Turfseer Reviews (1,559)

On the Waterfront (1954)

Lack of True-Life Political Context Diminishes This Tale of Union Corruption to an Engaging Yet Simplistic Narrative

[6/10 · 13 April 2024]

Elia Kazan's On The Waterfront, an Academy Award winner, unsurprisingly takes a negative stance on the Longshoreman's Union, given Kazan's right-wing leanings and past actions before the House Unamerican Activities Committee. This bias is evident in Kazan's portrayal of the union boss, played by Lee J. Cobb, loosely based on Harry Bridges. However, Kazan's depiction of Friendly as a one-dimensional villain devoid of any complexity or redeeming qualities is a simplistic and shallow approach, devoid of the necessary political context that would have added depth to the narrative.

Kazan's failure to delve into the political intricacies surrounding the union and its connections, particularly to the Communist party, strips the film of its potential as a nuanced exploration of power dynamics and corruption. Instead, it regresses into a melodramatic caricature, reminiscent of 1930s mobster movies, lacking the depth and realism needed to make a meaningful commentary on the subject matter.

The constraints imposed by political pressures, notably from figures like J. Edgar Hoover, likely limited Kazan's ability to present Friendly in a more nuanced light. This limitation hampers the film's ability to engage with the complexities of union politics and corruption, reducing it to a mere clash between good and evil without acknowledging the shades of gray inherent in such narratives.

Setting aside the film's lack of political depth, one can discern its central theme, a struggle against unchecked tyranny. Marlon Brando's portrayal of Terry Malloy, a former boxer entangled in a web of corruption, resonates with viewers. Malloy's brother, Charley (Rod Steiger), serves as the right-hand man to mob boss Friendly, highlighting Malloy's role as a loyal follower who unquestioningly executes orders without scrutinizing their moral implications. This blind loyalty is evident when Malloy naively believes that his mob associates intended only to intimidate fellow worker Joey Doyle, rather than orchestrate his fatal fall from a rooftop.

Terry's life takes a dramatic turn when he develops feelings for Edie (Eva Marie Saint), the sister of Joey Doyle, whose death deeply affects Terry. Meanwhile, Father Barry (Karl Malden), the local parish priest, takes a bold stand against corruption by organizing a meeting to encourage workers to testify against Friendly in front of the Waterfront Crime Commission. However, this noble effort is thwarted when Friendly's thugs disrupt the meeting. Despite the chaos, Terry aids Edie in escaping the violence. Unbeknownst to Terry, Father Barry's persuasive efforts lead to one worker agreeing to testify, only to meet a tragic end the following day in what appears to be a staged workplace "accident."

In a pivotal and iconic scene, Terry musters the courage to confess to Edie the truth about his involvement in her brother's murder. However, just as he is about to reveal the details, a train whistle interrupts, symbolizing Terry's naivety and the pervasive influence of the mob that prevents Edie from hearing his full confession. This moment underscores Terry's internal conflict and the barriers he faces in breaking free from the grip of organized crime.

In a harrowing turn of events during the second act, Terry defies his brother's plea to remain silent and agrees to testify against Friendly. However, this decision proves fatal for Charley, as Terry discovers his brother's lifeless body, gruesomely hung by a meat hook on a street corner-an ominous warning from the mob about the consequences of betrayal.

Amidst the turmoil, Father Barry emerges as a guiding moral force, preventing Terry from seeking revenge on Friendly and persuading him to take a stand by testifying before the Waterfront Commission. This pivotal moment showcases Father Barry's unwavering commitment to justice and Terry's transformative journey from reluctant accomplice to courageous whistleblower.

The climax of On The Waterfront intensifies as Terry, despite showing up for work, is conspicuously left out when others are called. Undeterred, he boldly confronts Friendly at his waterfront headquarters, provoking a violent confrontation. In a cowardly move, Friendly orders his men to mercilessly beat Terry.

However, in a somewhat fantastical and improbable turn of events, the workers, inspired by Terry's courage, overcome their fear of the mob and rally behind him. They urge Terry to lead them back to work, a symbolic defiance against intimidation and corruption. Despite the recent brutal assault, Terry, now a symbol of resistance, accepts their call and leads the workers into the work site, embodying a newfound strength and determination against all odds.

The sudden courage and revolt of the workers in On The Waterfront raise questions about the narrative's plausibility. While Friendly's thugs still wield considerable power to retaliate, Terry's testimony likely instills a sense of hope and empowerment among the workers. They may believe that exposing Friendly's corruption through Terry's testimony will lead to his downfall and weaken the grip of the mob on their lives and livelihoods. However, given the pervasive corruption in government and the complexities of justice, the possibility remains that Friendly could escape accountability.

Despite these narrative considerations, the performances in the film are commendable, with Marlon Brando's portrayal of Terry standing out. His character's evolution from a passive follower to a conscience-stricken individual resonates with audiences, adding depth and emotional resonance to the storyline. Brando's performance anchors the film, highlighting the internal struggles and moral dilemmas faced by the characters amidst a backdrop of corruption and power dynamics.

Eddie the Eagle (2015)

Heartfelt Chronicle of Olympic Underdog Fails Due to Fictionalization of The Narrative

[4/10 · 4 April 2024]

In my memory, there are two films akin to "Eddie the Eagle": the Academy Award-winning "Chariots of Fire" and the more recent "Boys in the Boat." All three center on underdogs striving for a gold medal at the Olympic Games.

I've previously argued why I believe this subject matter is better suited for a documentary than a feature film. In the grand scheme of things, the Olympic Games are ephemeral, deserving only a fleeting mention in sports history except for notable figures like Jesse Owens whose political impact on world history cannot be ignored. Can we truly justify a detailed biographical treatment for athletes who didn't dedicate their careers to their sports?

"Eddie the Eagle" boasts one advantage over its counterparts: the sport of ski jumping is inherently more thrilling and visually captivating than track running or crew rowing. However, Eddie himself admitted that the film is 95% fiction, a significant strike against its authenticity.

The film encourages us to admire Eddie for his resilience, stemming from a childhood injury that could have dashed his Olympic dreams. Rejected by the British Olympic Committee for being 'uncouth,' he pursued an individual path as a ski jumper.

Eddie's qualification for the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, Canada, was facilitated by Britain's absence from ski jumping competitions since 1929 and lower qualifying standards at the time.

Although Eddie trained in Lake Placid, NY, the film places him in a fictional German training facility where he meets the entirely fictional Bronson Peary, a former American champion ski jumper who left the sport after a conflict with another fictional character, Warren Sharp, his mentor who rejected him due to his alcoholism and lack of discipline. Peary's redemption arc from a disgraced alcoholic to Eddie's mentor is clichéd and lacks depth.

Eddie barely meets the Olympic qualification standards with a 70-meter jump of 112 feet, but the Olympic Committee changes its criteria quite rightly as they deem the distance too short and unworthy of Olympic competition. While performing on a circuit, Eddie jumps the required 200 feet, but this is only for a qualifying run. During the official jump, he fails and is informed he did not make the Olympic team, but the Committee changes its mind, accepting the practice run total.

Undeterred by Peary's advice to wait for the 1992 Olympics, Eddie competes in 1988, setting a British record but finishing last. He also competes in the 90-meter jump and finishes last as well. His public appeal stems more from a novelty "Eddie the Eagle" dance than genuine athletic achievement.

Is it reasonable for Eddie to be hailed as a hero for finishing last simply because he's an underdog? Such adulation seems unwarranted and misplaced.

Taron Edgerton embodies adult Eddie well, but Hugh Jackman's portrayal of Peary is hampered by clichés, as is Christopher Walken's role as a wholly fictional character.

Rustin (2023)

Standard By-The-Numbers Biopic Lacks Verisimilitude Despite Strong Lead Performance

[5/10 · 29 March 2024]

Rustin presents itself as a by-the-numbers biopic, tracing the life of Bayard Rustin, a gay civil rights activist during the tumultuous 60s. The standout element is Colman Domingo's portrayal in the title role, effectively capturing Rustin's spirit, a figure whose recognition has surged only recently.

The film unfolds in three main parts: Rustin's ties to Martin Luther King Jr. And fellow civil rights leaders, his homosexuality, and his pivotal role in organizing the 1963 "March on Washington."

While offering a historical primer, particularly showcasing King's rift with Rustin in 1960 due to pressures from other leaders like Roy Wilkins and Adam Clayton Powell Jr., the film falls short in character depth. Ameen's portrayal of King lacks the required weight, and attempts to age Chris Rock for gravitas fail, given Rock's limited range in serious roles. Jeffrey Wright shines as Powell, a shrewd power player.

Delving into Rustin's personal life as a gay man pre-Stonewall, the film centers on his relationship with activist Tom Kahn, yet this dynamic remains superficial. A potential conflict between Kahn and Elias Taylor, a closeted black man involved with Rustin, is hinted but not explored enough for impact. Taylor's resolution to return to his wife follows a predictable arc, missing an opportunity for nuanced exploration.

The film lightly touches on the challenges of being gay in a condemnatory era, an aspect that could have been more incisive.

The depiction of the March on Washington, visually and dramatically, is underwhelming. Only real-life footage adds any real interest. The film's attempt to elevate Rustin's significance in civil rights history, not just for the march but also as a gay man facing discrimination, feels forced. Rustin's lack of iconic recognition may stem from various factors beyond his sexuality, which the film doesn't delve into.

