Archive for the Sport Category

Bonita, Meet Belita

Posted in Dance, FILM, Sport with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 25, 2018 by dcairns

  

SUSPENSE (1946). Directed by Frank Tuttle, script by Philip Yordan, who probably hadn’t started fronting yet, so he probably did write it. Here, Bonita Granville, in rare vamp mode, tranmogrifies into ice-skating queen Belita.

Starrng Belita, Captain Mark Markary, Dr. Cyclops, Nancy Drew, Friar Tuck and Toothpick Charlie.

The only ice-skating noir film — apart from MURDER IN THE MUSIC HALL, which also has an intriguing cast (the Honorable Betty Cream, the Spirit of Christmas Past, Trigger).

Eugene Pallette’s last movie before he retreated to his fall-out shelter to await Doomsday. The plot is basically GILDA, without the homoerotic overtones, or any overtones, really.

Well, Albert Dekker does have a cat, which might mean he’s gay. But he also smokes a manly pipe, so he can’t be gay. I’m confused. He and his wife, Belita, have separate beds. But then, everybody in 1946 had separate beds.

“How can I know what you’re talking about if you don’t talk about it?” complains Huge Euge. He speaks for me.

The skating/musical numbers are pretty spectacular — Belita was a ballerina as well as an Olympic skater, so she can really move. Which is more than the rest of the film manages. It takes way too long to set up any source of the titular emotion, and doesn’t give us any reason to care. (But does GILDA? I can’t remember, but I remember it works like gangbusters.) So SUSPENSE succeeds only in moments and sequences — Tuttle may not have drilled his cast into a pacey rendition of the lines, but he stages some interesting angles once the plot finally gets going in the last act.

The drama is HUGELY helped by Daniele Amfitheatrof’s score — remember how much he contributed to LETTER FROM AN UNKNOWN WOMAN? Even if Ophuls complained that the Hollywood composer was like the man with the cheese in an Italian restaurant, always ready to dart in and spoon some more parmesan on our spaghetti when you’re not looking. “You have to watch him.”

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Debonair

Posted in FILM, MUSIC, Sport, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 31, 2018 by dcairns

Slow news day. And I’m now heading into Hell, as my viewing of feature film submissions for Edinburgh Film Festival crashes into my viewing of short films as applications for Edinburgh College of Art Film & Television Department. There will be hundreds of features and hundreds of shorts. So, probably no time for watching ANYTHING apart from snatches of BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA and I can’t write about any of the films I see for eminently reasonable privacy reasons.

BUT — my friend Travis, an ace sound editor, got in touch the other day and mentioned a clip he was going to use in a class of sound designers. It’s his favourite bit from RAGING BULL, with the mysterious close-ups of coffee cups and a coffee cup HANDLE. Scorsese is still doing these giant detail shots in SILENCE and WOLF OF WALL STREET, where Jonah Hill spots Leo’s car and it fragments into what Werner might call ECSTATIC SNAPSHOTS. The whole sequence is such a compendium of unusual choices, maybe I can just talk about THAT today.

It’s 11 am. on Wednesday the 31st of January. Watch me run a 50-yard dash with my legs cut off.We’re an hour into Scorsese’s 1980 monsterpiece. Joe Pesci as Joey La Motta slams Frank Vincent as Salvy’s head in a taxi cab door in a fit of pique. It’s a scene of high noise and chaos, the violent blows underplayed if anything in favour of the vocal panic of onlookers. Then, Scorsese and his mixing team do something very curious.

All the din fades down, while the onscreen action remains furious (though we do withdraw to a more placid, distant high angle, almost a Hitchcock God shot) and Mascagni’s Barcarolle bleeds in, wafting a discordant gentleness over the brutish proceedings. (Scorsese has talked about how the violence he saw in the streets as a kid was often accompanied by wildly contrapuntal love songs on neighbourhood radios, so that the more literal accompaniment he heard in the movies always seemed terribly mediocre.) Emotion recollected in tranquility.Then we cut to the Debonair Social Club, which should be hilarious in contrast to the preceding skull-cracking, but the music and the wideness of the shot kind of quashes the humour, deliberately. Scorsese cuts to the sign AFTER, to avoid making the joke quite coalesce. I don’t know what Travis was going to talk about in class, except that he was struck by how this rainy street scene, with a man running by to get out of the downpour, has no rain FX and no footsteps foley. Just the music, so this transitional mood overlay, which is not emotionally appropriate in any obvious way for the fight scene or the resulting negotiation we’re about to see, dominates the soundtrack and, in one very practical sense, smoothes over the gear change from one to the other.

