Archive for Lauren Bacall

Asynchronous

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , on September 30, 2016 by dcairns

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PICKLED HERRING

I remembered that DARK PASSAGE had a lot of bravura subjective camera stuff at the start, and some unlikely coincidences, but time had erased all other details, so I thought I’d watch it again.

Vince Parry (Humphrey Bogart, a few stand-ins, and a photograph of some other guy) escapes from San Quentin, smuggled in a barrel like the Marx Bros. in MONKEY BUSINESS. When the barrel falls off the wagon, we get the first POV shot, rolling downhill, then an artful POV of the barrel-bottom itself as Parry staggers off. Then we’re into the cool stuff, striking subjective shots as our hero climbs over a fence, thumbs a ride, gets in the car, with cleverly hidden cuts: at one point a pan takes us from a real car on a real road to a studio effects shot (it seems to be a matte rather than the usual process shot — I don’t know why this should be).

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Parry, wanted for murdering Mrs. Parry (he’s innocent, of course) gets plastic surgery which makes him look like Humphrey Bogart — the only time in history anyone has done this. An hour in, Bogie takes the bandages off, so the slower audience members finally realise the reason for all that concealment. Rather than deal with the estrangement of the leading actor being subbed halfway through the film — which is always a problem — Daves has withheld his star from our gaze for most of the movie.

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During the in-between bit, we can see Bogart but he’s swathed in Invisible Man bandages. Oddly, they make him look like Eddie Cantor.

I would like a movie where Humphrey and Eddie play brothers, please.

The reason I forgot most of the movie is that the plot stuff isn’t that interesting, once you get past the weird directorial devices, but you have Bogie & Bacall, and Agnes Moorehead, and a good smarmy turn by ex-Our Gang actor Clifton Young as a gloating blackmailer. Very peculiar to have interest in a film decline when Humphrey Bogart comes in. But he does get to say, to Young, “Tell me, or I’ll shoot it out of you!”

From a novel by eccentric noir/pulp specialist David Goodis, a favourite of the French (SHOOT THE PIANIST, MOON IN THE GUTTER), the film delivers plenty of bizarre stylistic touches, apart from yesterday’s trumpet massacre. Bogie keeps meeting people who randomly want to help him and believe him to be innocent. A friendly cabbie leads him to the rather disreputable-looking plastic surgery who messes his face up. This leads to a groovy ’40s-style expressionistic nightmare sequence ~

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The fascinating thing is the way so many of Daves’ techniques separate Bogart’s face from his body. Or other peoples’ faces from their bodies. The location stuff at the start evidently created sound problems — the camera tends to pan off people before we hear their voices. Of course, the gigantic sound kit of the period couldn’t even fit in a car, so the driving scenes had to be done mute. Bogart has a VO to help us through his POV scenes, but when the actor steps onto the screen for real, wrapped up like the mummy, he is unable to speak because of his operation, and the VO doesn’t come back. Daves even shoots part of a conversation over coffee and candlelight through a window during a rainstorm, so Bacall’s dialogue is unheard.

Maybe because our hero loses his birth-face partway through the story, this separation of face and vocals seems appropriate, somehow meaningful…

An odd thing: with his face and name changed, nobody recognizes Parry, despite his having the most recognizable voice in Hollywood…

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Methot-heads and Bacall Girls

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , on August 19, 2014 by dcairns

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Over at The Chiseler, Phoebe “La Faustin” Green and I examine the persona of an actress so archetypally pre-code in her hard-bitten appeal that it’s impossible to believe she hasn’t been “chiselled” before. The first Mrs. Bogart, Mayo Methot.

A stray thought I forgot to include — I can visualize a Darwinian chart of pre-code women, featuring, instead of Neanderthal, Cro-magnon and Homo sapiens, a line up with Methot on the left, Una Merkel in the middle and Pert Kelton at the right, walking erect. But that’s just me.

Sleep Big

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , on August 13, 2014 by dcairns

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“Being old is like being in a war,” wrote Kurosawa’s AD, Teruyo Nogami. “Each week brings casualty reports.” So, a day after discovering that we had to live in a world without Robin Williams, Lauren Bacall passes away.

The death of an old person isn’t supposed to be tragic, but if you asked the old person you might get a different view. At any rate, though I try not to turn Shadowplay into an obituary column, because deciding who to honour and who to ignore feels kind of obscene, like the role call of the dead at the Oscars, where the applause-o-meter measures the stock of the departed.

The reason Bacall seems impossible to ignore is that she was perhaps the last truly iconic star of the forties. She started young, and lived a long time, (Still Here, reads the title of her autobiography) and so it seemed like she’d always be with us.

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Which, of course, she will.