Rustin suffers from a reverential treatment that sanitizes its narrative, failing to achieve historical authenticity.

The Broadway Melody (1929)

A Historical Curio, But Not a Timeless Gem

[4/10 · 25 March 2024]

The Broadway Melody, heralded as the first sound film to snag an Academy Award, deserves a nod for its pioneering role in cinematic history. Back in those nascent days of sound technology, the production was akin to a wild experiment, with sets being shuffled around like a deck of cards in a bid to capture even a whisper of audio.

Most of the film unfolds indoors, with only occasional glimpses of New York City's hustle, culminating in a bustling Times Square shot. At its core, The Broadway Melody follows the Mahoney Sisters' vaudeville escapades as they venture onto the illustrious Great White Way in pursuit of showbiz stardom. Harriet "Hank" Mahoney and her sister Queenie Mahoney take center stage, egged on by Broadway luminary Eddie Kearns, who's romantically entangled with Hank.

The showbiz extravaganza is orchestrated by Francies Zanfield, a thinly veiled nod to Broadway's iconic impresario Florenz Ziegfield. Tensions simmer when Eddie (reconnecting with Queenie from their childhood) falls head over heels for her.

However, the audition drama unfolds as a chorus girl pulls a sneaky stunt, sabotaging Hank's chance by stashing a bag in the piano. Zanfield, unimpressed by the duo, axes their roles but hints at Queenie's potential elsewhere. Queenie, in a commendable sisterly move, vouches for Hank's business savvy. Eddie, charmed by Queenie's loyalty, is further smitten.

Queenie's rise to stardom, spurred by a fateful substitution and entanglements with the dastardly Jock Warriner, rattles both Hank and Eddie. Yet, her maneuvers are a strategic dance to keep her distance from Eddie and safeguard her bond with Hank.

Amid confrontations, heartaches, and even a scuffle between Eddie and the roguish Jock Warriner, Queenie eventually retires from the limelight after tying the knot with Eddie. Meanwhile, Hank forges ahead on a new showbiz journey with a fresh partner, harboring hopes of a triumphant return to Broadway in the future.

Anita Page's Queenie and Bessie Love's Hank deliver commendable performances, seamlessly transitioning from silent-era grace to the demands of talkies. However, Charles King's Eddie falls into the "corny" camp, missing the mark on subtlety.

Despite its historical allure, The Broadway Melody's musical numbers lack lasting impact, and the choreography feels more like a quaint relic of a bygone era.

In sum, The Broadway Melody shines as a historical artifact worth a watch, but as a timeless masterpiece of drama and musical prowess, it falls more than a tad short.

American Fiction (2023)

Curmudgeon Writer's Relentless Cynicism And Anti-Commercial Stance Hinder Audience Connection

[4/10 · 21 March 2024]

The introduction of Thelonious "Monk" Ellison, played by Jeffrey Wright, in American Fiction is initially promising. Here we have a non-woke African American novelist and professor who challenges black victimhood and upholds academic standards. Despite receiving praise in academic circles, his latest manuscript fails to gain commercial traction due to not being "black enough" for the mainstream public, especially a predominantly white liberal audience.

Monk is forced to take an unpaid sabbatical from his job as a professor at a Los Angeles university after making what are deemed racially insensitive remarks to offended students. This sets the stage for his journey to Boston, where his family lives. At a poorly attended seminar about his latest work, Monk is irked to see fellow academic Sintara Golden celebrated for her bestselling novel "We's Lives in Da Ghetto," which he views as a collection of black stereotypes.

In response, Monk writes a satirical novel titled 'My Pafology' (later renamed with a four-letter expletive), mocking literary stereotypes of the black community such as gang warfare, drug use, and absent fathers.

In the source material, the film is based on-the 2001 novel Erasure by Percival Everett-the satire is developed as a faux novel as described in Everett's work. However, writer/director Chod Jefferson's adaptation falls short, offering only an unfunny live-action fantasy reenactment of a gang member confrontation in front of Monk as he pens his mocking diatribe. This missed opportunity leaves us without a clear depiction of the stereotypes that Monk vehemently objects to, diluting the impact of his satire.

Despite his principles, Monk's satire becomes a national bestseller. He initially resists selling the rights but eventually gives in due to financial needs, particularly to care for his mother who has Alzheimer's.

The film misses another opportunity to highlight the nature of Monk's objections when the novel's film rights are sold. Instead of delving into this aspect, we are presented with a pretentious director who briefly outlines his plans for the film adaptation to an unenthusiastic Monk. The potential for a "film within a film" scenario, which could have added humor and depth, is lost in this portrayal.

As Monk reluctantly agrees to judge a literary award as part of a "diversity push," he finds common ground with Sintara, his fellow judge and former adversary. While the white critics on the panel appear to receive short shrift here and hence can be viewed as stereotypes, the view of Sintara is more nuanced.

The film's strongest scene emerges during a candid discussion between Monk and Sintara after he wins the literary prize. Sintara defends her novel, arguing that she's catering to market demands rather than perpetuating stereotypes deliberately. This confrontation adds depth to their characters and the underlying themes.

However, much of the film devolves into a family melodrama, focusing on Monk's strained relationship with his gay brother and the challenges of caring for his mother. A subplot involving his romance with the neighbor who lives across the street Coraline lacks depth and fizzles out without significant impact on the narrative.

Jeffrey Wright's portrayal of Monk, while proficient, struggles to humanize a character whose relentless cynicism and anti-commercial stance hinder audience connection. The film's conclusion, suggesting Monk's story as a fictional creation, feels like a cop-out. The narrative's final twist, where Monk embraces literary exploitation he once condemned, presents a conflicting message about his character's integrity.

In conclusion, "American Fiction" attempts to tackle complex themes but falls short in execution, leaving viewers with a mixed bag of intriguing ideas and missed opportunities for deeper exploration.

Gigi (1958)

Playboy Robs The Cradle in Poor Man's 'My Fair Lady'

[3/10 · 21 March 2024]

"Gigi was based on a 1944 novel by the French "Woman of Letters" Colette and the subsequent 1951 stage play of the same name starring Audrey Hepburn in her debut.

The parallels between Lerner and Loewe's acclaimed musical 'My Fair Lady' and 'Gigi' are undeniable. Both narratives revolve around the transformation of an unrefined young woman into the object of affection for a more sophisticated man. However, while the style of the music and lyrics may be similar, 'Gigi' falls short in comparison to its classic predecessor, particularly in terms of catchy tunes and a compelling libretto.

Set in 1900 Paris during the Belle Époque era, a time of flourishing arts and culture, 'Gigi' boasts a visually stunning setting. In contrast to the lackluster film reboot of 'My Fair Lady' in 1964, 'Gigi' stands out with occasional on-location cinematography and realistic costumes, contributing to its superior visual appeal. However, Vincent Minelli's decision to use cost-saving rear projection scenes at times mars the film's overall aesthetic, resulting in scenes that appear unrealistic and disconnected.

In 'Gigi,' the character of Honoré Lachaille, portrayed by the iconic Maurice Chevalier, serves as a narrator and confidante to his wealthy playboy nephew Gaston, played by Louis Jordan. Chevalier's rendition of the catchy opening number, "Thank Heaven for Little Girls," while once charming, is now viewed critically by modern audiences. Critics argue that the song's lyrics can be easily misinterpreted as promoting inappropriate attitudes towards young girls, raising concerns about its suitability in today's context.

Gaston likes visiting family friend Madame Alaverz, grandmother to the precocious Gigi, and acts sort of an uncle to the perky teenager played by Leslie Caron. You can guess where this is going from the outset as of course Gaston falls in love with his young charge.

Madame Alvarez regularly sends Gigi to her sister, Gigi's Great-Aunt Alicia, who grooms her to become a courtesan, which is another way of saying 'high-class prostitute'--a kept mistress of wealthy men.

Gigi is not at all sold on becoming a mistress but instead enjoys having fun with Gaston who reciprocates the good times they provide one another.

The narrative takes a frustrating turn as Gigi disappears from the storyline for a significant portion, undoubtedly causing a sense of annoyance among viewers. During this absence, Gaston's disdain for the affluent lifestyle is explored, leading to a public humiliation of his current mistress and her subsequent half-hearted, intentionally failed suicide attempt.

Amidst these events, Gaston loses a bet in a card game with Gigi, leading to a trip to the beach at Trouville with the grandmother in tow. There is a subplot, while seemingly inconsequential, provides insight into Honoré's past romance with Madame Alvarez.

Upon Gaston's return from Monte Carlo, tensions rise as Gigi flaunts a new gown, part of her grandmother and great-aunt's scheme to unite Gaston and Gigi as a couple. The ensuing events, while intended to be comedic, ultimately come across as trivial and lacking in substance. Gaston's initial reaction involves insulting the gown worn by Gigi, prompting him to storm out in a fit of frustration. However, he eventually returns to apologize for his outburst.

In an attempt to make amends, Gaston proposes a tea outing at the Reservoir with Gigi, only to have Madame Alvarez reject the idea of an unchaperoned date as scandalous. This rejection leads to another heated departure from Gaston.

As the situation unfolds, Gaston comes to a realization of his feelings for Gigi, acknowledging that he is in love with her. He then proposes that she become his mistress, but Gigi rejects this proposal, refusing to be relegated to such a role.

