Archive for Shelley Winters

Dog Doesn’t Return Other Dog’s Calls

Posted in FILM, MUSIC, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2018 by dcairns

Perpendicular Palance, they call him.

I ran Robert Aldrich’s THE BIG KNIFE because I’ve been thinking seriously about Hollywood noir/Hollywood Gothic stuff. This predates his later hagsploitation pics, and the related but different THE LEGEND OF LYLAH CLAIR (and I guess THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE, with its Brit TV background, is a distant relative too), but has a few things in common, apart from the dry, pale presence of Wesley Addy. More on him later.

Jack Palance plays the lead, a movie star with a guilty secret (audaciously borrowed by author Clifford Odets from a persistent rumour about Clark Gable being a drunken, hit-and-run killer — which doesn’t seem to be true). Palance is no Crawford or Davis, but his characterisation is just as neurotic and tormented — he spends the movie posing, languishing, anguishing, seething (I love it when Palance breathes heavy).

Fiona had many questions about Palance. Where did Jack Palance come from? Is Jack Palance a good actor? Can Jack Palance act? What is with Jack Palance? All fair questions. I said YES to all of them.

Jack’s manly suffering — similar vein of masochistic machismo to Kirk Douglas — is the main show, but his swank home (it’s a one-set play) is regularly invaded by supporting hambones (he never locks the door) like Miss Shelley Winters (her actual screen credit here) and Rod Steiger, who come bearing entertainment. Steiger is cast as a baroque hallucination of Louis B. Mayer, afflicted with some of Odets’ most overwrought verbiage, a peroxide crew-cut, shades and a hearing aid. Also some startling homoerotic overtures towards the muscular Jack — at times he goes Full Joyboy. In a film so full of memorable entrances and exits it plays like thespian Whack-a-Mole, he gets one of the best, monologuing his way out the door, his ranting voice diminishing slowly into the distance until a new conversation breaks out on top of it… but Steiger keeps going until he’s vanished over some unseen horizon…

Fiona also liked his hushing an opponent with a gentle “Shshshshshshshshshshshsh” that abruptly explodes into a fulsome “shshSHUT UP!” And his defending a man’s character by citing his relationship with “such people as the late Al Jolson.” Threatened with violence, he hides behind his pudgy fists, fat head suddenly babylike, Trumpish in his pusillanimity.

The man he’s defending is Wendell Corey, readily decoded as studio fixer Eddie Mannix, and sensibly playing it subtle but reptilian, not trying to compete with the uberactors flanking him. He’s a man prepared to kill for the studio, and while the story doesn’t quite allow him to do so — something of a cop-out, but they had to show caution SOMEWHERE — Corey is genuinely chilling.

Also good work from Everett Sloane though he’s not as moving as the put-upon agent in IN A LONELY PLACE, the most moving Hollywood agent in cinema (the only one?). Who was that guy? Oh yeah, Art Smith. Get me Art Smith!

Miss Shelley.

Palance is also tormented by three women — his wife, Ida Lupino, who wants him to be virtuous, his friend’s slutty wife, Jean Hagen, who wants him to be wicked, and Winters, who knows his guilty secret and can’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut. He invites her over for a swim, which is a worrying portent — you know about Shelley’s bad luck with water, right? But instead of a NIGHT OF THE HUNTER/PLACE IN THE SUN/POSEIDON ADVENTURE watery grave, she’s felled by a convenient accident straight out of the LOLITA playbook.

That awkward moment when Wendell Corey won’t get out of your lampshade.

Jack checks if Wendell is still in there.

Oh, and there’s Wesley Addy, cast as a writer and serving as mouthpiece for Odets’ views, explaining the story’s themes and Palance’s character and generally dumbing the whole thing down. Good actor, but I wanted to kill him. He walks in on and damages a really powerful ending, and his dollarbook Freud actually muddies the motivation of the hero’s last act. If I could digitally lift him from the movie we’d really have something. I’d feel sorry for him, though, and would make it up to him by dropping him off in GONE WITH THE WIND, where he would get lots of surprised attention in his modern dress, and would spoil anything since it’s a wretched movie anyway.

Of course, putting himself into the movie in disguise is a way for Odets to protect himself from the certain knowledge that Palance’s character, the sell-out, the half-idealist, is him too. So the character, inelegantly conceived as he is, may be necessary for the piece to exist at all.

Oh, the music is also very bad — random eruptions by Frank DeVol. (Did Aldrich make a single movie where the music is enjoyable?)

Good movie. Better than the Bettes. Very sweaty.

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Kirby Dies Again

Posted in FILM, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 13, 2016 by dcairns

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Filmhouse is showing George Cukor’s film of Garon Kanin & Ruth Gordon’s A DOUBLE LIFE, and I jumped the gun by watching my ancient off-air recording. Hadn’t seen this movie since I was a kid. (spoilers)

Not anybody’s strongest work, but it brings out an expressionist side in Cukor that he’s not supposed to have and which he basically denied having (“I’m interested in the actor’s faces.”) Some of that stuff is really interesting.

