss waltzes in 2001. That would have been OK as a one-liner, but it bugged me when it developed into the main theme. I knew that Frank Cordell had written Mahler variations for a year and a half for that picture, and they threw it all out. Then Alex North came in and wrote about six reels, and everything he did was thrown out too. I’m sure that between them, those two composers came up with something a lot hipper and a lot more appropriate for a picture that important than what we finally saw. Kubrick had already made that kind of musical point in Dr. Strangelove with “Try a Little Tenderness.” I personally think 2001 is too important a film for this kind of cute musical self-indulgence.” 

Leaving aside the inaccuracies — there’s only one Strauss waltz in the movie and it isn’t the main theme, except of the two sequences it’s used for — does Jones have a point? I doubt anybody today has a problem with the use of library music here. Jones seems concerned that it’s too cheap-sounding for an “important” film.Kubrick’s treatment of his two composers was awful: Cordell was put to work with practically no instructions, whereas North only found out his score had been cast aside in favour of the temp track when he attended the premiere. Imagine sitting there and hearing Also Sprach coming up instead of your close-but-no-cigar title theme. And then thinking, “Oh well, he’ll have used the rest of it.” And then along comes Ligeti. And then The Blue fucking Danube. And on and on until, only after three hours can you be sure that your entire score has been binned. Ouch.

However, I think Kubrick was correct to prefer the Strauss and quite right to say those who had a problem with it were being affected by the associations the piece had for them: ball gowns and tuxedos and waltzing. Whereas he was merely trying to evoke “grace in turning,” which is what the music seems to do. Certainly putting it up over shots of the actual Danube, as Duvivier does in THE GREAT WALTZ, isn’t nearly so effective. Did Jones also object to Clouzot’s use of it in THE WAGES OF FEAR, where it partly accompanies a dance, and partly a truck lumbering homewards?The first spacecraft we see are a bit 2D: they move like photographic cut-outs. But then the big wheel space station hoves into shot and its rotary motion, and the shadows cast over itself by its spokes and ring give it a majestic sense of solidity.

The Pan American spaceliner reminds us that corporations will always let us down: like the neon Atari ads in BLADE RUNNER, they date the thing, although modern audiences probably haven’t even heard of PanAm so they won’t care. The bestest shot in the whole space ballet is when we, out of nothing more than sheer joie de vivre, we fly BETWEEN the rings of the space station. It’s not any of the five normally accepted motivations for camera movement, it’s just WHEE! And maybe making the camera behave like a spaceship. It never flies into position and stops in this sequence. Sometimes it observes from a sort of geostationary point, sometimes it sails past or towards or around the action. It’s a proper zero-gravity camera.This docking bay is VERY Death Star, isn’t it? About the only design trait Lucas’s film shares with Kubrick’s. Love the little windows, all showing, Escher-fashion, different gravities (because the station creates gravity by centrifugal force, and the docking bay is in the hub, gravity is pulling outwards in all directions.

Meet Dr. Heywood Floyd! He’s asleep at the moment but you might as well meet him now as he doesn’t get much more interesting when he’s awake. “I like to work with the best actors in the world,” Kubrick told Michel Ciment, so naturally he got the guy from GORGO and DEVIL DOLL. An American who happened to be a UK resident. But I’m OK with him. W.S. always seems both matter-of-fact and chummy, which suits the character of a space spook, a government guy and scientist. One of the bureaucrats ultimately responsible for HAL’s nervous breakdown, though the movie doesn’t make that clear.The floating pen is such a neat effect: it’s stuck to a big rotating pane of glass in front of the camera, and the stewardess gives it a very slight twist to detach it.

I don’t so much dig how the lines of seats are sunken either side of the central aisle, like a slave galley. Makes me fear that stewardess Edwina Carroll Heather Downham might step on his drifting hand with her grip shoe. Or trip over him and go literally flying.

But I guess the seats being in trenches is an excuse for the low angle showing off the grip shoes.Edwina Heather is very attractive: a flashback to those days when all airline stewardesses were young and pretty, to distract the anxious hetero male passenger, via her pulchritude, from his fear of a fiery death. As one lot of pretty girls retired to get married, the airline could replace them with new, younger models. No more.

TV screens. In-flight movies, shot specially for this movie, and computer read-outs, all running on 16mm. Here’s an extract from John Baxter’s Kubrick bio ~

‘He called me and Ivor Powell into his office one day on 2001,” recalls Andrew Birkin. “He had all these international model directories, and he’d gone through them, marking up all these girls.’