However, Gigi later has a change of heart, expressing that she would rather endure misery with Gaston than be without him. Ultimately, she agrees to the arrangement, setting the stage for a rather predictable romantic dynamic between the two characters.

Gigi experiences one final hesitation at Maxim's restaurant, where she realizes that assuming the role of a courtesan is not aligned with her values and desires. However, Gaston's subsequent marriage proposal ultimately persuades her to commit to their relationship, leading to a resolution marked by Honoré's reflective commentary as Gaston and Gigi embark on their journey together, now happily married.

Despite the character developments and resolutions, the principal players, Caron and Jourdan, find themselves constrained by the script's trivial machinations. The overarching theme of prioritizing the sanctity of marriage over issues of infidelity, while significant in its time, feels outdated and clichéd in today's context.

Additionally, the film's musical elements, including most of the tunes, are forgettable, and the story's stage-bound nature lacks meaningful choreography, contributing to a sense of underwhelming execution in certain aspects of the production.

Poor Things (2023)

The Bride of Frankenstein Meets Wonder Woman as Misandry Reaches New Heights

[3/10 · 12 March 2024]

"Poor Things" is the kind of film that falls into a particular category, one that has been hailed as "important" and "meaningful" by critics and the general public alike. However, it's nothing more than a classic case of "style over substance." Genre-wise, it's a bit of a head-scratcher. While it attempts to pass itself off as a satire on Victorian melodrama, it comes across as a crass farce that consistently misses the mark on humor.

"Poor Things" transports us into a fantastical realm, as if 19th-century futurists took a whimsical leap into the future, envisioning a world molded by their own era's perceptions. In this surreal landscape, their wild imaginations craft a whimsical tapestry, blending the speculative visions of Jules Verne with the fantastical allure of "Alice in Wonderland."

Unfortunately, beneath the visual spectacle lies an abundance of unconscious negative vibes, courtesy of director Yotgos Lanthimos, based on Alasdair Gray's 1992 novel of the same name.

From the outset, the premise raises eyebrows, echoing shades of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Mad scientist Godwin Baxter (Willem Dafoe) revives a pregnant woman, Bella Baxter (Emma Stone), through a bizarre surgical dance involving an unborn fetus brain. The resulting character channels Helen Keller during the expository first act, much to the annoyance of Godwin.

In a fantastical turn, Bella's intellectual growth spurt is nothing short of miraculous, and she soon explores her sexuality. Godwin, in an unusual twist, suggests his medical student, Max McCandles (Ramy Youssef), marry Bella. Contrary to expectations, Max embraces the idea with enthusiasm.

Ironically, the film portrays Godwin and Max sympathetically, despite their involvement in unethical and immoral scientific experiments. In this peculiar turn, Godwin and Max embark on yet another experiment, reviving the deceased Felicity through brain reassignment surgery. Bella's decision to break free from this odd company is fueled by the debauched attorney Duncan Wedderburn (Mark Ruffalo), hired by Godwin to handle legal matters.

The central theme revolves around female empowerment, yet Bella displays no reservations about enduring abuse and debasement from Duncan. In a disturbing incident, he locks her in a trunk and takes her on an ocean cruise without her consent, driven by his carnal desires. Bella, perhaps due to her naivety, navigates her sexuality without guilt. Interestingly, it's Max, the unhealthy control freak, who cannot tolerate a lack of control in every waking moment of the day.

Amidst an ocean cruise, Bella encounters philosophy courtesy passengers Martha and Harry, the latter ineptly played by comedian Jerrod Carmichael.

Note that it's not Bella who ultimately brings about Duncan's downfall directly-rather, it's his own vices of gambling and drinking that lead to his eventual commitment to an asylum. However, when the innocent Bella gives away all of Duncan's money in a misguided attempt to help the poor during a stopover in Alexandria, the unhappy couple finds themselves penniless in Paris, where Bella expels the now increasingly deranged Duncan.

Bella's decision to become a prostitute is a narrative turn that reaches new heights of misandry. The parade of male deplorables servicing Bella includes a father acting as a tutor as he demonstrates sexual positions in front of his underage children - a cringe-worthy low.

If you believe the male-bashing can't intensify, brace yourself, for it certainly does. Upon returning to London and reconciling with Godwin, Bella is on the verge of marrying Max when her husband from a past life, General Alfie Bessington (Christopher Abbott), reappears through Duncan's manipulations. True to her commitment to embracing new experiences, Bella elopes with the sadistic Alfie, who imprisons her in his castle and decides on murder after she refuses genital mutilation. In a predictable twist, Bella turns the tables on the hapless Alfie, leading to him shooting himself in the foot and promptly passing out.

Bella's passive-aggressive character comes to the fore as she attempts to start a "normal" life with the ineffectual Max. The film's climax unfolds with Bella finding satisfaction in transforming Alfie sporting a transplanted-goat brain, now residing at Godwin's residence.

Despite Emma Stone's recent Academy Award win, her performance in "Poor Things" is more Wonder Woman-esque for her acrobatics than her delivery of dialogue. The film's dialogue by the way, is saturated with crass expletives, which further undermines the already scarce comedy.

"Poor Things" may achieve a triumph in production design, but its passive-aggressive tone ensures that it only secures a Pyrrhic victory against imaginary male straw men.

My Fair Lady (1964)

Poor Casting Choice for Eliza, Weak Direction, And Subpar Art Production Prevent the Film From Reaching Its Full Potential

[6/10 · 10 March 2024]

My longstanding desire has been to witness a fresh film adaptation of the original "My Fair Lady" stage musical, widely regarded as one of the greatest musicals ever crafted, originating from George Bernard Shaw's clever play, Pygmalion.

Even with a remake, I harbor doubts that a film reboot can match the extraordinary chemistry of Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews in the original stage production.

The primary and glaring flaw in the 1964 film lies in the miscasting of Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle, the Cockney flower seller. Anyone who has witnessed Julie Andrews portraying scenes and singing songs from "My Fair Lady" from early 60s TV broadcasts would recognize her phenomenal suitability for the role. Producer Jack Warner, however, held a different perspective, deeming Andrews' unknown status in films at the time as potential box office poison, favoring the star power of Hepburn.

Firstly, Hepburn struggled to master the Cockney accent, being a non-British actress. I can't help but think it was an error to cast Hepburn in glamorous roles, given her excellence as a character actor but a misfit for the magnetic allure required for a transformed Eliza. When Higgins presents Eliza at the ball, inevitable comparisons arise, highlighting the discrepancy with Julie Andrews. Unfortunately, Ms. Hepburn falls short in the looks department. This is not a personal critique but a reflection on what works in casting.

Other issues plague the film version. The sets appear cheap, despite significant production expenditures. A more authentic touch could have been achieved by filming outdoors, perhaps at a real racetrack for the Ascot Gavotte number.

The costumes, drenched in Hollywood glamour, fall short of capturing the essence of the period, betraying a lack of authenticity. Additionally, George Cukor's direction exhibits a noticeable lack of inspiration, particularly evident in the 'Show Me' number where the inclusion of the king and soldiers feels awkward and out of place. It becomes increasingly apparent that Cukor, despite his directorial prowess in other genres, grapples with the unique demands and nuances of musical filmmaking, compromising the overall cohesiveness of the production.

Some online reviewers take issue with the character of Henry Higgins, labeling him a misogynist. I would contest this characterization, as Higgins openly admits to being a misanthrope, attributing his harsh treatment of everyone to his exceptionally high standards.

Contrary to Higgins, the principal characters in Eliza's sphere are largely supportive, including Colonel Pickering, Mrs. Pearce, Higgin's housekeeper, Mrs. Higgins (his mother), and Freddy Eynsford-Hill, the enamored young man.

Rex Harrison steals the spotlight as Higgins, portraying a multi-dimensional character who, in the song "I'm an Ordinary Man," elucidates his difficulty in relating to women due to their differing emotional nature.

The introduction of Eliza's father, Alfred J. Doolittle, brings comic relief, expertly played by Stanley Holloway. His confession that he has no morals because he "can't afford them" adds a touch of humor to the narrative.

Higgins' triumph in transforming Eliza is portrayed in the sensational number "The Rain in Spain," followed by the equally phenomenal and moving "I Could Have Danced All Night," reflecting Eliza's burgeoning feelings for Higgins.

Despite the poorly staged Ascot Racecourse scene, "Ascot Gavotte" proves to be another enchanting tune satirizing the emotional austerity of the British upper classes.

Freddy Eynsford-Hill, though besotted with Eliza, remains the least developed character, singing the great love song "On the Street Where You Live." While the Embassy Ball scene before the intermission could have been better staged, Higgins's witty references to the pretentious professor Zoltan Karpathy inject humor into the storyline.

Higgins's insensitivity is starkly displayed in the number "You Did It," leading Eliza to turn on him, convinced that he was merely using her. This prompts the eventual realization that both need to learn to be more sensitive to each other's needs.

The film's climax is emotionally charged, with Eliza confronting Higgins at his mother's house, declaring her departure. Initially miffed, Higgins eventually acknowledges her uniqueness and sings "I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face." Eliza returns, accepting him despite his emotional shortcomings.

The interpretation of the ending, with Higgins putting on his hat and instructing Eliza to fetch his slippers, suggests his suppressed emotions. Remaining true to character, Higgins avoids revealing his vulnerability, but Eliza, and consequently the audience, experience a cathartic moment.