More detail shots: the club license, framed respectably on the wall (these mob places are impossible to get into if you’re not, ahem, in the club: but I *think* maybe they filmed in a real joint. And it was slightly awkward, iirc.)  Then, as we get details of coffee-making and cups, we hear the gentle voice of “Coach” from Cheers, Nicholas Colasanto, smoothing the ruffled feathers and making nice with Pesci and the heavily bandaged Vincent, which is where the scene DOES allow some humour to break loose.

The voice is so low and reasonable and soothing, it’s the first thing that really makes sense with the music, though the circumstances still seem some considerable ironic distance from the plot of Silvano, Mascagni’s “sea-faring drama.”

That coffee-cup handle… so mysterious. How does one think of something like that. And what does it do? it makes us see an object, really SEE it, in a new way. It gives a great impression of DAINTINESS. You can sort of picture an invisible pinky sticking out as this cup is raised. Again, this could be funny, but isn’t, exactly.Cut to card-players’ hands, with a used coffee cup — is Ozu an influence here? I had been thinking Kurosawa — the bit where Mifune chooses the name Sanjuro by looking at a cornfield in YOJIMBO comes to mind — but using the idea of a coffee cup to dance from the kitchen or bar to the front of the establishment seems very like the way Ozu’s detail shots can transport us through space-time on a thread of mental connections between objects. “You don’t raise your hands,” Colasanto is saying, which is the most specific sound-picture connection we’ve had so far.

And STILL we don’t see the man talking, we just get a wider shot of the calm, stolid card-players.So, if this is what you’ve been doing, you need to keep it up, right? So now we finally go to the group this scene is about, and Colasanto’s voice has finally faded up to full volume (still soft and throaty), but instead of showing the speaker, we’re on the listeners, the patched-up Salvy and the glowering Joey, sort of trying to look like an altar boy, an amusing thing to see as Colasanto waves a hand and says, his back to us, “Now, we’ve heard everyone’s point of view…”

We only see the room in a wide shot when this part of the interview is over, which allows a sort of mental reset for the next piece of business —Finally, by now, the music has finished fading down, so slowly you don’t notice it leaving. It’s replaced by an almost totally inaudible piece of diegetic music playing somewhere, slight atmospheric creaks and clicks and fidgeting noises, the sounds of general movement in the club, but almost no except those of the principles, despite the fact that people seem like they’re probably talking in the background if you think about it realistically, and maybe the distant clank and rumble of an elevated train.

OK, it’s 11.39, time for me to get on with my day…

Rocky start

Posted in FILM, Sport with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 26, 2018 by dcairns

SOMEBODY UP THERE LIKES ME is perhaps a better David Bowie song than it is a Robert Wise film, but it’s an interesting Robert Wise film. It’s hampered by being an unsuitable vehicle for Paul Newman, who seems to be trying awfully hard, which is of course a problem. I can believe him as a boxer. I can’t believe him as an Italianamerican (ironically, or crazily, Pier Angeli, a real Italian, plays Jewish while the half-Jewish Newman plays Italianamerican). And I can’t believe him as a mook.

Everett Sloane provides a bit of ethnic authenticity with screenwriter Ernest Lehman giving him the best lines. Sloane must be on or about his last nose reduction by now, but still looks like a guy with a big schnozz. Even though most of it’s been shaved off, you can still see it. The phantom nose.

Wise has a strategy for getting us immersed in the film before this becomes a problem, which is to hit ramming speed as soon as the main titles are over and maintain that for most of the first act. To the sheer speed is added tremendous force and, if you’ll excuse the expression, punchiness. Despite his low-budget beginnings, Wise developed a gift for making settings epic, and the New York scenes here have the same kind of breadth and dynamism he brought to WEST SIDE STORY and even THE SOUND OF MUSIC (it’s big and bloated but it MOVES). Wise, like fellow editor Mark Robson, did a lot of these overblown epics of the fifties and sixties but he was often able to put them on ball bearings and get some momentum going.

I thought it was funny that Sal Mineo stays a teenager as years go by. “Why isn’t he growing up?”

“I think he’s pretty well cooked,” said Fiona. “He’s not getting any bigger.”

I never quite got over Newman’s wrongness. Is it because I’ve seen him in too many WASP-y and articulate roles to buy this? I don’t think so. He can do the body language, in a slightly over-the-top way, and he can sort of make the sounds, but the rhythms seems way off throughout.

Cinematographer Joseph Ruttenberg earned his Oscar — you can see little stabs at the kind of furious expressivity RAGING BULL would introduce to the ring — this feels like the one Scorsese and Michael Chapman and Thelma Schoonmaker drew most from. But I still have to see THE SET-UP, shamefully enough.