“‘We could get them in,’ he said, ‘for an audition.’

Birkin and Powell looked blank. ‘For what?’

‘We could always say we have to shoot one of those 16mm docking sequences,’ Kubrick mused. (The films of sports and news that appeared on TV screens in the PanAm shuttle sequences were all back-projected 16mm.)

‘But it was all a fantasy,’ Birkin says, ‘He never did it. He also had an obsession about meeting Julie Christie. He was always trying to work out some sort of scheme whereby he could audition her. I knew her a little, and I said, “I’m sure she’d come up if you just called her.” But he didn’t want to do that. It all had to go through the Fantasy Department.’

That’s kind of sweet, or as sweet as casting couch ambitions can be said to get. We could guess from EYES WIDE SHUT that fantasies of adultery were a part of Stanley’s very successful second marriage.The auditions for CLOCKWORK ORANGE don’t sound so sweet.

 

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Past Life Digression

Posted in Fashion, FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , on December 18, 2018 by dcairns

The Late Show: light reprise.

Holy cats, ON A CLEAR DAY YOU CAN SEE FOREVER is quite a thing, isn’t it?

Nutty as it is (blame/credit Alan Lerner), I’d argue that, commercial failure notwithstanding, we could see this as a triumphant conclusion to Vincente Minnelli’s career, were it not for the fact that he made one more movie, A MATTER OF TIME, which was a disaster (recut and partially reshot by AIP, who apparently didn’t notice it was a period movie and spliced in lots of docu-style shots of seventies Rome).

There’s this ordinary girl, see, (only she’s played by Barbra Streisand, so not that ordinary) and she turns out to be really hypnotizable, and shrink Yves Montand discovers he can regress her to a past life and he falls in love with her past life, who was far from ordinary, and meanwhile her present life is romantically complicated by her unsuitable schnook boyfriend and her ex-stepbrother (Jack Nicholson!) and what is Yves Montand to do since he’s in love with a dead girl who he can only contact through her mundane contemporary incarnation who bores him rigid?

Welcome to VERTIGO, the musical. Only it’s barely a musical, since the songs are relatively scarce and usually get played as internal monologue or positioned as fantasies — a translucent apparition of Babs sings to the more solid version of herself, and of course they have great chemistry together). But even if it’s oddly fainthearted as operetta-film, and only a couple of the songs (notable the title number) are memorable, there’s A LOT to enjoy.

Cecil Beaton did the costumes for the period storyline, which feels way underdeveloped in narrative terms but looks astounding. Some friend of Streisand did her modern clothes which are mainly horrid but maybe they’re meant to be? John DeCuir did the production design — check out HIS amazing list of credits. Of course, he had a help from Brighton Pavilion, an amazing location. But he makes the modern-day New York sequences exotic and wild and cinematic too — Minnelli is a director who feeds off his production design (and feeds into it, of course).

The flashbacks are crowded with terrific Brit players — John Le Mesurier turns up just to drop a monocle — Irene Handl and Roy Kinnear and Pamela Brown. And, remarkably, Babs does a spot-on posh English accent and then shares a scene in cockney with her old mum, Handl, where her vocal work is… not embarrassing. No Dick Van Dyke, she. Well, she hasn’t got the legs for it. But you know what I mean.

What she can’t really do — and in fairness nobody seems to be trying to help her — is suggest ordinariness, or suggest why Montand thinks she’s boring and stupid. She plays it full-on kook, which she can certainly do, but she seems more appealing, as a personality, than her previous earthly form. But still, the film, which doesn’t have much of a narrative engine, is able to continually refresh itself by plunging in and out of the past, using a variety of trippy visual devices including stroboscopic flash-cutting, proving that Minnelli had at least noticed what was going on in the visual culture around him.

It’s on Netflix, by the way.

Starring Fanny Brice, Cesar ‘le Papet’ Soubeyran, Maj. Major Major, Schrank, Jake Gittes, Tumak, Queen Eleanor [of Aquitaine], Mrs. Gimble, Private Clapper, Sgt. Wilson, Mr. Alonzo Smith and Eegah.

The Sunday Supertitle: Porn Yesterday

Posted in Fashion, FILM, MUSIC, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , on December 2, 2018 by dcairns

“I believe back in England the papers call you a merchant of death.”