"My Fair Lady" is near perfection, yet the poor casting choice for Eliza, weak direction, and subpar art production prevent the film from reaching its full potential. Nevertheless, the music, lyrics, and Harrison's iconic performance make this adaptation still worth watching, flaws notwithstanding.

Cavalcade (1933)

Undeveloped Characters and Stagebound Dynamics in an Early Sound Family Saga, Despite Innovations in Special Effects and Editing

[5/10 · 8 March 2024]

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has consistently strived to honor a diverse array of films with the coveted Best Picture Oscar over the years. One of their initial forays into the family saga category was the American-backed but predominantly British production, "Cavalcade."

British director Frank Lloyd made commendable efforts to elevate the visual elements of the film through innovative special effects and editing, given the early sound era constraints. However, these advancements only go so far, as the majority of the film remains tethered to its stage-bound origins, originating from Noel Coward's play, which premiered in London two years prior.

The narrative kicks off with the onset of the Boer War in 1899, introducing the audience to the upper-class Marryot family-Jane and Robert along with their two sons. Additionally, their butler Alfred Bridges and his wife Ellen, who recently gave birth to a new baby named Fanny, share their space.

The initial quarter of the film proves to be painfully monotonous as Robert heads off to war as an officer, and Alfred as a private. The critical issue arises from the absence of any depiction of the two men in South Africa, with the focus squarely on the women anxiously awaiting their fate. This lack of dramatic engagement leaves the audience yearning for some meaningful development.

Although Coward's anti-war sentiments are evident, they pale in comparison to the superior execution in "All Quiet on the Western Front," released three years earlier. Finally, with the return of Robert and Alfred, complications surface-Alfred succumbs to alcoholism after purchasing a pub and meets his demise in a street accident involving a horse-drawn fire engine.

Historical events, such as the death of Queen Victoria and Louis Blériot's historic flight over the English Channel, are interwoven into the narrative. However, the film's pace remains disjointed, hindering a cohesive exploration of these events.

Fast forward to 1912, where the Marryot's son Edward is now grown and falls in love with his childhood sweetheart Edith. We find out next to nothing about them, and they're both killed on their honeymoon on the Titanic. The glaring omission of details, such as why Edith doesn't end up in one of the lifeboats or how Edward handles the situation in his final moments, is left unanswered-contributing to a narrative void that leaves the audience yearning for crucial insights.

The World War I sequence has a nice montage covering the toll of war on the troops, which goes on for a little too long. There's also the romance between the other son Joe and Fanny, now a nightclub singer. There's not enough time to get to know Joe either, who is killed on Armistice Day after meeting up with his father overseas, both in the service. The rushed characterization of Joe and the brevity of his storyline, coupled with the extended war montage, leave critical aspects of the narrative unexplored, resulting in a missed opportunity for deeper emotional engagement.

Coward's general anti-war sentiments are conveyed through a montage blaming corrupt politicians for wartime tragedies. However, this simplistic analysis overlooks the looming threat of fascism during that period.

Fast forward to New Year's 1933, and the makeup department excels in aging both Jane and Robert. They raise a toast to the New Year, expressing a heartfelt paean to Britain and reminiscing about the good and bad times. However, the celebratory moment proves to be superficial, as the film lacks any significant character development throughout its duration.

Diana Winyard and Clive Brook give commendable performances with the limited material, but it's Herbert Mundin as the fallen butler who steals the spotlight.

In conclusion, "Cavalcade" stands as an early attempt at a family saga, marred by a lack of complexity and hindered by its stage-bound origins. While it may serve as a historical curio, offering insights into the lifestyle and attitudes of the era, its shortcomings are too pronounced to overlook.

Marty (1955)

Borgnine Shines in Academy Award Winning Role But the Plot Runs Out of Gas in Second Half

[5/10 · 7 March 2024]

In his directorial debut, Delbert Mann faced the daunting task of replacing Rod Steiger, who had previously inhabited the titular role in the original teleplay of the same name, with Ernest Borgnine in the lead role of Marty Piletti, the 34-year-old Italian-American butcher residing with his mother in the Bronx. Fortunately for Mann, Borgnine emerges as a more fitting choice than Steiger, who appeared about as at ease in the Italian-American milieu as a cat at a dog show.

For the first half of the film, Marty's self-deprecating charm draws us into his world, where his nice-guy persona repels potential romantic partners. The butcher is bombarded by nosy middle-aged women in the shop, all wondering why he hasn't taken the plunge into matrimony like his seemingly more successful family members. Even his mother joins the chorus of discontent over his lack of romantic conquests.

Adding spice to the family dynamics, Marty's cousin Tommy's wife, Virginia, can't stand living with Aunt Catherine. This prompts an arrangement for Catherine to move in with Marty and his mom, Theresa, setting the stage for some sitcom-worthy interactions.

As we transition to the second act, Marty reluctantly steps into the Stardust Ballroom, accompanied by his sidekick Angie, portrayed by Joe Mantell with a mix of gritty charisma and a dash of crude swagger. Here, Marty crosses paths with Clara, a purportedly unattractive schoolteacher, played by Betsy Blair. The initial circumstances of their meeting involve a suitor who spurns Clara, attempting to pawn her off onto Marty for a mere five bucks, injecting an unexpected twist into the narrative. However, the subsequent cringe-inducing references to Clara as a "dog" don't necessarily diminish their connection but serve as a jolting moment for the sensibilities of a modern audience.

Marty initially rebuffs the crude proposal but can't help but witness the emotional toll it takes on Clara, who is left in tears. In an attempt to make amends, he offers comfort, and the two find solace in hours of conversation. However, Marty's subsequent awkward attempt to kiss her after escorting her home is understandable, considering the weight of peer pressure. The less self-aware part of him still perceives the kiss as a conquest, a moment he might later boast about to his friends.

Screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky's attempt to infuse depth into Clara falls disappointingly short, portraying her as a flat character who's most exhilarating aspiration is to become a school administrator in Port Chester. Her concern about venturing beyond the familiar environs of Brooklyn adds a layer of trepidation rather than excitement to her character. The lack of common ground between Marty and Clara raises questions about the foundation of their connection. Is Marty's desperation so intense that he latches onto Clara solely because she shows a modicum of interest?

A bizarre turn of events sees Catherine convincing Theresa that Marty finding love will leave her in solitude during her golden years. Theresa's complete reversal, badmouthing Clara to Marty's face, leaves both him and the audience bewildered.

The film takes an unexpected turn as Marty and Clara are inexplicably never seen together again. The promised romance never goes beyond one basic meeting, and we're left wondering about the potential future ups and downs of their relationship.

The contrived twist where Marty, after an evening of genuine excitement with Clara, inexplicably fails to call her right away, strains credulity. The sudden epiphany appears forced, leaving Marty's character development in the lurch. The audience is left questioning why a character who seemed genuinely interested would succumb to peer pressure and maternal influence so abruptly, creating an abrupt and less-than-convincing turn of events.

The film's second half falters, leaving Marty's fate as a potential butcher shop owner forgotten along with a true resolution to Marty and Clara's relationship. Despite this, Borgnine's performance as Marty shines, earning him a well-deserved Oscar win. However, Marty's narrative runs out of gas in the later stages, leaving the audience with a somewhat deflated viewing experience.

West Side Story (1961)

Revel in the Music and Dancing That Promise Endless Entertainment Not The Dated Dialogue or Implausible Romance

[7/10 · 5 March 2024]

"West Side Story," the stage musical that shocked audiences in 1957 with its portrayal of gang warfare, made its way to the big screen four years later, still carrying the risqué charm of its origin. However, watching it now feels like a journey into "entertaining camp." The sight of juvenile delinquents twirling about and tossing around antiquated phrases like "daddy-o" may have been daring back then, but for a modern audience, it's more eye-roll-inducing than impactful.

Even in its original release, the notion of gang members scheduling their rumbles with a sense of premeditated formality stretched credulity. And in that pivotal scene where they actually heed the advice of a supposed mentor figure named "Doc" to avoid assaulting Anita - it's a hard pill to swallow. The idea that these street toughs had a wise elder guiding them feels like a far-fetched concept, even in the context of the 1960s.

The much-touted romance between Tony and Maria, at the heart of the narrative, falls disappointingly flat. Their love at first sight, forged during a dance where they seemingly know nothing about each other, strains credibility from the outset. Even with Spielberg's attempt to give Tony a backstory in the reboot, spending time in an upstate prison does little to enrich his character.

The 1961 film outshines Spielberg's revival in one aspect - concise and to-the-point dialogue scenes, accompanied by the underscoring of Leonard Bernstein's powerful musical themes. We don't watch "West Side Story" for its plot intricacies; instead, we indulge in the captivating music, Stephen Sondheim's clever lyrics, and Jerome Robbins' sensational choreography.

Critics may grumble about the film's departure from the stage musical's song order, and while Spielberg's decision in the reboot to swap "Cool" with a Tony-Riff dynamic makes sense, the same cannot be said for the rearrangement of "Somewhere" which the original got right. Despite these hiccups, personal highlights remain, including The Jets' song infused with Sondheim's clever wit, Robbins' innovative choreography in "America," and the satirical gem "Gee Officer Krupke," humorously skewering therapists and social workers in each version.

Natalie Wood commands attention as the enamored Maria, outshining Richard Beymer's Tony, who lacks the star power to match his leading lady. George Chakiris as Bernardo convincingly leads the Sharks, and Russ Tamblyn's Riff strikes a balance without overplaying his hand. Special mention goes to Rita Moreno, perfect as Anita, Maria's confidante, and Bernardo's girlfriend.

