Archive for Lewis Milestone

The Monday Intertitle: Moll Quiet

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2014 by dcairns

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“I’m pretty influential as Lefty Hiroshi.”

Beautiful deco kanji in an intertitle from Ozu’s 1933 DRAGNET GIRL, screened at the Hippodrome Festival of Silent Cinema, Bo’ness. This may be becoming my favourite Ozu, but I have lots more still to see. I’m really an Ozu newbie. It was about ten years ago I saw a bunch of late ones screened on Film4, and made a point of catching up with TOKYO STORY, but the ones I’ve seen outside of those experiences mean more to me.

Chris Fujiwara, introducing the film, suggested that the large number of intertitles in the film may have been Ozu’s way of constraining the benshi, those sometimes-overzealous film describers who had a tendency to not just read out the titles for the benefit of non-readers, but to embellish the plots and elucidate the subtext and supply the thoughts of every character. They would scarcely have time in this movie.

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Image from here.

DRAGNET GIRL was screened with a live score by Jane Gardner, whose accompaniment of THE GOOSE WOMAN last year was a highlight. I found a couple of the scores on Saturday to be over-amplified — the venue is small and has excellent acoustics anyway. THE LAST LAUGH screened with a new arrangement of the original score, which was absolutely brilliant, but the violin and whistle could be a little piercing. Ozu is usually thought of as “restrained” and “minimalist” (not to mention “transcendent”) and if that were true of DRAGNET GIRL the piano, violin and percussion score would have been too lush, emotive and emphatic. But this middle period film is, as Chris said, very *free* — Ozu allows himself more camera movement, much of it lateral (the movie poster on the wall in the background for ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT suggests where that may have come from; otherwise, Sternberg and UNDERWORLD and the lost DRAGNET are clearly influences) but one shot rotating slowly around a big white coffee pot (symbol of the decadent western influence, we are told) rather like a prototype for the cuts in later films which will pivot our perspective around an orienting object such as a red kettle.

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And this is a crime melodrama — albeit one which avoids most of the possible cues for melodramatic incidents, admittedly. What looks like being a hit by typist/moll Kinuyo Tanaka upon her romantic rival, is averted by a girl-on-girl kiss which has as much impact — and is presented with even more aversion of the camera eye to protect the innocent — as an assassination would in a conventional gangster flick. But things do eventually reach a pitch of high tension and jeopardy, as our heroes go on the lam after a heist (really the only bit of crime-for-profit glimpsed in the movie).

And so the score seemed an apt expression of the emotions lurking just beneath the polite surface of the characters. And it was absolutely beautiful, which is important, because so’s the film.

I must have a word with Jane to see if I can get copies of her stuff so I can walk around with it playing in my head.

No Incident on a Street Corner

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2014 by dcairns

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I was talking about this celebrated bit from Antonioni’s L’ECLISSE to students the other day (it allowed me to steal Benny Hill’s joke about knowing how to spell Antonioni but not knowing when to stop) and I thought I’d write it up.

So, at this point in the film, Monica Vitti and Alain Delon have met several times at this particular location. On this occasion, neither one of them turns up. But Antonioni, who is nothing if not diligent, does, and presents us with what happens, or fails to happen. The scene, a movie deprived of its stars, resembles a documentary in some ways (because those could be foolishly defined as movies without stars) but is obviously created with complete care and artifice. Without any real subject, it becomes about time passing. It’s also possessed of a various narrative tension, which I will try to unravel.

“If you want reality, go out and look at the street corner — it’s boring!” Orson Welles once told an actor in the theatre. And Orson DID NOT care for Antonioni’s movies, denouncing the maestro’s tendency to linger on things. Though he may well have been thinking of the last shot of THE PASSENGER, a long take very different in effect from those in his own works, and one that takes forever to imperceptibly deliver a startling conclusion in a quite indirect way, this scene, a portrait of a street corner, would seem to be Welles’ nightmare come to life. Why do I find it so electrifying? Even when extracted by Martin Scorsese for his Voyage to Italy documentary, it thrills.

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Antonioni opens (cutting directly from the previous scene, which DOES feature Vitti) to a nursemaid pushing a pram, then pans to a view of the construction site with water jetting in front of it. The particularities of the view, especially the space-age structure in the distance, already hint that a street corner might be more interesting than it sounds. The perverse pan, motivated by nothing we can understand, takes us away from the most human part of the shot, the nanny, and shows us, arguably, nothing. So we’re aware of the camera’s behaviour already — like the prowling lurker of a horror movie, it has its own will and roves about, unseen by the pedestrians, intent on business of its own.

