Having not read
the book for decades, the plot unfolded as if new for me, and although there is
some spectacle (the storming of the Bastille, for example) and numerous
character actors, the film was elevated primarily by Ronald Colman's
performance as Sidney Carton whose moral action at the end of the film only
slowly sunk in, a day or two after viewing. The Dickens novel must be much
better but this remnant of the Golden Age of Hollywood might be as good as a
pared down version of the book could be.
I never watched Downton Abbey but perhaps I should
have because I really enjoyed writer Julian Fellowes’ script for this late
Robert Altman outing. I suspect I first
watched it because it was Altman but perhaps also because, like the Charlie Chan
films it references, it was heralded to be a pretty good whodunit, taking place
in the Upstairs-Downstairs world of British period drama (circa 1932). And it is that, but, of course, Altman lets
the plot meander all over the place, introducing characters who may not be
entirely distinguishable who also talk over each other (a directorial
trademark) making it difficult to determine exactly why they are there in the
country estate owned by patriarch Michael Gambon and younger wife Kristin
Scott-Thomas. Suffice it to say that we
hear enough to deduce that very nearly every character – at least those
upstairs, if not also downstairs – has a motive for killing Gambon (which doesn’t
actually happen until quite a long way into the film). Only new ladies maid Kelly MacDonald (working
for Dame Maggie Smith) and perhaps outsiders Bob Balaban (a Hollywood producer)
and Ryan Philippe (his valet) are unlikely suspects (or are they?). The cast
features an amazing array of British acting royalty, doing their thing
expertly: Helen Mirren, Alan Bates,
Derek Jacobi, Emily Watson, Richard E. Grant, Clive Owen, Stephen Fry, Jeremy
Northam, Eileen Atkins, and more. Class
differences are trotted out and the whole thing is gloriously gossipy. In the
end, Altman and Fellowes drop enough hints to help viewers to figure out the culprit,
even if detective Fry probably never will, but then again, there’s a twist that
makes the watching even more worthwhile.
Preface:I found
this blu-ray when cleaning out our laboratory which has now been refurnished as
staff office space (students don’t attend class in person now, let alone show
up for psychology experiments). I don’t think I can describe it without some
spoilers (although I’m sure I watched it decades ago and didn’t remember a
thing).So be warned.
Written and directed by Alex Proyas (who had previously
made The Crow, 1994, and subsequently made I, Robot, 2004, among other less
successful films), this takes its cues from film noir, with Rufus Sewell waking
up in a sordid room with a dead prostitute and no memory of who he is or how he
got there.The film seems to take place
in the 1940s to boot, with wife Jennifer Connolly singing in a nightclub and detective
William Hurt traversing the city at night looking for clues (and for Sewell who
has fled the scene).But all is really
not what it seems, as Proyas melds science fiction onto the noir frame to create
something much more unique (but which still plays like a crazy homage to cinema
classics gone by). I suppose the film could be called “high concept” if you had
time to dwell on whether our memories make us who we are or whether there is
something more fundamental or innate than that.But there is no time for that, what with Kiefer Sutherland’s mad psychiatrist
running around with huge hypodermics at the beck and call of some bizarre alien
creatures animating corpses from the nearest morgue (including children) to
pump everyone full of other people’s data.There, I’ve done it – but isn’t this a spoiler that just makes you want
to see what kind of insane work this may be, a work that Roger Ebert called “a
great visionary achievement”?For the
record, I watched the Director’s Cut.
The first thing that Romero’s original low-budget zombie
flick has going for it is that you feel that it could really be happening – the
characters do the things you expect them to do, if facing this (otherwise
implausible) scenario. The second thing is that Romero manages to sneak some
social commentary (chiefly about race relations) into what would have been
expected to be just grindhouse fare. The third thing is Pittsburgh – it just
feels like a place where a zombie manifestation could happen. Dawn of the Dead, the first sequel, may be
even better, although the franchise loses steam after that. If you’ve only seen its more recent
descendents (or remakes), you really owe it to yourself to check out the opening
salvo.