The narrative follows a predictable path with the inevitable demise of both gang leaders during the rumble. Maria's ardor for Tony, even after he kills her brother, feels more bewildering than poignant. The standout moment occurs in the second act when the tormented Anita falsely claims Chino killed Maria, leading to Tony's tragic demise.

As the film concludes with Tony's death supposedly bringing peace to the warring gangs, suspending disbelief becomes a necessity. Is it a genuine resolution, or just a temporary truce? Don't come to "West Side Story" for its dated dialogue or implausible story. Instead, revel in the music and dancing that promise endless entertainment.

West Side Story (2021)

Spielberg's reboot proves inferior to the Academy Award winning original

[5/10 · 3 March 2024]

Spielberg's attempt to revive the iconic "West Side Story" falls short when stacked against the brilliance of the 1961 Academy Award-winning original. The unavoidable comparisons intensify when considering the substantial influence of screenwriter Tony Kushner, who leaned more on the original stage play than the earlier film adaptation.

The film's saving grace lies in Spielberg's treatment of the musical numbers. The true brilliance emerges when Stephen Sondheim's lyrics are sung, accompanied by Leonard Bernstein's unforgettable music. This is where the adaptation manages to shine, capturing the essence of the iconic tunes.

However, the film stumbles on two fronts: the casting and the handling of dramatic scenes. Kushner's inclusion of the new character Valentina, played by the original Anita, Rita Moreno, proves a redeeming aspect. Yet, despite Moreno's commendable portrayal, her rendition of 'Somewhere' near the climax lacks the potency of the principal character Tony singing it and is hindered by Moreno's aged voice.

Spielberg's casting decisions raise eyebrows. Rachel Zegler, while handling the musical numbers well as Maria, is too young and lacks the gravitas that Natalie Wood brought to the role. Ansel Elgort as Tony, though possessing a fine voice, fails to leave a lasting impression.

Moreover, Kushner's attempts to provide backstories for Tony and rival Bernardo (Tony did a year in the slammer and Bernardo now a skilled boxer) feel superficial and add little substance to their characters.

The film deviates from the original's concise storytelling, introducing unnecessary verbiage and omitting the underscoring of musical themes during crucial dramatic moments. The gang members, though effective in song, lack the memorability of their counterparts from the original, with the notable exception of the "Gee Officer Krupke" number placed in the original setting of a police precinct. The gang roles in Spielberg's version remain largely forgettable, failing to match the corny but still memorable supporting players of the original.

The underdeveloped romantic plot, reminiscent of musical theater tropes, is exacerbated by an unnecessary minimal expansion of Tony and Maria's relationship (for example their "date" to the Cloisters).. The film's choreography, though commendable in certain scenes, falters in the overblown gang dance sequences, particularly in the prologue and "Cool," where the clumsy handling of a gun detracts from the intended effect.

Ariana DeBose stands out among the supporting cast as Anita, a role that once made Rita Moreno a star. Chino's transformation from a nerdy outsider to a killer is an interesting choice, but the portrayal of the police detective comes across as overly malevolent.

Despite Spielberg's technical brilliance, his struggle to elicit compelling drama from the actors is evident. The film would have benefitted from a director with theatrical experience.

In the realm of intellectual engagement, "West Side Story" fails to make significant demands on its audience. Nevertheless, the exceptional music, lyrics, and choreography, ensure a captivating experience, regardless of which version of this iconic musical you choose to watch.

Oliver! (1968)

Adaptation of Stage Musical Based on Iconic Novel Will Mainly Enthuse a Pre-Adolescent Audience

[5/10 · 29 February 2024]

The film adaptation of Lionel Bart's 1960 stage musical, itself derived from Charles Dickens' 1838 novel "Oliver Twist," serves as a commendable entry point to the classic tale. Primarily aimed at children in my opinion, it encapsulates the essence of Dickens's original narrative, though the film's prolonged 153-minute duration often dilutes the impact of the dark social critique with the exuberant music and choreography.

Mark Lester, the former child actor turned osteopath, delivers a commendable performance as the genteel orphan Oliver. His expulsion from the workhouse, triggered by a request for more food, unfolds more as a lively romp than a compelling inciting incident. Despite the infectious charm of "Food, Glorious Food," the whimsical and drawn out choreography sets the tone for a film that struggles to maintain a serious undertone.

The transition to Oliver's apprenticeship with the undertaker Sowerberry offers a glimpse into Dickens's critique of 19th-century British lower-class society, although the bullying by Noah Claypole is played for slapstick. Oliver's subsequent escape to London, where he encounters the young pickpocket The Artful Dodger, played by Jack Wild, adds an intriguing layer.

Ron Moody, reprising his stage role as Fagin, aims to humanize the character, steering away from Dickens's criminal portrayal, especially to avoid perpetuating harmful stereotypes. Oliver Reed, portraying the burglar Bill Sykes, adds a layer of cruelty, particularly in his mistreatment of prostitute Nancy, played by Shani Wallis.

The plot takes a riveting turn when Oliver is falsely accused of pickpocketing, leading to his redemption as he is taken in by Mr. Brownlow. This development adds a layer of complexity as Brownlow begins to suspect a familial connection based on Oliver's resemblance to a portrait of his deceased niece. The filial relationship is later confirmed by Mr. Bumble, who arrives with a locket identified by Brownlow as belonging to his niece.

Nancy's tragic love for Sykes is palpable in the iconic song "As Long as He Needs Me." However, the gritty realism of her eventual murder feels somewhat out of place in the context of the light-hearted musical.

Moody's portrayal of Fagin steals the spotlight, presenting the character's internal struggle in the song "Reviewing the Situation." Despite fleeting thoughts of reform, Fagin ultimately returns to a life of crime in the company of The Artful Dodger.

In the concluding act, "Oliver" reaches its resolution with the deserved comeuppance for the menacing Sykes. The film sees Oliver finding solace under the care of Mr. Brownlow, signaling an end to his tumultuous past of abuse. While the movie excels in delivering catchy tunes, the abundance of extended choreography may test the patience of adult viewers. "Oliver" succeeds in captivating a younger audience but might be perceived as overly flippant by those seeking a more nuanced adaptation of Dickens's timeless novel.

The Last Emperor (1987)

Bertolucci's Excellent History Lesson Presenting The Last Emperor's Complex Journey of Collaboration and Redemption

[8/10 · 26 February 2024]

A bit long-winded in places, The Last Emperor remains Bernardo Bertolucci's fascinating historical account of the final emperor of Imperial China, Puyi.

Bertolucci masterfully initiates the narrative in 1950, immersing the audience in a critical moment where Puyi finds himself imprisoned as a war criminal by the Chinese Communists, accused of collaborating with the Japanese during their occupation of Manchuria in the 1930s. The film seamlessly transitions into a compelling flashback, transporting viewers to the year 1908, depicting the installation of two-year-old Puyi on the imperial throne.

Puyi's childhood in the isolated Forbidden City, surrounded by palace eunuchs and maids, stands out as a bizarre sequence. Scores of attendants cater to his every move while ensuring he remains confined within the palace grounds. Bertolucci portrays Puyi's upbringing as tragic, highlighting the young child's desire to experience a normal childhood outside the isolated palace walls. The sequence, while crucial to the narrative, could benefit from judicious editing.

A bit later, Puyi receives a visit from his brother, a slightly older child, who delivers the news that he is no longer the emperor, given China's transition to a republic. The interaction between the siblings proves fascinating but is regrettably short-lived, as the boy and his mother are promptly denied permission to remain in the complex.

The film portrays the boy's sadistic tendencies, with severe mistreatment of the courtiers evident. Some critics argue that the depiction may have downplayed the extent of the young Puyi's cruelty, possibly aiming to render him more sympathetic. It's crucial to consider Puyi's treatment in his early years, as his misbehavior appears to have been not only tolerated but even sanctioned and encouraged by his adult handlers.

A pivotal moment unfolds when Puyi, in his teenage years, undergoes a Western-style education under the guidance of Johnston (portrayed by Peter O'Toole), an English tutor embroiled in conflicts with the traditionalists at the court. Notably, during this phase, small breakthroughs occur, such as Puyi being fitted for eyeglasses and learning to ride a bicycle. Puyi's own aspiration to study at Oxford comes to the forefront, but Johnston, understanding the intricacies of navigating the Forbidden City, suggests an alternative strategy-marriage. This recommendation leads to Puyi's marriage to Wanrong as his wife, with Wenxiu assuming the role of a secondary consort.

Puyi finally is exiled to the city of Tientsin as a result of the establishment of a Japanese-backed government led by a new warlord. In Tientsin, removed from the confines of the Forbidden City, Puyi delves into a decadent lifestyle, embracing the role of a playboy amidst the tumultuous political landscape.

Puyi's misguided decision to become the emperor of the Japanese-controlled puppet government of Manchuria reveals his vulnerability and misplaced trust. The film skillfully portrays the consequences of Puyi's choices, including his eventual capitulation after being blackmailed over his wife Wanrong's pregnancy from a relationship with his driver.

Bertolucci's decision to briefly touch upon Puyi's wartime activities and his subsequent capture by the Red Army might be attributed to the perception that these events lack inherent dramatic intensity. It appears that the director strategically focuses on pivotal and emotionally charged aspects of Puyi's life, potentially deeming the war years and his capture as less conducive to the narrative's overall emotional impact.