Antonioni now follows a stratagem repeated throughout the sequence, cutting in to a detail — often, this is a detail established in a wider view, but here, the heap of concrete misshapes (a miniature city of the future, a Max Ernst decalcomaniacal landscape) is merely something whose existence we might infer from the previous picture. Like the good little slaves of Kuleshov that we are, we are forced to assume a connection between the two.

MA then serves up a wooden fence, retreating at sharp perspective, and by now a definite tension is building. This looks like a shot that should be inhabited. And we’ve had what ought to have served as an establishing shot, then two detail shots, and still nothing. Because film scenes by definition are supposed to have things happening in them, an audience in 1962 as today would surely start to feel antsy around now.

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A drum of water. Tied to the previous shot by the fenceposts running by it. And a shot that can’t really be expected to contain any actors at all, unless Delon is suddenly going to surface wearing a snorkel. So, an establishing shot and THREE details. The audience may justifiably feel that this scene is allowed one last chance to resolve into a series of reported events. Also, Antonioni may have displayed the first of several influences –

1) — would be Ozu, who famously uses shots that are positioned somewhat like establishing shots but which refuse to behave exactly right. If, as DePalma has argued, “establishing shots are a waste of time,” (he has a point — if all the shot is doing is setting the scene, you haven’t chosen an effective beginning), then Ozu’s shots waste far too much time to even qualify as establishing shots. They take us on a dance through space, as Antonioni has just done with his building site / breeze blocks / fence barrel juxtapositions.

2) — would be my man Lewis Milestone, who uses a similar shot of a water barrel as part of a sequence of details at the start of RAIN — details which recurs as the film goes on, showing the passage of time via the developing rainstorm. Though experimental up to a point, Milestone’s inserts conform sufficiently to Hollywood narrative norms by virtue of being brief.

Ahah! thinks the poor audience, as Antonioni tilts from the can of water, panning slightly — he’s going somewhere, something’s up — and he winds up with THIS composition –

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Wonderfully bleak and denatured. A shot that positively screams out for a passer-by to give it meaning, intent, direction. It’s not even ideally frames as a shot of a zebra crossing. There’s a tree AND a sign in the way. The lady with the pram now a distant memory, this begins to feel like Rome after a neutron bomb strike.

3) Stanley Kramer’s ON THE BEACH came out in 1959. It’s vast shots of an empty city are memorable, and rather surreal, since the concept of the neutron bomb didn’t even exist at the time.

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Modernism! This low-angle on the half-constructed building shrouded in a weird wicker-like covering manages to suggest a definite POV of an unseen spectator and a likeness to a modern art abstract sculpture. How does Antonioni really feel about brutalist architecture? I know it’s a vital symbol of the anomie he anatomizes, but he’s so visually excited by it that I can’t believe he doesn’t love it a little too — like Tati and the gadgets and towers of Tativille. Would you give your name to a fictional city you didn’t love? Is there a street or apartment complex or multi-storey car park named after Antonioni? There should be.

The next shots dance around the site’s scaffolding, the upper reaches of which form a naked skeleton of a building as seen by X-Ray Milland, or a climbing frame for giants. Clouds drift, the most alive things we have seen lately.

And then Antonioni returns to street level, without the aid of a visual link, signalling the start of a new movement in this near-silent city symphony. A tree. Empty space behind it. And then a horse and buggy canters through frame, pulling our eye left, where we pause to pick up the nanny and pram again, a clue that this has not been a montage of empty hours, but is an ongoing glimpse in near-real time of a quiet street. The sudden fast action and a shot which, for a few seconds at least, actually follows a subject matter, startle us awake.

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Shadows of trees on the ground. A lovely frame, but in my DVD at least, it’s a freeze-frame, a still photograph, with big un-moving grain, making it stick out rather unattractively. Oh well, as Sidney Lumet once said, “Nothing has to be perfect.” The next shot, artfully lit asphalt, makes up for it.

