Archive for Mark Robson

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.


Richard Brody’s Diegetic Rumba

Posted in Dance, FILM with tags , , , , , , , on August 5, 2016 by dcairns

Via bearded savant Richard Brody on Twitter — the dance from PHFFFT which he calls one of his favourite diegetic dance sequences in cinema. It’s awfully good!

Mark Robson, not known for his comedy, is the director.

Early Jack Lemmon: Columbia paired him twice with the great Judy Holliday in the same year. Also features early Kim Novak, coming off like a messianic chipmunk who likes sex enough to like it with Jack Carson, a thought both appealing (she must like sex an awful lot) and unappealing (she’s done it with Jack Carson).


We’ve watched nearly all the Judy Holliday movies there are, now. They do follow a bit of a cookie-cutter pattern, alas, but there is just enough variation to stop the formula getting stale. After all, if the writer is Garson Kanin, or Kanin and Ruth Gordon, or George Axelrod (as is the case here), the effect will be slightly different.


The title is a Walter Winchell word — the sound of an extinguished match representing the demise of a romance. The film also has its opposite sound: the sound made by Judy’s retractable bed, which doesn’t fold down out of the wall in the Murphy manner, but instead slides straight out (from where? next door? do the neighbours sleep in shifts?) with a lusty WUFFF! sound. The marital romcom goes from divorce to remarriage, from PHFFFT! to WUFFF!

Let’s Kill Gandhi

Posted in FILM, MUSIC, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2011 by dcairns

NINE HOURS TO RAMA is Mark Robson’s two-hour Gandhi snuff film, a well-meaning, sometimes-skillful fictionalisation of the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi, gone awry in its own commercialism…

Starting promisingly with a snazzy Saul Bass title sequence, in which Malcolm (BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI) Arnold provides authentic-sounding (to me, anyway) Indian music, the movie gets itself in trouble as soon as acting is called for — while numerous small roles are taken by Indian performers, the major parts, except that of Gandhi himself, are played by western stars — I mean stars in films made in the west, not cowboys, fortunately. John Wayne would have been too much.

As it is, Jose Ferrer is remarkable acceptable-looking, and doesn’t try to talk or act in any kind of embarrassing faux-Indian way. In fact, he doesn’t seem to act at all, which makes him rather impressive — just the right kind of figure to lead the policier part of the story. Unfortunately, handsome Horst Buchholtz is not greatly more convincing as an Indian than he was as a Mexican in THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN, and his role, as a tortured fanatic with a traumatic backstory, calls for lots of histrionics and hysterics. Not only is he fervid and shouty, he’s probably the screen’s most incompetent killer, getting drunk, picking up a prostitute (Diane Baker, typically excellent once you get over the shock of the sari etc), practically telling her his mission, being so pissy to his superiors that they plot his own assassination as soon as he’s finished the job…

Nelson Gidding (THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE THE HAUNTING) gives Buchholtz lots of flashbacks to motivate him and build sympathy, which doesn’t work because (1) Horst is inescapably a whiny little bitch in this film and (2) he’s going to kill Gandhi. The movie’s trying to get us to root for him to change his mind, but mainly we’re rooting for him to fall under a bus.

Robert Morley, looking like a rugby ball.

It’s odd, this racial miscasting. One can admit the need to have stars in order to get the film made at all, and so we have Jose and Horst, but were Robert Morley and Harry Andrews really thought to contribute that much of a box office draw? Both good actors, they elicit a shudder of discomfort immediately upon recognition in this unsuitable context. And even allowing that two more familiar names in the credits might have some influence upon an undecided customer pondering which film to see, can the same be said for Francis Matthews or Harold Goldblatt? A shortage of Indian actors can’t be the excuse, since the location work was all performed in India and one can see from Satyajit Ray films of the period that the middle-class characters tend to pride themselves on speaking good English…

Fortunately, J.S. Casshyap plays Gandhi, and he’s excellent, as is the writing in these scenes. It’s inspiring sometimes to have basic stuff about non-violence spelled out by someone who can convincingly embody it. Casshyap, more commonly a writer than actor, underplays magnificently and is as compelling as Ferrer, over whom he also has an ethnic advantage.

Giddings’ solution to writing a series of characters who would not in reality be speaking English is to strip the speech of idiom and contractions, making everybody sound like Data from Star Trek, and then he throws a persistent mannerism of saying “isn’t it?” a lot, so that everybody has that Paul Verhoeven oddness to their delivery. Still, that’s far less damaging than his habit of hamstringing the dramatic tension by jumping back into flashback at every opportunity, so that the promised countdown is devalued — it’s Nine Hours to Rama, then ten years to Rama, then eight hours, then six months…

Robson’s editorial background shows itself in some slick sequences though, and his experience as assistant on CITIZEN KANE no doubt influenced his handling of the flashbacks, cued by long dissolves with theatrical lighting fades which cause Horst’s face to hang about in the frame as his surroundings melt away. This is done rather more obviously than in KANE —

The best bit is the ending — spoiler alert: Gandhi dies. If you don’t plan on seeing this movie, by all means watch the ending here, it’s quite impressive. Horst’s mild-mannered cohort has worried about whether their victim will bless them when he’s killed — such a thing is perversely horrifying to both would-be killers.

Pretty bold stuff. But, from a commercial point of view, if you’re going to do an assassination movie based on a true life political figure where we all know the end result, maybe it’s more satisfying to pick an incident where the assassin doesn’t succeed. Unless the subject is Hitler.