Archive for Some Came Running

Web of Love

Posted in FILM, Science with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 4, 2013 by dcairns

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Vincente Minnelli’s film THE COBWEB is the kind of thing we could only watch on one of Fiona’s good days. It’s too emotionally fraught to watch when you’re depressed, and even when viewed on a reasonably good evening (Fiona’s depression usually lifts slightly in the latter part of the day, a process known as diurnal variation) Fiona got a little cross with it — “Why is nobody in this hospital showing any signs of mental illness?”

(Still, Minnelli musicals and melodramas are fine to watch in a low mood. It’s the comedies you have to watch out for — the man had a genius for creating oppressive, nightmarish moods using humorous scenarios — the domestic sado-neurotic maelstrom that is THE LONG, LONG TRAILER could cause a vulnerable person to crawl out of their skin.)

Like most films set in psych wards, the cast is divided between picturesque extras who shuffle or stand frozen in corridors, suggesting complete mental alienation by means of pantomime, and characters who suffer life traumas and present symptoms of deep unhappiness and a tendency to fly off the handle, but nothing much in the way of mental illness.

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The main exception is the rather brilliant casting of Oscar Levant, a real-life neurotic (“There’s a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line”) who movingly suggests the struggle of an intelligent man to comport himself with dignity while he feels himself disintegrating within. The character’s habit of offering cigarettes to head shrink Richard Widmark is a pathetic and touching sign of his need to appear in control and useful. He’ll break your heart.

THE COBWEB shares a star (Charles Boyer) and a message with Gregory La Cava’s PRIVATE WORLDS — a rather commendable view that sanity and insanity are points on a spectrum rather than polar opposites. In both films the staff of a psychiatric hospital and their spouses are shown as being just about as unstable and neurotic as the patients. La Cava had been treated for alcoholism and Minnelli had until recently been married to Judy Garland, so both could claim some familiarity with troubled states of mind. But their movies ignore clinical reality, real-life methods of treatment, and mostly their characters suffer not from mental disease but from melodramatic versions of ordinary unhappiness.

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Chief among these is John Kerr, very effective in a low-charisma, understated way. His character is bright, discontented, and prone to flying off the handle — like a Nick Ray adolescent rather than a mental patient. He’s well-written enough and well-observed enough (screenplay by John Paxton with an assist by original novelist William Gibson — no, not that one) to tie the film’s various strands together. The all-star cast around him works well too. Lauren Bacall is particularly charming, even when hanging around in the far background of long takes (getting in shape for her Lars Von Trier movies) and Lillian Gish is particularly strong as an administrator who’s been in her job so long she’s forgotten what the hospital exists for. With the striking name of Vicky Inch, she’s a pugnacious little gnome dominating every frame she appears in. And making every frame she’s in more beautiful.

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Also, Gloria Grahame does a lot of good and important work with her breasts.

Minnelli’s framing and colour sense is so exquisite, and the script so satisfying (it’s kind of a network narrative like SOME CAME RUNNING, but so tightly knotted together you don’t notice), that the lack of a realistic story world doesn’t matter too much. There’s even room for a reading which sees the institution as a metaphor for America, which the movie endorses with a line about “giving it back to the Indians,” if self-governance among the patients doesn’t work. (SHOCK CORRIDOR would be a pathetic film if it were really about mental illness — instead it’s about political illness in the body politic, with America portrayed as a hospital that makes you crazy.) And in the plotline, which is mainly about (no kidding) the selection of drapes for the hospital library, it could stand as the middle film in Minnelli’s film-making series — THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL shows how neurotic film art is, feeding on the quirks and weaknesses of the cast and crew — the later TWO WEEKS IN ANOTHER TOWN begins with a movie star getting out of one asylum and plunging into the madhouse of the movie set — in THE COBWEB, a group of twisted, tortured and ill-matched people come together and try to create order, balance, beauty.

Buy: The Cobweb (Remaster)

Fortnight Elsewhere

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 22, 2013 by dcairns

I don’t know, I thought MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: GHOST PROTOCOL was pretty good for what it was.

The film is TWO WEEKS IN ANOTHER TOWN, in which Vincente Minnelli dives into la dolce vita with Kirk Douglas and Edward G Robinson shooting a euro-pudding super-film in Rome, 1959.

Here, they seem to have acquired the wallpaper from VERTIGO.