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A real horror movie image — peeking from behind one side of a kind of shed-like structure on the building site, with just a sliver of street visible, Antonioni tracks laterally past the building in order to peek from the other side. Hiding behind stuff (like Sidney Furie, or an Indian), when coupled with an unmotivated, prowling camera move, says ALIEN to me. A bunch of iron guard-rails look like the kind of things you see in cities without suggesting to me a definite purpose. They make me nervous.

The zebra-stripes on the road finally get their own product shot, only to be upstaged by a stocky chap in a suit who walks right across them, with a determined gait, and out of the film. Goodbye! Goodbye!

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Oh — we revisit the fence, and there goes what looks to be the same chap, still bent on escape. Will we pursue him further? We will not — the trees in the background have begun to billow about, Antonioni having brought in some aircraft propellers (NONE of this stuff is accidental, I tell you!) and this motivates a clear cut to the leafy branches undulating and sussurating and inspiring David Lynch. And that leads logically yet intuitively to a closeup of gnarly bark, crawling with ants.

The sudden cut to a high angle could be seen as a new movement beginning, but it’s actually connected to the previous image by a more abstract thread. The tree bark looks like an expansive rocky landscape seen from the air, with the ants scurrying about like those Viennese fairground customers Harry Lime thought so little of. So the jump to the very highest angle yet forms an intuitive link with ant-land. Look, here comes a bus! I sense another influence –

4) NORTH BY NORTHWEST. We know Hitchcock was well impressed with Antonioni and planned a pervy colour-supplement style movie, KALEIDOSCOPE, in which he would attempt to outdo the maestro. Did the influence run the other way? Well, I would argue that the concept of BLOW UP — a photographer may have witnessed a murder — perhaps owes something to REAR WINDOW. For most of its running time, REAR WINDOW is an exercise in ambiguity, with the offscreen events tantalisingly unknowable. BLOW UP drags the ambiguity out past the end of the film. In NXNW, Hitch created abstract suspense out of Cary Grant waiting for a bus on a prairie. We have reason to suspect he will be attacked, but no clue is offered as to how. Each time a possible avenue of narrative interest is produced (a car passes, another car stops, a man gets out to wait for another bus, the bus comes), the film shuts it down. Until the crop-duster attacks, but I would imagine Antonioni would lose interest at that point.

So, a bus is coming. Antonioni starts to tilt down to follow it. But then he gets carried away and tilts so far he loses the bus altogether. He looks at the zebra crossing again. We wait for the bus to pass through frame. Antonioni cuts before it can. But he cuts to the bus, or to *a* bus, anyway, one that has parked and is now moving off. A wide shot shows us just how empty the place is without it.

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The rain barrel is leaking! The floating matchbox and stick will soon be deposited at the bottom. This is possibly the most exciting thing to have happened so far. How did the steel drum spring such a dramatic leak? An actual event appears to have happened while we were preoccupied with that bus, like bloody fools. A second shot from outside the barrel and from the other side of the fence shows the water spouting and puddling, and we track with the flowing fluid, according it a narrative import that bus apparently didn’t merit. We end on the gutter.

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People! But only up to a point. Figures, more than characters. The bloke is so far to the right we know he’s of marginal significance. She’s so still and small we take a moment to spot her. The flat architectural view and the further flattening of the long lens and deep focus make the pair seem like a dwarf and a giant. Both seem to be waiting. Another waiting lady ponders what it all means. She seems to be at a bus stop. You just missed it, lady!

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Scowling woman. Out of focus behind her, a woman leans out on their balcony. A distant detail that feels almost accidental, as if accidents were possible in this designed mise-en-scene. Her new posture frames her perfectly through the intermediate foliage. A second shot shows the pensive scowler standing off the curb, handbag dangling. Stood up? We know the feeling. You might have been stood up for a movie, miss, but have you ever been stood up BY a movie? As she turns, hopefully, a bright flash pops up for a frame or two almost in the centre of the image. A flaw in the film, a momentary reflection, or something more numinous?

The bus passes. It’s not what she’s waiting for, but we get an ominous shot of its wheels. Antonioni sets up a peaceful shot of poplars in front of the apartment blocks, then rudely occludes it with the bus, hissing into shot and disgorging passengers, one of whom opens a newspaper and flashes us a headline about some ongoing atomic conference, where no doubt the Russians and Americans are trying to agree how many ICBMs it takes to destroy all life on earth and how many more than that each of them needs. This slightly leaden bit of political reference does make me think I was right to think that the H-bomb was partly on Antonioni’s mind with the depopulated frames. THE ATOMIC RACE. THE PEACE IS WEAK. The chap breezes off with his doomsday rag into a vista that suddenly reminds me of the futuristic London in George Pal’s THE TIME MACHINE, right before it gets obliterated by nuclear death from above. In the distance, children are playing.