Puyi's initial denial of guilt during the Communist re-education program is explained by Puyi, citing the Chinese Nationalists' hatred for Manchuria (specifically the desecration of the Empress Dowager's body by Nationalist troops) coupled with the deceptive promises of autonomy from the Japanese during the occupation of Manchuria. These experiences deeply influenced Puyi's perception and decisions, providing context to his denial as he grappled with the complexities of collaboration, coercion, and betrayal in a tumultuous historical landscape.

The portrayal of Puyi's imprisonment, where he undergoes a profound shift from complete denial to complete acceptance of responsibility, is depicted with nuance in the film. Initially, Warden Jin challenges Puyi's steadfast refusal to accept responsibility, employing a strategic approach by showing newsreel footage of Japanese atrocities. This impactful revelation influences Puyi to reevaluate his stance.

As the narrative unfolds, Warden Jin Yuan's character evolves, and he comes to recognize mitigating factors in Puyi's decision to collaborate with the Japanese. This acknowledgment paints Warden Jin as a character with depth and understanding, challenging the initial perception of Puyi's culpability. Puyi, in turn, begins to recognize the complexities of his own denial and acceptance during the Communist re-education program, realizing that the situation was not as black and white as he once perceived.

As the relationship between Puyi and Warden Jin Yuan evolves, the subsequent scene during the Cultural Revolution takes a poignant turn. Here, Puyi, now an old man, attempts to stick up for Warden Jin, who was falsely accused during this tumultuous period. This ironic twist underscores the intricacies of the historical and political landscape, highlighting Puyi's endeavor to defend his former jailer. The scene further emphasizes the enduring impact of their connection and underscores Warden Jin's portrayal as a fundamentally decent individual, despite the requirements imposed by his communist superiors to treat Puyi severely during his rehabilitation.

John Lone's excellent portrayal of the adult Puyi captures the essence of a tragic upbringing and redemption after a colossal mistake. Despite occasional pacing issues, The Last Emperor stands as a valuable history lesson, weaving a tale of tragedy and redemption, with the bizarre nature of life in the Forbidden City adding a unique layer to the narrative.

Midnight Cowboy (1969)

Sympathy's End: The Unrelenting Unlikability of Midnight Cowboy

[4/10 · 24 February 2024]

Midnight Cowboy boasts the prestigious title of being the sole X-rated Academy Best Picture Winner. Today, it might be considered as risqué as your grandma's knitting circle, but don't let that mislead you - this film has more issues than a subscription to a therapy app.

Let's address the primary quagmire of this cinematic adventure: the quizzical nature of its protagonist, Joe Buck, brought to life by a fresh-faced Jon Voight. Joe emerges from a Texan environment that, according to the movie, seems to consist primarily of fast-food joints, underpaid workers, child abusers, religious zealots, and criminals who appear to view sodomy as a casual weekend activity (because, you know, it's the late 60s).

So, our cowboy-clad hero sets off for the Big Apple, dreaming of striking gold by charming wealthy New York women. His exterior exudes geniality, coupled with a naive worldview that sees the world through rosé-colored glasses.

Beneath the seemingly good-natured façade lies Joe's extremely dark past, unveiled through flashbacks suggesting he and his girlfriend were gang-raped by a posse of intoxicated cowboys. To compound the absurdity, the girlfriend falsely accuses Joe of being the assailant. However, it becomes evident that these accusations never came to fruition due to her subsequent mental breakdown resulting from the traumatic event. The film insists we sympathize with Joe, portraying Texas as a wasteland of unrelenting nastiness, subtly insinuating that all Texans are probably right-wing conservatives with a penchant for Christian Fundamentalism.

Waldo Salt's screenplay, however, is an equal opportunity offender, finding no redeeming characters either in the grime-infested corners of New York City. Note Joe's initial encounter with a middle-aged Park Avenue woman who turns on him after he dares to request payment for his less-than-chivalrous services.

Now, let's spare as few words as possible for Rico "Ratso" Rizzo, the handicapped con man portrayed by Dustin Hoffman with the finesse of a sledgehammer. Ratso remains a stagnant caricature throughout, serving as a sympathy prop for Joe, who tends to him as he succumbs to a seemingly terminal respiratory infection.

As Joe's funds dry up and the hotel manager plays impound-the-belongings, Joe reluctantly ventures into the realm of male prostitution. The film's take on homosexuality showcases its outdated sensibilities, depicting every gay character as a slave to sexual compulsion, each portrayed as an ineffectual 'loser.'

The plot sees Joe and Ratso sharing quarters in a platonic relationship. Ratso's back story involves inhaling shoe polish from his Italian immigrant father's shoe shine business, causing his gradual demise. Meanwhile, Joe achieves his gigolo dreams, seducing socialite Shirley after meeting at a Warhol-esque shindig. The second act darkens as Joe resorts to violence, robbing and presumably murdering an effeminate man for Florida-bound funds.

The climax, or lack thereof, involves Ratso's demise on a bus. Somehow, we're expected to maintain sympathy for these two lovable losers, both victims of alleged tragic upbringings.

If you can overlook Joe's naivety and his murky, unsympathetic past that likely involves murder, perhaps you can tip your hat to Voight's performance. As for Hoffman, he fared much better a decade later playing an idiot savant in Rain Man, where the quirks were intentional.

The only silver lining in this cinematic storm is the cinematography, offering a stark portrayal of NYC's underbelly in 1969. But let's be clear, a shiny lens doesn't polish away the film's myriad shortcomings.

Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)

Moderately Successful Competing Narratives: Workaholic Dad's Redemption vs. Maternal Narcissism

[6/10 · 23 February 2024]

Upon revisiting Kramer vs. Kramer, my initial recollection of it deserving every accolade seemed somewhat misplaced. While I once held enthusiastic praise for this film, a second viewing, many years later, has left me less enthralled.

In the majority of divorce cases, the husband tends to be portrayed as abusive or neglectful. However, writer/director Robert Benton decided to reverse this narrative, presenting Ted Kramer (Dustin Hoffman) as the wronged party at the hands of his depressed wife, Joanna (Meryl Streep in her debut role), who abruptly decides to abandon Ted and their seven-year-old son, Billy (Justin Henry).

Ted is initially portrayed as the workaholic advertising executive, lacking interest in being a good husband and content to delegate child-raising duties to his wife. The depiction of Ted at this early juncture feels contrived. His indifference to Billy is exaggerated, seemingly designed to underscore his later transformation into a "good father." While some fathers prioritize their careers, Ted's extreme inattentiveness seems implausible.

While Ted's character may stretch believability as a workaholic, Joanna's character lacks any semblance of verisimilitude. Her sudden departure and the reasons behind abandoning her child hardly seem plausible. The film fails to provide a convincing explanation for such a drastic action, making Joanna's character appear more like a plot device than a genuine portrayal of a mother facing personal struggles.

The bulk of Act II becomes more engaging as Ted grapples with the challenges of being a single parent while juggling work responsibilities. Tensions at work arise as Ted's boss expresses concerns about parental duties interfering with his job. Ted's gradual bond with Billy, despite its bumps, adds depth to the narrative. However, Joanna's sudden return, claiming transformation, lacks on-screen exploration of her journey, leaving her character development incomplete.

A crisis unfolds when Billy falls from a jungle gym in a playground, resulting in a trip to the hospital and stitches. This incident later becomes a pivotal point in the custody battle, as Joanna's attorney strategically employs it to undermine Ted, much to her own chagrin. In an effort to humanize Joanna and garner sympathy, Meryl Streep portrays her character expressing regret to Ted for her attorney's "scorched earth" tactics. This scene is presented as an attempt to soften Joanna's image and make her more relatable, showcasing Streep's endeavor to inject empathy into the character amidst the legal turmoil.

The plot takes an intriguing turn when Ted loses his job and must find new employment immediately to have any chance of winning custody. The custody hearing becomes a gripping focal point, with the respective parents presenting their cases amidst character assassinations by competing attorneys.

Unfortunately, the climax of Kramer vs. Kramer is one of the weakest among Academy Best Picture winners. In an attempt to rehabilitate Joanna's character, she inexplicably relinquishes custody to Ted, declaring it as the boy's true home. This unearned, feel-good moment reeks of contrivance and undermines the film's credibility.

Despite initial reservations about Ted's character, Hoffman rises above the unlikability, portraying his transformation through improvised scenes with his son, expertly played by Justin Henry. Streep, on the other hand, struggles to inject humanity into Joanna's inherently narcissistic character. Jane Alexander, in the role of caring neighbor Margaret Phelps, deserves the highest commendation for her performance.

Ordinary People (1980)

Confronting the Ice Queen: A Tale of No-Nonsense Therapy and Catharsis in 'Ordinary People'

[7/10 · 21 February 2024]

For his directorial debut, Robert Redford made a commendable choice in adapting Judith Guest's 1976 novel, "Ordinary People." The narrative delves into the profound struggles of a family grappling with the accidental drowning of their older teenage son, providing an intense and captivating chronicle.

Set against the backdrop of a wealthy Chicago suburb, the focal point is Conrad Jarrett (Timothy Hutton), the younger son who has recently returned home following a four-month stint in a psychiatric hospital after a suicide attempt. The weight of guilt from his brother Buck's tragic drowning during a sailing accident exacerbates Conrad's internal and external struggles with depression. While the denouement of catharsis and spiritual awakening is foreseeable, "Ordinary People" transcends the realm of daytime soap opera, skillfully portraying the family dynamics and the transformative journey of overcoming agonizing despair.