Jean-Pierre Melville is one of my favourite directors –
his films typically combine elements of film noir (gangsters, heists) with the
technique of Robert Bresson (an existential focus on process) and an obsessive commitment
to particular colour palettes. I have seen Le Samourai, starring Alain Delon as
a lone wolf hitman, countless times, having once owned it on VHS. However, only last night (after watching it
again and reading an interview with Melville), did I think that the movie had
another more mystical reading than the standard surface understanding. More
specifically, I had never thought that the pianiste, Cathy Rosier, who
witnesses Jef Costello (Delon) executing his contract (a club owner) might
actually be Death herself. One remembers
that Melville worked with Cocteau early on (Les Enfants Terrible, 1950) and was
perhaps influenced by the latter’s Orpheus (also 1950) in which Death is also
personified. In any event, to reconceptualize Jef as infatuated with his own
death rather than the piano player is almost to see a different film (and one
where the ending is somewhat even more satisfying). Of course, the
straightforward reading of the film still works too, with Jef compromised when he
is seen by witnesses and confused when his no-longer-airtight alibi still holds
up (his pursuit of Cathy to understand why she didn’t dob him in and their
subsequent triste is the alternate explanation for his final act). As with most Melville films, there is great
pleasure here in following Jef’s methodical actions as he comes to terms with his
situation, fleeing the police (led by crafty Commissaire François Périer) and
contending with his double-crossing employers. Delon remains cool
throughout. A masterpiece.
Director Alexander Payne and actor Paul Giamatti
previously teamed up for Sideways (2004) where the actor played a similarly
bummed out but know-it-all character touring California’s wine country. Here,
decades later, he’s the misanthropic classics-spouting history teacher, unloved
by students and colleagues alike, stuck baby-sitting students whose parents left
them at boarding school over the 1970 Christmas break. Payne and screenwriter David Hemingson do a
wonderful job fleshing out the characters of those stuck at Barton School which
also include Da'Vine Joy Randolph’s school cook Mary Lamb and Dominic Sessa’s troubled
student Angus Tully. As in Payne’s other
films, the film advances via humorous episodes (a sporting accident, a
Christmas party, a trip to Boston) and the characters’ relationships with each
other deepen and they learn something about themselves too. But Payne avoids the saccharine by ensuring
that the proceedings are adult and authentic feeling. He (and his team) also captures the time-period
not only with perfect set-decoration/art-direction/cinematography (think The
Paper Chase) but also in the social, race, and class relations depicted (amiably
defiant of norms in some cases perhaps). Bittersweet is the dominant flavour here but
that’s not to say that your heart won’t also be warmed. So good.
Having just watched Anatomy of a Murder (1959) with my
Dad, I can definitely see the family resemblance with Justine Triet’s Oscar-winning
Anatomy of a Fall. Both films
deconstruct a central death with exacting forensic/clinical investigations
leading to high-profile court cases with fallible defendants (Ben Gazzara in
the older film, Sandra Hüller in the newer one). They differ in the way that Otto Preminger
focused more on Jimmy Stewart’s lawyer, whereas Triet honed in on the relationship
between Hüller’s Sandra Voyter and her blind son Daniel (Milo Machado-Graner)
who is the sole witness able to tell the court whether his father was killed by
his mother. Court cases in France do not
seem to follow the same rules as those in America, with the defendant (as well
as the defense team) freely interjecting (and/or being asked to comment) while
the prosecutor questions witnesses. Evidence mounts and seemingly supports a
strong case against the defendant – or does it? Hüller, who was so good in Toni
Erdmann (2016), is fascinating here, ably allowing us to doubt her while
remaining hopeful that she didn’t do it.
Absorbing throughout. It won the Palme d’Or at Cannes.