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So Antonioni leaps in close to them and shows them running through the water spray, which we had quite forgotten about. Has it been jetting away all this time? In long-shot, a workman arrives and shuts it off. It was too much fun for this movie. BEAUTIFUL shot of hedgerow leaves dripping with droplets, glistening — this takes us to a big shaggy tree with lamp-post and nice blocky modern apartment building making lego shapes against the sky — Antonioni can’t resist jumping in and offering up closer views of some of those staired shapes. In three cuts he seems to ascend the building and ends on the sky with radio tower and vapour trail slicing across. Back on the building, somebody points. “Look, boss, the plane! The plane!” The vespertine atmos is so dreamy its overwhelming. So crepuscular it’s almost muscular.

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The next shot has us plunged back to the base of this building. And then a woman enters shot. Her hair is like Monica Vitti’s hair! It must be Monica Vitti, from behind. You know when you wait for somebody and get crosser and crosser when they’re late, but then when they show up you can’t help forgetting to tell them off because you like them and you’re glad to see them? but then she turns around and it’s not Monica Vitti at all, and we get that uncanny lurch like that time when I was four and got lost in the supermarket and the woman I thought was mummy turned round and wasn’t mummy. The non-Vitti woman has a spectacularly disappointing face. The poor woman must have been hand-picked out of thousands. Still, at least she’s not a dwarf in a mac with a butcher’s knife.

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Big ECU of the contents of the draining drum. Makes me think of Godard’s coffee cup, macro view like a spiral galaxy disintegrating in the heat death of the universe.

Huge views of sidewalk, shallow water surging across in little ripples magnified to seem like great swells.

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Big shot of neck and jowl. Something of a shock, and only the giant size seems to link it to the previous moments. MA follows it with a giant spectacle — I don’t mean like the explosion at the end of ZABRISKIE POINT, I mean literally a huge one half of a pair of spectacles, a close-up detail of the owner of the neck. Then a big head, spiraling up from bottom of frame, allowing us to enjoy the neck and specs in context. The epic treatment of a person is exhilarating, and just when you think it can’t get any better, Antonioni afford the fellow a medium shot, a low angle in which his turtle-like head seems dwarfed b its suited body, a bit like the crazy image of Spike the mutant baby poking tadpole-fashion from a gaping collar in ERASERHEAD. The momentary star of the show walks off and we reframe on a nice couple of trees.

That draining water has created mud. And a kind of fissure in the earth’s surface, its size impossible to determine. A tiny crack suitable for an ant, or a vast sinkhole ready to swallow an apartment complex.

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A baby. Waiting. In a pram. What, you’re still here? It feels like the evening has advanced considerably, but baby’s day out is still in progress. Nanny pushes off. The sun is low in the sky, pushing through a blotch of cloud, silhouetting the sports field floodlights.

A woman looks up, her face framed through bars. A streetlight comes on — always a magical event if you happen to be there to spot it (despite living in a city, I hardly ever seem to see this daily event happen).

Wide shot of broad avenue, busier, darker, with streetlights on. Abruptly it’s quieter. A bus drives through, alone. Leaving emptiness again. We discover it parked around the corner. A small crowd disembarks and we follow their dispersing backs into the urban gloaming.

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A magical image of night — photographed late magic hour so the sky is still faintly illumined so as to outline the city. Another pan off to the side, following nothing, drawn by forces unknown.

The abrupt, violent glare of a street light in ECU, washing out it’s surroundings.

FINE.

A tracking shot is a moral act

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 28, 2014 by dcairns

Or, how did we get from this ~

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(Lewis Milestone’s own hand giving an Oscar-worthy performance at the end of ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT)

To this ~

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Dana Andrews observe’s a dead German’s hand in A WALK IN THE SUN. “Nice ruby. Wonder where he stole it.”