Conrad's father, Calvin (Donald Sutherland), tiptoes on a delicate balance between support and enabling, fearing his son's potential self-harm. Caught between Conrad and his mother Beth (Mary Tyler Moore), who not only denies her emotions but also pins blame on the surviving son for the accident, Calvin faces an emotionally charged predicament.

Some internet posters found it challenging to accept Beth's rejection of Conrad, as conventional wisdom would suggest a parent clinging to the surviving child after such a loss. However, the revelation that Buck was Beth's favorite hints at underlying family dynamics preceding the tragic accident. Speculating further, the film subtly touches on the possibility of unconscious, complex emotions within families, suggesting that Beth may have harbored unconscious incestuous feelings toward the elder son, potentially contributing to Conrad's repressed anger and Calvin's eventual decision to dissolve his marriage to Beth.

The film's success is further highlighted in its exploration of Conrad's recovery through therapeutic sessions with psychologist Dr. Berger (Judd Hirsch). Hirsch delivers a standout performance as the pragmatic practitioner who skillfully encourages his patients to open up, earning praise from therapists nationwide as an exemplary model.

Mary Tyler Moore shines in her role as Beth, portraying the mother who strives to maintain an illusion of perfection and a desire to return to normalcy. Despite Conrad's suicide attempt, Beth's response is far from sympathetic, bordering on embarrassment. The film skillfully navigates the tense relationship between mother and son, culminating in memorable confrontations that expose Beth's emotional fragility.

As Conrad attempts to reintegrate into normal life by dating high school student Jeanine (Elizabeth McGovern), his internal struggles persist. Learning of a friend's suicide from the psychiatric hospital pushes him to the brink. A pivotal scene with Dr. Berger becomes the turning point, leading to Conrad's epiphany and catharsis, freeing him from self-blame and enabling forgiveness towards his mother.

Simultaneously, the parents' relationship deteriorates after a heated argument during a visit to Beth's brother in Texas. Beth's emotional withdrawal persists, prompting Calvin to express his loveless sentiments. The result: Beth leaves Calvin and Conrad, returning to her family in Texas.

It was a significant misjudgment to categorize Timothy Hutton as Best Supporting Actor, as his role in no way plays a supporting part. The assumption that a young actor might not secure the Best Actor Oscar was, in retrospect, a sorrowful miscalculation. Hutton did win the Best Supporting Actor award, but there is a strong argument that he deserved consideration and triumph in the Best Actor category.

"Ordinary People" may follow a predictable trajectory in the lead character's triumph over depression, but its intricate portrayal of characters like the icy mother and no-nonsense, pragmatic therapist provides enough twists and turns to keep the audience thoroughly engrossed.

Rebecca (1940)

Mystery at Manderley: Decoding Maxim's Deception and the Enigma of Rebecca's Vanishing Act

[4/10 · 17 February 2024]

In the grand tapestry of Alfred Hitchcock's cinematic genius, Rebecca stands out like a well-dressed sore thumb - not for its brilliance, but for the confounding question of why this particular film snagged the Academy's elusive gold. Based on Daphne du Maurier's 1938 novel, Rebecca dives headfirst into the murky waters of Gothic romance, but it's less a triumph and more a head-scratcher, leaving you wondering if the Academy was caught in a spell of Manderley-induced delusion.

One can't help but chuckle at the audacity of Rebecca, making a major faux pas in the realm of onscreen presence. While other films of the era struggled with absent characters, Rebecca parades one around like a phantom limb, constantly referred to and crucial to the plot, yet suspiciously absent from the visual feast. It's like throwing a masquerade ball and forgetting to invite the guest of honor-oops, someone missed a memo.

The film tiptoes onto the stage at a pace that would make a snail yawn. Laurence Olivier, in the role of the brooding Maxim de Winter, takes his sweet time mourning his first wife's aquatic demise. Returning to his extravagant English estate, Manderley, after a whirlwind romance with Joan Fontaine's Mrs. De Winter, the film unfolds with the urgency of a tortoise on tranquilizers.

Florence Bates as the pompous Mrs. Van Hopper enters first at Monte Carlo with her young charge, acting as a chaperone. Bates adds a dash of comic relief as she attempts to dine with Maxim, only to be spurned due to her conspicuous pretentiousness. It's a welcome distraction from the film's romantic dalliance, providing a brief respite from the impending doom lurking in the shadows of Manderley.

The romance between Maxim and Mrs. De Winter is a page torn from the romance novel genre, complete with moody outbursts and the naïve young woman turning a blind eye to everything except the charm of her mature suitor. It's a formulaic dance that Hitchcock executes with all the finesse of a practiced seducer, but the predictability makes one yearn for a more complex choreography.

Judith Anderson as the sinister housekeeper Mrs. Danvers adds a touch of menace, but her obsession with the late Rebecca becomes more eye-rolling than spine-chilling. Recommending a costume ball gown worn by the deceased first Mrs. De Winter is the peak of her subterfuge - a twist that aims for shock but elicits little more than a raised eyebrow.

The film's major narrative twist is less a revelation and more of a head-scratcher. Maxim's sudden switch from broken-hearted widower to Rebecca-despising spouse lacks the necessary groundwork. Apparently, Rebecca's infidelity was the root cause, revealed four days into their marriage. Yet, the film provides no insight into this invisible femme fatale's motives, leaving us grasping at straws and Hitchcock at his most elusive.

Maxim's revelation that he feigned love for Rebecca to maintain his social standing is a hard pill to swallow. Not one member of Manderley's vast staff caught wind of this Shakespearean drama? The film leaves us scratching our heads, wondering if Manderley's extensive staff was engaged in a collective act of cluelessness. Showering praise on the deceased Rebecca while remaining oblivious to Maxim's true feelings suggests a level of obliviousness that not even a contortionist could convincingly achieve.

The film's dark moment arrives with the discovery of Rebecca's sunken boat and Maxim's confession. His convoluted tale of accidental death and staged suicide during an argument feels like a desperate attempt to inject drama into a plot that's already drowning in predictability. One can't help but wonder why Maxim didn't spill the murky beans to Mrs. De Winter earlier, sparing us all the drawn-out theatrics.

George Sanders as Rebecca's cousin and lover, Jack Favell, injects a much-needed dose of suspense, blackmailing Maxim and throwing a spanner into the predictability works. Yet, the narrative wraps up with a tedious, eye-roll-worthy conclusion, leaving us to endure a board of inquest's misguided verdict that Rebecca offed herself due to cancer - as attested by her physician, who merely confirmed the diagnosis of cancer, leading the inquest board to assume it was suicide.

Despite the film's perfunctory climax, Hitchcock retains du Maurier's macabre touch, letting Mrs. Danvers burn Manderley to the ground. Olivier, burdened with an unconvincing aristocratic role, stumbles through a web of dishonesty that jeopardizes a relationship that could have blossomed far sooner. On the flip side, Fontaine, playing the good-natured innocent, earns a few points for her commitment to "standing by her man" in a twisted tale that could have used a bit more Hitchcockian magic and a lot less predictability.

Killers of the Flower Moon (2023)

The Endless Loop: Scorsese's Repetitive Symphony of Violence and Native American Injustice

[4/10 · 15 February 2024]

The exploration of the Osage Native American tribe murders in the 1920s, previously depicted in a 1959 segment of The FBI Story starring Jimmy Stewart, takes an excruciating turn in Scorsese's Killers of the Flower Moon. Clocking in at a relentless 3 ½ hours without respite, this film diverges from the original police procedural perspective on the FBI investigation, allegedly opting for the tribe's viewpoint, as suggested by the director after consulting with contemporary Osage tribal leaders.

Although the FBI investigation finally takes center stage in the last third of the film, contrary to his claims, Scorsese fails to give due attention to the Native American characters, instead focusing predominantly on the nefarious white men exploiting and murdering the Osage tribe after the discovery of oil on their land made them wealthy.

The Osage Native American community's response to the film has been mixed, with some appreciating the exposure of this tragic tale of mistreatment, while others lament the lack of a Native American perspective.

Scorsese's purported departure from the original source material is nothing more than a mirage, as it becomes evident that he sidesteps the Native American perspective, opting instead to center the narrative around the criminals. This approach, however, appears to be the only feasible way to achieve dramatic cohesion.

Scorsese, driven by his recurring theme of the banality of evil, seems paradoxically enamored with the violence he claims to abhor. The film's dramatic strategy often relies on an unhealthy dose of depravity, catering to the audience's salacious appetite while also playing into white guilt by casting detestable white characters as antagonists and Native American ones as innocents- a politically correct yet somewhat predictable choice.

The antagonists, portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert De Niro, exhibit age-inappropriate casting, with DiCaprio playing returning WWI veteran Ernest Burkhart and De Niro taking on the role of William King Hale, a duplicitous reserve deputy sheriff and cattle rancher. The main plot revolves around their association, as Hale manipulates his nephews into a series of contract killings targeting Native American women for their newfound wealth.

Lily Gladstone, playing Mollie Kyle, the most prominent Native American character, unfortunately, has little to do beyond showcasing suffering from diabetes. The film fails to give her character depth, and her inexplicable loyalty to Ernest, even after his exposure as a conspirator, remains unexplored and undermines the narrative.