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Maybe it’s the fault of Irwin Shaw’s source novel, but the movie, often seen as a follow-up to the Minnelli-Douglas Hollywood melo THE BAD AND THE BEAUTIFUL, sometimes seems to lack logic — characters do whatever is required to bring on the next emotional frenzy. One second Robinson is scorning his desperate wife’s suicidal tendencies, the next she’s sympathising with him about his creative crisis. Their joint betrayal of another character at the end seems under-motivated or under-explained, but is nevertheless powerful — it’s a movie where power, exemplified by the jutting, dimpled Easter Island chin of Mr Douglas, is more important than sense. Just like the industry it deals with, in fact.

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George Hamilton is quite good, stropping about pouting, Rosanna Schiaffino is sweet, Daliah Lavi is a lot of fun as a luscious but fiery diva. We get a few minutes of gorgeous George MacReady, and Erich Von Stroheim Jnr plays an assistant while simultaneously BEING the real-life assistant director on the picture. Douglas does his usual muscular angst, amped up to eleven.

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In fact, everybody’s playing it big, broad, and on the nose, including composer David Raksin, who seems to be competing with Claire Trevor for the Volume and Hysteria Prize (given out every year at Cinecitta). I didn’t mind, though — there are acerbic comments on life and movies which sometimes feel accurate or at least heartfelt, and Minnelli trumps up an incredible climax as Kirk falls off the wagon and endures a long night of the soul in a series of Felliniesque night spots. As with SOME CAME RUNNING, Minnelli has saved so many of his big guns for this sequence that it almost feels like another movie, that other movie being TOBY DAMMIT. If Fellini influenced Minnelli, it obviously worked the other way too, as Terence Stamp’s nocturnal Ferrari phantom ride seems very much influenced by the screeching rear projection ordeal Kirk puts Cyd Charisse and his Lambourgine through.

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Neon Angel

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2013 by dcairns

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Watched Vincente Minnelli’s CABIN IN THE SKY and SOME CAME RUNNING in quick succession and was surprised to see that in both films a gambler gets stabbed. Is this a Minnelli motif? Does AN AMERICAN IN PARIS have a deleted scene where Oscar Levant takes a scimitar thrust after buying a lottery ticket? Am I forgetting a moment in BRIGADOON involving Cyd Charisse, a straight flush and a decisive dirk-thrust?

I’d seen CABIN before but to my shame had somehow never got around to the other. My, it’s good. Shirley MacLaine may be the world’s most heartbreaking actress. My Dad doesn’t cry at films because he is a man, but TERMS OF ENDEARMENT reduced even him to salty face leakage. As Ginnie Moorehead in SCR she essays perhaps the screen’s most moving portrait of neediness and dumbness, making both qualities sympathetic rather than pitiable or pathetic. Partly she sneaks up on our emotions by playing it funny where she can, notably in a wonderful bit of business where she doggedly follows Frank Sinatra into his closet as he dresses. Twice.

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And then there’s her drunken singing scene, which is so funny it arguably blows a hole in the movie — very good catatonic work from Carmen Phillips… But the heartbreaking thing about Ginnie is that she’s not bright enough to know if she’s being insulted, and she usually is. But she gives everyone the benefit of the doubt because she can’t be sure they meant it. She’s really a saint.

Also there’s Dean Martin who manages to be a largely likable alcoholic layabout misogynist, which is quite a feat.

The film isn’t perfect, but as Pauline Kael may have remarked in a startling moment of lucidity, great films seldom are. In common with other James Jones adaptations, it has a whole heap of characters and could probably spare a couple. It’s set in a small town where we meet the same twelve people again and again and they meet each other wherever they go. And if two of them go to nearby Terre Haut, they’ll bump into each other. Which isn’t a particularly serious problem, but you do notice.

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There’s a scene where Martha Hyer has to tell disillusioned author Frank Sinatra that his unfinished story is really good (“The people are so real…”), and it’s probably the worst attempt at onscreen intellection ever written. Both actors are very good in the film, but they both look ridiculous here. Although I’m intrigued by an implication that Shirley’s faltering analysis of the story, which makes Sinatra angry because she likes it without understanding it, is basically the same as Hyer’s — she likes the people.

Minnelli, who has been doing quietly brilliant compositional work throughout, dividing the widescreen frame into subsections, isolating the dysfunctional characters from each other, lets rip with a climax that’s so luridly coloured and dynamically choreographed it does rather seem to have gatecrashed the movie by way of the Freed Unit. Brilliant, dazzling stuff, but is it too much? Possibly, but if it’s a stylistic error it’s one we can’t regret — a case of Minnelli getting it wrong with such panache that it’s better than if he’d got it right. Which makes no sense, but there it is.

Look!

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