Archive for The Public Enemy


Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2018 by dcairns


UNACCUSTOMED AS WE ARE (1929) was the first Laurel & Hardy talkie — I’ve been reading about their career in Randy Skretvedt’s magisterial Laurel and Hardy: The Magic Behind the Movies. Leo McCarey had left Roach to do features, but he left behind a backlog of story ideas which the boys continued to film for some time after his departure.

This story is one of Leo’s “My God! My husband!” farce plots, but it plays a little differently because it’s all much slower. L&H, under Leo’s tutelage, had already slowed their pacing right down, but this is pure early talkie drag here, and it’s a beautiful thing.

Lewis R. Foster & Hal  directed, no doubt with considerable input from Stan. Four cameras rolled on every take, their perspiring operators sealed with them in sound-proofed boxes. The results are inevitably static as well as being slow, the viewer always situated outside the set, looking in. But there’s a spirit of innovation nonetheless.

Always shield the genitals when talking to the wife.

Improvisation! From the start, the boys mistrusted the scripted lines credited to H.M. “Beany” Walker, and would ad-lib their way through them to maintain an air of life and spontaneity. And rehearsal was avoided: “What do you want to do, ruin it?” Stan would say. The speech here has much of the labored, school-play quality of the boys’ Spanish German and French productions, where they had to learn their lines phonetically. But still, there’s a life and an uncertainty to it (like IS uncertainty).

Overlapping dialogue! The reliably ferocious Mae Busch, as Mrs. Hardy, tears into her husband, who protests, resulting in a domestic babel of considerable volume and duration, dialogue as noise.

Rapping! Ollie turns the radio on and Mae’s dialogue starts to sync with the resulting music.

Offscreen noise! The full glory of Ollie’s offscreen crash-landings may not be here yet, but a series of gas explosions erupt from the Hardy kitchen, two of them propelling Ollie bodily out into the living room, the third sending Thelma Todd out with her dress ablaze. Reviewers picked up on an offscreen exit in BROADWAY MELODY the same year, where a character can be heard, but not seen, getting into a car and driving off. Stan & Ollie discovered an even better use for the cost-saving, Ozu-style strategy.

Fucking big flame thrower! Ollie’s involuntary entrances are followed by impressive gouts of flame at ceiling-level. Looks pretty dangerous. The fact that there IS no ceiling probably helped them pass the nonexistent health & safety laws.

More offscreen noise! People start getting beaten up out in the hall with increasing frequency as the film nears its very funny conclusion. One of Leo’s favorite situations was fart-at-the-dinner-table embarrassment. Here, instead of flatulence, it’s Thelma beating the crap out of Edgar Kennedy next door. Then, when we hear Kennedy bopping Ollie’s nose, the echoing wail of off-mic distress is easily as terrifying as those of Cagney’s victims in THE PUBLIC ENEMY.

The flaws and the virtues combine beautifully. The boxy, distant framing, so flat and square, adds hilarity to Edgar Kennedy’s expressionistically posed bulk. There are lessons here, I feel.


The View

Posted in FILM, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 21, 2017 by dcairns

When David Leland’s lovely WISH YOU WERE HERE came out, he did a Q&A in Edinburgh and said the main difference he’d found between theatre and film directing was that “In cinema, there’s only one seat in the house, and it always has to be the best one.”

This is cute, glib, somewhat true, but worth unpicking. A director in the theatre has to consider what can be seen and heard by audience members scattered around the auditorium. In cinema, though obviously there ARE lots of seats, the view controlled by the director is that of the camera. The camera, Leland is saying, always has to be in the best position. But what IS the best position?

Looking at creatively directed movies soon demonstrates that the best position is not necessarily the most explicit view. Sometimes the camera withdraws somewhat to aid the emotional effect of the scene. Billy Wilder suggested that a character having an idea, or receiving terrible news, is best filmed from behind, enlisting the audience’s imagination, showing a certain discretion, avoiding cliché (the lightbulb over the head), and maybe saving the filmmaker from the impossible task of showing the unshowable (what should MacDuff’s face do when he’s told his entire family have been killed?)…

In THE PUBLIC ENEMY, and again in THE LIMEY, a massacre occurs inside a building while the camera waits, timorously, outside. Refusing to serve up the usual action shots creates an awe-inspiring sense of something too horrible to be seen. In TAXI DRIVER, Scorsese slides his camera off Travis when he’s on the phone to Betsy, preferring to show us the empty corridor down which Travis will inevitably walk once rejected. Mike Hodges pulled back from George Segal’s breakdown in THE TERMINAL MAN, feeling “It’s too painful,” and wanting to give the character some privacy. The suits couldn’t comprehend this choice, and wanted him to close in, to “show the emotion,” an approach Hodges found pornographic.