But to begin, here’s a quote from Richard T. Jameson’s fascinating piece on Lewis Milestone from Richard Roud’s Cinema: A Critical Dictionary. The subject is Milestone’s Exhibit A claim to greatness, ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT ~

One army defends its trenches as another charges across the empty waste of no-man’s-land. The defenders spray the advancing enemy with machine-gun fire, and Milestone’s camera tracks relentlessly across the attackers’ path. As each enemy solider is brought into camera range, he falls: it is as though the camera eye were synchronized with the mechanized pattern of gunfire, meting out death with an awful inevitability. And when, somehow, the attackers succeed in overrunning the trenches, drive out the defenders, and then become defenders themselves, with the first army counter-attacking to regain its own ground, Milestone repeats the visual device: another ‘machine-gunning’ camera chops down the soldiers on that side. The machinery of war devastates both armies with chilling impartiality, and Milestone’s structure eloquently defines the tragic absurdity.

Or would have, if it hadn’t been violated at midpoint. For as the enemy’s second wave reaches the defenders’ trenches, Milestone’s camera performs yet another tracking manoeuvre, this time aiming down into the trenches as it moves along. And as the camera arrives at any given point on its course, so to does another attacker, leaping into the ditch and engaging in hand-to-hand combat with his opposite number. Technically, the device is impressive; conceptually, it is loathsome. Unlike the camera-as-machine-gun, there is no inherent logic in it. The co-ordination of the camera’s arrival with that of an enemy trooper bespeaks no necessity beyond the director’s design. A scene about the impersonal horror of war becomes a balletic speciality number.

I like that Jameson is so passionate about the ethics of technique, and I get what he’s saying. I also think he’s slightly crazy, here. But he has a point, though I might phrase it differently and identify the problem elsewhere. I think I could defend Milestone’s middle shot on the grounds that it shows the men fighting as if they were parts in a machine, their movements stylized and synchronized to dehumanize them. It’s also obvious that part of the sequence’s immense power is its momentum, created by a series of fast-moving shots which often do not follow the moving men but move perpendicular to them, creating an imminent sense of violent convergence. For the battle sequence’s sheer impact, this plan is essential — and impact is something else than merely technique.

The more valid objection might be the wider one that by turning war into a giant choreographed spectacle, by making the audience excited at the action and noise and evoking the surge of adrenalin, Milestone is repackaging armed conflict as entertainment. A Hollywood film, even one as grim and unrelenting as ALL QUIET, is an entertainment of a sort. But can’t he be defended on the grounds that no evocation of warfare, if its goal is to educate those who haven’t had the experience (who are sometimes apt to be over-enthusiastic about something they know nothing about), can ignore the rush, the thrill, the camaraderie or the other aspects that make soldiers enjoy war, which they often do.

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If ALL QUIET was Milestone’s only war movie, his reputation would probably be higher. But it isn’t, and perhaps as a result his 1930 film enjoys more respect than he does.

As America entered the war, Milestone put together this documentary with Joris Ivens, using material shot by Russian cameramen at the Eastern front. All part of Milestone’s “premature anti-fascism” which would cause him some trouble later.

Then he embarked on a series of war pictures. THE NORTH STAR and EDGE OF DARKNESS have already been discussed here — they deal with the conflict in Russia (more trouble later) and Norway and are very impressive. It’s immediately troubling that they use many of the same techniques — the lateral tracking shot in particular — as ALL QUIET, and use them to create excitement, celebrating battle and triumph, in scenarios where our reaction to the fighting is an uncomplicated one of cheering on the goodies. Even the deaths of sympathetic characters are swept aside by the overwhelming charge to victory.

As problematic as these films are in some respects (only in some, be fair: they’re very good films), they’re easy to take compared to THE PURPLE HEART (1944).

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Why is he dressed as a wizard?

I told a friend on Skype I was watching a WWII propaganda movie full of Chinese actors playing Japanese roles (since all the Japanese actors were interned).

“Is Richard Loo in it?”

“He is!”

“[Talk show host] Dick Cavett used to do an impression of him. It wasn’t very good, but he would do it at any opportunity. ‘A chain is only as strong… as its weakest link.’”

“He says that in this movie! This is the movie that’s from!”