Ronald Colman plays a Broadway star who gets too wrapped up in his roles. When he stars in Othello he goes full deadly Moor and smothers a waitress. This is Shelley Winters, who is more used to watery death (NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, A PLACE IN THE SUN, THE POSEIDON ADVENTURE, even LOLITA in a way), but it turns out any form of suffocation is OK with Shelley.

MGM films are nearly always based on offensive assumptions, and in this case Shelley’s demise is merely a sideshow in the tragic fall of Colman’s English ham. Signe Hasso plays his Swedish wife, and I wondered if the role was intended for Ingrid Bergman. This made me glom onto the idea of the film as a remake of the same studio’s DR JEKYLL & MR HYDE (itself a remake of Paramount’s superior version). Both movies feature a hero with a double life and a woman in each. The poor working girl is a disposable unit who can be sacrificed allowing the posh bird to be spared.

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Colman does do a fine death, letting the life fade from his face like Kevin Spacey in L.A. CONFIDENTIAL — subtractive acting at its best. Before he shuffles off, he monologues about an old ham who used to overdo his death scenes to the point where the audience would call for encores, and he’d rise from the dead and give them an action replay. Colman attributes this to a fictional old stager called Kirby, but the idea is pinched from Scotland’s own William McGonagall, poet and tragedian, whose repeat expiration was recreated in Joe McGrath and Spike Milligan’s film, THE GREAT MCGONAGALL ~

Clodbusters

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 19, 2013 by dcairns

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It’s pretty rare for me to find a movie I haven’t seen since I was a kid — when I do, it sometimes comes with a rush of nostalgic emotion. SHANE was like that — as part of my all-too-slow trek through the films of George Stevens, I ran it with Fiona, who had read the book at school but couldn’t recall if she had watched the movie. When I last saw it, I was probably the age of Brandon de Wilde in the film.

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In some George Stevens films, the long-standing belief that “he shoots in a circle” — covering the whole action from every possible angle and distance — is hard to reconcile with the evidence of the finished film. The tableau staging of THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD is one example, with the director content to let scenes play out in long shot. A PLACE IN THE SUN is almost as striking when it does the same thing — there’s a truly bold scene when Monty Clift turns up late for Shelley Winters’ birthday, where Stevens keeps his camera outside the window looking in throughout the three minute forty second sequence shot, with both his stars quite small in frame, and for a key part of the scene their faces turned so we can’t actually see either of them (he back is to camera and he’s hidden behind her). The effect of awkwardness and tension is palpable. If he did shoot that scene from nine different angles, I’m even more impressed by his courage in going with that one.

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SHANE shows the extreme coverage style more clearly — it’s cut FAST, and nearly every cut reveals a new angle, rather than intercutting two repeated compositions. Veteran editor William Hornbeck collaborated new hand Tom McAdoo, and their cutting does a few quite modern things. Firstly, it compresses time — we’re frequently changing angle to jump out pauses and longeurs, violating continuity just enough to energize the movie, not enough to be glaring or disturb the audience. Secondly, the cutting is deliberately disruptive during fight scenes, surprising the viewer with unexpected angles and juxtapositions of compositions, making the eye work hard to increase the sense of dynamism (the bar-fight uses exaggerated sounds of breaking glass and crashing furniture to increase the violence; a punch-up at the farm is accompanied by all kinds of bucking and thrashing animals). In other words, the cutting is deliberately obfuscating the action, creating a sense of confusion and a feeling that we have to stay alert or we might miss the key punch. This chaos effect isn’t pursued to Christopher Nolan BATMAN BEGINS levels (thank Christ) but it shows a more intelligent and sensitive application of a similar idea.

By contrast, there are also scenes reminiscent of that PLACE IN THE SUN scene where Stevens holds a shot for longer than you can believe he’d dare. When the death of a supporting character is reported, Stevens films from a great distance, through foreground horses, with foreground horse noise drowning out most of the dialogue. I’m not even sure why — maybe the same impulse that had Brueghel portray the fall of Icarus as a single detail in a broad landscape.

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Finally, the film contains not only dialogue that almost recurs in TAXI DRIVER — “You speakin’ to me?” “Well I don’t see nobody else standing there” — but also a visual trick. What I call a jump dissolve removes the middle of a shot of Jack Palance crossing a room, so that he melts through space in a strange, dreamlike and menacing manner. Compare to Travis Bickle’s walk up the street after his job interview…

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Stevens plays with film grammar in the fifties — those languorous lap dissolves that make the kissing faces of Clift and Taylor melt into one another in A PLACE IN THE SUN — in a way that practically no other Hollywood filmmaker was doing, save Hitchcock. Nicholas Ray had a more iconoclastic tone, but his style was actually more formal. Discuss.