“I know, I keep meaning to write and thank them.”

On the Adriatic private island of a rich arms dealer, a selection of toffs celebrate a “festival of Aphrodite,” justified by a rare astrological occurrence. That’s about it for plot, but the pre-WWI setting gives the coupling a prelapsarian poignancy. And the whole film is out of time: a stylish exercise in period erotica made just a year or two too late to succeed even in its own modest terms.

APHRODITE (1981) is a ripe piece of soft-focus softcore Eurosleaze which happens to be the last feature credit of Robert Fuest (THE ABOMINABLE DR. PHIBES, THE FINAL PROGRAMME), a Shadowplay favourite. Fuest had his fingers burnt by AIP on his previous feature, THE DEVIL’S RAIN, any mention of which would cause him to become incandescent with rage even decades later. It’s a good thing that the subject of APHRODITE never came up, since this artsy and genuinely quite intellectual, or at least plausibly pseudo-intellectual, smut film suffered even more violence at the producers’ hands.

As well as finishing Fuest off (though he directed a fair bit of TV afterwards), this was the last writing credit for actor John Melson, who also attained screenplay credits on BATTLE OF THE BULGE and Alessandro Blasetti’s SIMON BOLIVAR). Unfortunately, he’s given very English dialogue to a pan-European cast who sound very odd saying it: it’s a film that feels badly dubbed even if it might not be. It’s also the last film of its cinematographer, Bernard Daillencourt, a specialist in “classy” porn (BILITIS, THE BEAST) who also participated in Raoul Ruiz’s THE HYPOTHESIS OF THE STOLEN PAINTING: he’s a participant in one of the film’s tableaux vivants. Not sure what became of him: probably rendered obsolete by changing trends in wank-fodder.

The whole thing is so sloppily released that this English-language version begins with a scene-setting text crawl — in French. I reproduce it here for Francophone smut-hounds/historians and so I can spuriously make this post a kind of Sunday Intertitle.

But the film’s quite pleasing in places, even as a ruin of what it might have been if someone hadn’t spliced a lot of grotty porn into the “classy” and “sensual” film Fuest shot. The pretty and pretty debauched people name-dropping Clausewitz while dropping their garments include Horst Buccholtz, a young Valerie Kaprisky, Delia Boccardo and Capucine. What they must have thought of the end product I can’t imagine. To make room for the heavier stuff, presumably those who took it upon themselves to butcher the movie must presumably have ditched plot scenes, since the runtime is under 80 minutes as it is, even with the added toe-sex (yes, someone has sex with a toe). The film as conceived may have been merely EMMANUELLE crossed with a Ferrero Rochet advert with a few historical allusions thrown in, but it was too smart an affair for somebody in charge. A shame: with his fetish for elegant production design and costumes as displayed in the PHIBES films and elsewhere, Fuest could have been trusted to stage a sexy, even kinky film without getting gross.

The, ah, inserts are rammed in willy-nilly, if you’ll forgive the expression, with the original music tracks (Dvorak, Mahler) allowed to continue as the only glue holding the film together. Bob Guccione’s hardcore additions to CALIGULA are comparatively elegantly worked into the narrative by comparison. Vulgarian artistic mutilations can be judged horrible or pleasing only by comparison, you know. Poor Fuest’s relatively delicate but still spicy sequences are interrupted by random organ close-ups, spliced in like commercials for genitalia. We don’t NEED commercials for genitalia!

While it’s true the original movie was, in every sense, kitsch — the sapphic writhings have the listless, lugubrious languidity so common to the late seventies, like all the young lesbians were on Valium to help them deal with being letched at by David Hamilton — it at least had a definite and consistent style, from what we can see here. I used to argue with a producer friend about the director’s creative rights. “Why should the director be presumptively right?” he would propose. “Surely others, equally involved, such as producers, have as much chance of being on the correct side of any artistic disagreement?” I kind of lean towards the assumption that if the director is, as Gilliam likes to say, the filteur rather than the auteur, having one consistent sensibility more or less in control of what goes in or stays out of a movie, will give the thing a cohesion it can’t have if a variety of sensibilities are imposed. So that, even when the director is WRONG, she or he is still the best person to make the choice.

At the end, somewhere offscreen an archduke is assassinated, and the rich shaggers prepare to get even richer as the world burns.

“Even in our new world, there’ll always be a place for you, and me.”