Choosing to conceal rather than reveal can be terrifically effective, and always indicates a creative filmmaker at work (unless it indicates pure ineptitude). I can sort of respect the choice even when I don’t think it works. In Peter Brook’s KING LEAR, he includes fairly frequent shots of the backs of people’s heads. He explained that in Shakespeare, there are moments when the words are doing everything and images would detract. (In the continuous longshot of the stage, this is less of an issue, apparently.) Brook didn’t feel he could just cut to black, but he and his cinematographer DID feel they could get away with filling the screen with a centrally-framed, often blurry, rear view of Paul Scofield’s cranium. They were dead wrong, and Brook is no filmmaker if you ask me. But it was certainly an example of creative thought in action.

(Why I don’t think it works: the blank walls of hair and scalp serve as interruptions; they make the audience wonder, futilely, what is going on; they aren’t incorporated into a blocking and cutting pattern; they distract from the words far more than simply holding the shot would have done.)

There’s a particularly great example of directorial discretion in George Stevens’ film A PLACE IN THE SUN. Montgomery Clift arrives hours late at Shelley Winters’ place. He was supposed to spend his birthday with her (his official girlfriend) but instead has been with Elizabeth Taylor. Winters feels miserable about being stood up. Clift feels miserable and guilty for doing it (but would totally do it again).

And Stevens films the whole thing from outside the room.

As the scene develops, the angle comes to seem, in a conventional sense, less and less adequate. When the characters sit, we only have Shelley’s back, a Brooksian lump of hair. By the end of the scene, both characters are almost entirely unreadable, you would think, Shelley still just a blind slab of back, Monty crouching on the floor, hidden behind her with just his hand in shot. Our expensive stars are turned away from the lens AND blocked AND tiny in frame. “Shoot the money” this ain’t. But as the awkwardness and discomfort of the scene mounts continuously, and is obviously the correct emotion, nobody could reasonably say the action isn’t well-covered. Stevens’ bold choice delivers the required feeling. And paradoxically, by showing discretion and averting our eyes from the angst-ridden subjects, he doesn’t protect us from suffering, in a way he elevates the agony. Big close-ups of blubbering faces are often so repellant that you’re prevented from pity by sheer revulsion. Wide empty frames enlist the imagination — in this case, the empty bed forms an accusing plain.

What makes this even more impressive is what we’re told about Stevens’ filming style. “He shoots in a circle,” they said, meaning that Stevens would start aiming north and film a wide shot and singles of different sizes of every character, then arc around the action ninety degrees and shoot from the east, repeating all the shot sizes, and then do the same for the other points of the compass, acquiring a colossal amount of footage, most of it useless as soon as he made his choice in the cutting room about what view he liked best. Incredible to think he began as cinematographer to Laurel & Hardy, who didn’t even rehearse.

In this case, either Stevens made a single bold decision before turning over a frame of film, suggesting that the conventional view of his approach is exaggerated or incomplete, or he went ahead and filmed every possible angle on this scene and, in reviewing the material in the cutting room, noticed that this take worked, sustained interest all the way through, and was better than anything he could get by cutting back and forth between different angles (meaning, presumably, he’d have had to cut the scene together a few different ways to be sure of this). Either explanation is hugely impressive to me.

I once read an article by Arthur Koestler explaining that computers would never be able to play chess. This was written decades before computers learned to play chess. Koestler explained that, since computers were not intelligent (which is still true), they could only attempt to play chess by considering every possible move, even the ones that make no sense and are instant suicide. “This is a very stupid way to play chess,” he argued. Since the number of possible moves increases as you project more and more turns ahead, and quickly becomes astronomical, Koestler argued, reasonably enough, that there would never be enough computing power to pull it off. Well, now there is, and I assume computers still play chess the same way, considering all the choices, but can really consider ALL the choices, so a good chess computer is just about unbeatable.

Stevens seems to have been trying to direct films the way computers play chess. And it IS, usually, a stupid way to direct films. Dump-truck directing tends to look bland, and just filming a wide shot and many many medium and close shots does not even guarantee that you’ve covered the scene. John Frankenheimer found that an ECU of a raindrop hitting a stopwatch was just the shot required to solve a huge storytelling/pace/continuity/weather problem on GRAND PRIX. The kind of thing that can only be attained by imagination, which is a fuzzy and chaotic approach, not a methodical one.

What blows my mind with Stevens is how he frequently got imagination to thrive within what would seem to be a rather arid methodology. Hats off!

Where the Sidewalk Never Ends

Posted in FILM with tags , , , on February 8, 2017 by dcairns


My friend Travis had been to New York long before me. I asked about the worryingly high curbs. I knew the average curb in America wasn’t that high, from movies I’d seen. But I knew that Gene Kelly had jumped on an off a curb in SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN that looked like a White Cliff of Dover transported to the MGM lot, and Jimmy Cagney staggered along in the shadow of a curb he can barely see over.


No, there are no curbs like that, I was told.

So how could they get away with showing the American public things the public knew didn’t exist? And why try? Either there were, in those long-ago days, mountainous, leg-breaking curbs, maybe to keep the Indians out (most Indians are not real tall), or it was some kind of deliberate artistic artifice, along the lines of “Everything on the screen should be bigger than in real life?”