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Zanuck may be writing the dialogue and the cheques, but Milestone is calling action. On the plus side, the film is at times sincerely emotive, the cause was at least a better one than WWI (can’t accuse a man of hypocrisy for decrying one war and supporting another), and the technique is often impressive. But those Sino-Chinese baddies are nasty pieces of caricature. Since neither the writers nor the directors nor the actors know very much about Japanese culture, and since the intent is melodrama, it’s not surprising that the effect is crude. What’s always disturbing about these films is that the propaganda is delivered on racial rather than strictly political lines. I don’t actually mind the racist terminology of the heroes (“nips,” “monkeys”) since I think it’s realistic. It’s the film’s attitude that counts.

The flick deals with two US air crews shot down and captured by the Japanese and put on trial in a kangaroo court. In this way it combines war film (a little action in flashback) with courtroom thriller. A little extra violence is supplied by the Japanese tendency to commit hara-kiri when things don’t go their way.

As a flagwaver, the film is often a touch embarrassing. But do we like Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan, or are we happy they were defeated? If so, we presumably recognize the value of propaganda to the Allied cause. But that doesn’t make it good art. Then there’s the film’s racism, exaggerated by Chinese actors playing Japanese characters, and by Darryl Zanuck’s storyline. Ironically, the film’s attempt to portray the Japanese as culturally psychotic is derailed when the American characters choose “a noble death” in a way that seems little different from the honour suicides derided in their enemy captors.

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As usual with Milestone the film is extremely well-crafted: the paddy field set at night is striking, and the hexagonal reinforced concrete prison block makes for striking compositions. Milestone has some good actors, and Farley Granger.

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A WALK IN THE SUN came after the European conflict was over and it’s a far more nuanced and interesting film. Two of the stars, Dana Andrews (sad iguana stare) and Richard Conte (crocodilian grin) return, along with Norman Lloyd (hooded cobra eyes) and, surprisingly, Sterling Holloway, who would later play an animated snake for Disney but really looks like Tenniel’s Mock Turtle. It’s the most reptilian bunch of grunts you ever saw, and the “plot” has them land in Italy and attempt to walk to a farmhouse to blow up a bridge. Along the way they grouse, bum cigarettes, philosophise and die. Robert Rossen’s poetry-of-the-streets dialogue is really amazing — contrived as heck yet evocative of some kind of life. The underrated Conte is particularly good at snapping it out.

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Milestone’s war films suffer when the location material is interrupted by studio stuff or rear projection or stock footage, but that problem is minimized here (and in PURPLE HEART which is all studio save some time-lapse clouds). Russell Harlan’s photography is outstanding (he was making the transition from B pictures to major films for Hawks and Blake Edwards), and Milestone’s knack for filming group shots is fully exploited (he storyboarded everything so he could concentrate on performances on set). There are some interesting narrative devices — a recurring ballad, most effective when it unexpectedly segues into a blues tune for a scene of the men simply waiting for the next life-or-death situation — and a VO read by Burgess Meredith (star of OF MICE AND MEN) which isn’t associated with any one character and sometimes made me think of Malick’s THE THIN RED LINE. I liked the VO better than the ballad but both are useful.

The whole thing is semi-real and semi-mythic. It doesn’t go as far into abstraction and existential angst as Mann’s MEN IN WAR, but it hints in that direction twelve years early. The ending is triumphal again, but in 1945 it was probably always going to be.

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Milestone could have left it at that, honour somewhat salvaged, but in 1950 Zanuck had him celebrate the marines with HALLS OF MONTEZUMA. The lateral tracking shots are back, and by now we’re wondering why this inventive filmmaker, who came up with new and inspired stuff on almost every film, insisted on repeating himself so much in his battle scenes.

Milestone has an excellent bunch of actors and Robert Wagner. Richard Widmark is at his most attractive as a sergeant who doesn’t plan on surviving. He’s suffering terrible migraines, and has his doc chum (Karl Malden) supplying him with powerful painkillers.

“These aren’t a cure. They’re temporary.”

“So am I.”

We’re in colour this time, bright Pacific colour. The mission is to take an island, capturing Japanese prisoners for information. Korean-American Philip Ahn, a Milestone regular since THE GENERAL DIED AT DAWN, is one of these. The dialogue isn’t as good as Rossen’s but the patriotism is more muted than Zanuck’s. Characters are maimed, killed, driven crazy (somebody always goes crazy in Milestone’s war films, which is something I give him credit for). Jack Webb delivers a rousing, religiose speech at the end and makes everything alright. But there’s some sharp observation of war’s absurdity and despair. Is that cannon fire or the sound of cake being simultaneously eaten and had?

