Quickies, Vol. XXX

The Stranger (1946, dir. Orson Welles) – Deserves more space, obviously. Suffice it to say, Welles’ camera rewards the viewer’s careful attention. Every movement is so deliberate, and the long takes don’t draw attention to themselves as a result of competence in front of and behind the lens. This would be great for a study of spaces and eras. Wartime Germany –> postwar Americana. Small-town rural: the soda joint, the church, the trail through the woods.

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (2011, dir. Rob Marshall) – Yeah, rough. Hadn’t seen the previous one and had only seen the one before that once. Thanks to Twitter, was expecting it to suck, and it came through. Something actually a little interesting was suggested by the vicious, bloodsucking, vampire mermaids, but of course it descended into a Twilight-esque melodrama. Depp: get back to hanging out with Jarmusch, or even Burton, for that matter.

Rango (2011, dir. Gore Verbinski) – It’s been awhile now, but this seemed like one of the better, more unique examples of animated fare of the last few years. Unlike a lot of stuff, which is made both for kids and adults, this one is made for kids and cinephiles. Plenty of allusions to the classics, particularly Westerns. And it sticks pretty well to the man-with-no-name formula, in the sense that Rango doesn’t have much of a past and we only know his self-invented name. Also, a shout out to some of the most impressive animation one’s gonna see these days.

The Outlaw (1943, dir. Howard Hughes & Howard Hawks) – Other than existing to ignore censors and exploit Jane Russell’s assets, The Outlaw has the feel of a B-movie from its acting to its absence of substance to its poor camera work to its striking lack of cleverness. Still, it stands as yet another testament to the mythos of the American West, a kind of revisionist history that puts Doc Holliday, Billy the Kid, and Pat Garrett in the same story and imagining a different ending to the generally accepted historical one. The characters don’t have the edge that later Westerns do, instead glorifying the “outlaws” and vilifying the sheriff. Doc and Billy are sweeties; innocents, really. Gay stuff is everywhere, of course, even with a woman like Russell cast aside by comparing her regularly with a horse.

The Lady from Shanghai

The captain and her mate

Orson Welles’ last directorial foray in mainstream Hollywood before taking a much-needed break progressively toys and experiments with the medium as the narrative saunters toward its wonderfully shattered ending. The Lady from Shanghai foreshadows Touch of Evil in many ways but differs in its psychedelic nature, which is an interesting twist since the film focuses on a Gilda-like trio of individuals that Welles’ character compares to a group of hungry sharks. The journey into fractured subjectivity works first of all on a level that transcends language. Welles’ trademark, like his French counterpart Jean Renoir, is to elevate cinema to its own aesthetic form; why say with cinema what could more easily be said with mere words? Because of this element in The Lady from Shanghai, the film at times feels directionless from a style point-of-view. The disintegration of the marriage in the film apparently coincided with that of Welles and Rita Hayworth outside of it. Cinephiles in a way should be thankful for this. Instead of exploiting Rita’s Rita-ness, Welles chops off her hair, dyes it, and identifies her with a ferocious carnivore. The aloofness of Welles’ character, and his willingness to ride the tide of his new cronies and participate in a highly dubious scheme, effectively keeps the film within the broad category of “film noir” while expanding its parameters at the same time via aesthetics. And btw, the shameless Orientalism of this film has to be mentioned. It exists at every level.

Above...

...below

Lovely Rita

Vicious

Orientalism

Seeing double

Quickies, Vol. II

Anatomy of a Murder (dir. Otto Preminger): Lengthy, but only when you look at the clock after it’s over. Jimmy’s in good form here in 1959, a year before Psycho and foreshadowing cinema’s more audacious acknowledgment of the harshness of the world. Preminger’s insistence on having no auteur style gives a priority to the film rather than the director. Therefore, there’s a deliberateness, a carefulness here that comes only with great films. Let the narrative and characters do their thing, he must have said, and I’ll put it on celluloid.

Dr. T and the Women (dir. Robert Altman): Cameras flowing and swooning throughout, Altman-style. It’s some kind of tribute to the female sex, not to be confused with a misogynistic opera of hysterical woman. Despite a presence of uncontrollable estrogen, Richard Gere’s Dr. T is the most pathetic figure, damned as he is to servicing women even when he thinks he’s been freed from it. Of course, he doesn’t want to be. Also, a beautiful, fitting, Altman-esque ending, right up there with other late-career gems like Gosford Park and Prairie Home Companion.

Touch of Evil (dir. Orson Welles): Ridiculous for its brilliance. Welles’ own self-effacement along with Marlene Dietrich’s aged presence mark this as not merely a late noir but the end of an era and beginning of something else. You have to chuckle at Heston’s lack of Mexican-ness. But it’s covered in the fingerprints of a cinematic genius, so we’re left only to watch and gawk.