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THEY WHO DARE (1954), a British production made during Milestone’s blacklist trouble, is worthless. It doesn’t have the lateral tracking shots, but it doesn’t have any other visual interest either, save for the attractive colour in Wilkie Cooper’s lensing of Greek landscapes. Akim Tamiroff is back — an actor who spans Milestone’s career from ’30s to ’60s. Dirk Bogarde and Denholm Eliot in the same unit, in Greece, seems like an invitation to innuendo, but let’s resist.

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The most intriguing bit is a superimposed boulder wobbling in the foreground of a shot, (above, on the left) apparently inserted in post to cover a mistake. It’s enormously distracting, since the shot isn’t quite stable, causing the vast rocky overhang to bobble about as if full of helium and jounced by a breeze. Whatever it’s concealing must have been insanely inappropriate to merit such an extreme and unsuccessful cover-up.

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Directorially, the only familiar moment is the director’s fondness for including caricatures of his cast. Here’s a swashbuckling Dirk, as one of his comrades-in-arms pictures him.

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PORK CHOP HILL (1959) deals with Korea. In A WALK IN THE SUN, Norman Lloyd is always going on about “the Battle of Tibet” which he predicts will be fought in 1956. He was almost right. The lateral tracking shots are trotted out one more time. The futility of war — symbolized by the taking of one insignificant hill — is undercut by producer Gregory Peck adding a VO at the end to explain the strategic import of the victory. The ching-chong-chinese soundtrack (by Leonard Rosenman! What was he thinking?) is a disastrous miscalculation too, but there are some very good actors, and Gregory Peck.

Under the credits, we see what appear to be negotiations breaking down between the Americans and the Koreans — one has to assume this started life as an actual scene, depicting the causes of war, and that Gregory Peckory decided nobody cared about that stuff and so chose to slaister music all over it, drowning out the dialogue. He could have cut the whole sequence, but waste not want not — better to have it here, serving no coherent purpose, apparently. The whole re-edit job is so clunking and inefficient — a title comes up to identify the location AFTER a whole establishing scene — that it’s easy to see where the interference has happened. Things improve once the action starts, and it never lets up. An American unit has to conquer a completely worthless hill, with none of the promised support, and they’re decimated doing it. The peace talks footage becomes part of a rear-guard action by Peck the producer to prove it was worthwhile.

Some of the stock characters might as well come with targets on their backs, but there are also welcome bursts of interest from a juvenile Harry Dean Stanton, a baby Robert Blake no bigger than a man’s hand, and a daringly cast Woody Strode as a malingering coward (for which read a guy who mainly wants to survive: I was on his side). And he gets whole scenes with the intense Roscoe Lee Browne. That’s right: two black guys talk to each other, and both roles could have gone to white actors. And it’s 1959.

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The campaign is a catalogue of blunders by command, and the propaganda broadcast by an oleaginous Chinese Lord Haw Haw (I call him Lord Run Run Haw Haw)  figure is notable for the fact that everything said against the war is demonstrated to be true by the action of the film itself. So it’s arguable that Peck’s interference merely imposed inefficient Hollywood bookends on the film, the way so many subversive films from the golden age come packaged in conservative platitudes. The real meat is inside.

Oh, and the photography is rather wonderful at times, with a misty pre-dawn advance and some intense spotlit stuff and a world of dust and death. Sam Leavitt was responsible and his credits are IMPRESSIVE.

This was Milestone’s last statement on war, and it ends with Peck’s stuffy VO: “Because of their sacrifice, millions now live in freedom.” And yet, the true last word is probably still contained in ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT, Milestone’s millstone. Let it serve as coda:

“We used to think you knew. The first bombardment taught us better. It’s dirty and painful to die for your country. When it comes to dying for your country it’s better not to die at all! There are millions out there dying for their countries, and what good is it?”

All Quiet on the Western Front (Blu-ray + DVD + Digital Copy)
Halls of Montezuma
Purple Heart
The North Star
TCM Spotlight: Errol Flynn Adventures (Desperate Journey / Edge of Darkness 1943 / Northern Pursuit / Uncertain Glory / Objective Burma)
A Walk in the Sun (Restored and Uncut)
Pork Chop Hill

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