The relentless sequence of killings orchestrated by Hale's henchmen becomes tedious, and while these characters contribute to the concept of the banality of evil and enhance the film's atmosphere, their machinations are excessively drawn out.

The eventual arrival of Bureau of Investigation agent Thomas White leads to the arrest and prosecution of the perpetrators, a somewhat satisfying but drawn-out resolution that feels prolonged.

Scorsese's penchant for overkill is evident in the courtroom testimony, followed by a flashback duplicating the depiction of the murder of Anna, contributing to the film's overall sense of dragging. The fate of the characters is disclosed in a radio drama set years later, with Scorsese making a cameo appearance, attempting to inject emotion into the summary of the aftermath.

DiCaprio and De Niro deliver one-note performances as amoral killers lacking conscience. Despite the perceived injustice of their relatively early parole, the film acknowledges that their crimes were not ignored by the Federal government. A silver lining emerges as Congress abolished the exploitative practice of guardianship for the Osage stakeholders, finally granting them access to their rightful wealth. While the historical significance of the narrative is undeniable, Scorsese's excessive approach detracts from the impact and leaves the audience grappling with an unnecessarily prolonged viewing experience.

The Sting (1973)

Neat Music, Title Cards, Costumes and Vintage Automobiles with a Cartoonish Plot

[4/10 · 13 February 2024]

In a dazzling display of musical anachronism, director George Roy Hill decided to serenade his audience with Scott Joplin's ragtime beats from the turn of the century, all while parading around 1930s depression-era Chicago. If you thought this mismatch was a clever historical twist, think again. Hill seems to be allergic to historical authenticity, opting for a vibe that's more cartoonish than a Looney Tunes marathon.

Our journey kicks off in Joliet, Illinois, where we meet Johnny Hooker (Robert Redford), a grifter with a heart of gold and a penchant for relieving others of their hard-earned cash. Joined by his partner Luther Coleman (Robert Earl Jones), they manage to swindle $11,000 from the pockets of a lowly courier working for Irish American crime boss Doyle Lonnegan (Robert Shaw). But hey, it's okay, because Lonnegan is officially a certified bad guy, and apparently, that's a get-out-of-jail-free card.

While it's commendable that by 1973, racial stereotypes had taken a back seat, Luther Coleman, despite being a grifter, feels as weightless as a soap bubble. When Lonnegan decides to play the role of the ultimate buzzkill by bumping off Coleman, Hooker's quest for revenge begins, leading him to the Windy City.

Following Coleman's posthumous suggestion, Hooker seeks help from Henry Gondorff (Paul Newman), a carousel operator doubling as a brothel frontman. The problem? Newman is too young for the part, and the father-son dynamic feels as forced as a bad punchline. Gondorff, like Hooker, lacks the grifter grit, and we're expected to empathize with him solely because his target is, you guessed it, another bad guy.

The duo concocts an obsolete scam called "The Wire," involving a fake OTB parlor and a bunch of small-time crooks sworn to secrecy. Miraculously, everything unfolds flawlessly, leaving the sophisticated Lonnegan scratching his head. Gondorff even manages to cheat Lonnegan out of $15,000 in a poker game on the 20th Century Limited, with Hooker masquerading as associate 'Kelly' planning a hostile takeover.

The con evolves into an elaborate charade where Gondorff's crew, posing as painters, hijacks a Western Union office. Meanwhile, Lonnegan, still nursing a grudge from the initial con, knowingly keeps Hooker close while aiming to eliminate him. The twist comes when Gondorff, with a mix of deduction and luck, figures out that diner waitress Loretta is, in fact, the assassin Salino. Behold, a revelation so breathtakingly unexpected, it makes the plot twists of classic whodunits look like a game of tic-tac-toe between toddlers. Brace yourselves, folks - the sarcasm detectors might just explode.

In a climax as contrived as a poorly written soap opera, Lonnegan is primed for a double whammy, convinced that a $500K bet on Lucky Dan is a guaranteed win. However, the convoluted scenario reaches peak absurdity when the tipster tells Lonnegan to "place it" instead of the proper racing vernacular, "bet on Lucky Dan to place." Of course, Lonnegan loses, making the whole plot sound like a bad dad joke.

The movie concludes with Gondorff seemingly gunning down Hooker, only for FBI agents to reveal it's all part of the con. The fake blood washes off, Lonnegan is escorted away by an unwitting police detective, and Hooker decides to ditch his share of the cash, claiming he'd just gamble it away anyway. Redford and Newman, unfortunately, are left playing lightweight, lovable grifters devoid of realism, while Shaw's tough crime boss steals the show.

Watch "The Sting" for the killer soundtrack, snazzy "Saturday Evening Post" title cards, award winning costumes and vintage auto eye candy. Otherwise, you're left with a film boasting a plot thinner than a paper-thin crust pizza, undeservedly clutching an Academy Award for Best Picture.

Schindler's List (1993)

Spielberg's Triumph of Indelible Images and Sequences That Speak for Themselves

[9/10 · 9 February 2024]

Most films about the Holocaust often focus on tales of survivors, creating a potential misconception among young audiences that survival was the norm. While not typical, this approach can make the narrative more bearable, providing a glimpse into the depressing reality of the six million Jews murdered during the Nazi's "Final Solution."

"Schindler's List" deviates from a simple message of hope, presenting an unyielding, matter-of-fact chronicle of Nazi terror. Even the survivors, whose harrowing tales are woven into the narrative by the iconic director Steven Spielberg, based on Thomas Keanally's 1982 historical fiction novel, "Schindler's Ark."

The film, shot in black and white, carries the semblance of a documentary, with scenes feeling like authentic footage. English is spoken by the principal actors, while German and Polish languages in the background contribute to the film's heady verisimilitude.

Set in Krakow during World War II, Oskar Schlindler (Liam Neeson), a Czechoslovakian businessman and Nazi Party member, acquires an enamelware factory. His relationships with German military and SS officials allow him to operate unencumbered, achieved through continuous bribery with gifts.

For those acquainted with the film, Schindler becomes a "Righteous Gentile" by providing a safe haven for the Jews of the Krakow ghetto, employing them as "essential workers" in his factory.

The film's power lies not just in Schindler's remarkable story but in a succession of shattering vignettes. For instance, as Jews are ordered into the ghetto, a woman shouts with dripping hatred, "Goodbye Jews," her voice carrying a palpable animosity that encapsulates the hostility faced by the Jews from their Polish neighbors.

Terror is felt when Schindler's right-hand man, accountant Itzhak Stern (Ben Kingsley), forgets his identity card and ends up on a transport train headed for the gas chambers, saved only at the last moment by Schindler.

A succession of extremely sad scenes unfolds when one of Schindler's elderly workers, a one-armed man, expresses gratitude in Schindler's office, only to be later murdered by the Nazis, dashing the audience's hopes.

The antagonist SS-Untersturmfuhrer Amon Goth (Ralph Fiennes) oversees the construction of the Plaszow concentration camp, illustrating his sadistic nature through the murder of a female engineer foreman trying to warn him.

The film humanizes Goth as Schindler attempts to implant mercy, yet his vacillating affection for his Jewish housekeeper is juxtaposed with moments of brutality, revealing the complexity of his character.

The liquidation of the Plaszow ghetto stands as the most shattering sequence, with heart-rending images of children seeking refuge in horse manure. The juxtaposition of classical music and casual conversation among soldiers searching for hidden Jews intensifies the brutality.

Schindler eventually bribes Plaszow to set up a sub-camp at the factory, leading to the evacuation of children to Auschwitz in trucks, witnessed by screaming mothers.

Some critics contend that the film lacks clarity on why and when Schindler transforms into a compassionate figure. Spielberg uses color only with a little girl in a red dress, attempting to convey Schindler's emotional impact, a moment criticized for its overt message.

After bribing Goth, Schindler arranges to set up a new factory in his hometown in Czechoslovakia. The dark moment occurs when a paperwork error reroutes a train of female workers to Auschwitz, with circumstances requiring further explanation.

Ultimately, the film pays tribute to Schindler, with real-life survivors appearing at his gravestone in the film's ending. Liam Neeson's portrayal as the womanizer-turned-redeemer, Kingsley's remarkable depiction of Stern, and Fiennes' portrayal of the sinister Commandant contribute to the film's effectiveness.

"Schindler's List" succeeds through its brilliant and understated approach, devoid of heavy-handed preaching. The indelible images within the film speak for themselves, leaving a lasting impact. An added bonus is the Spielberg Shoah Foundation, housing a database of thousands of Holocaust eyewitness testimonies.

In the Heat of the Night (1967)

Hollywood Feel-Good Tale of Racial Reconciliation Hardly Rings True

[5/10 · 5 February 2024]

Norman Jewison's Academy Award-winning film, "In the Heat of the Night," emerges from the 1960s Hollywood era, attempting to correct historical portrayals of African Americans. Sidney Poitier, already a trailblazer as the first black actor to win an Academy Award in 1964, takes on the role of Virgil Tibbs, an expert Philadelphia homicide detective. The film's ambition to present positive black role models, however, reveals a two-edged sword as it navigates the complexities of racial tensions and historical revisionism.

Before delving into the film's pitfalls, a glaring plot deficiency warrants closer scrutiny. In the film's opening, Detective Tibbs finds himself arrested for the murder of wealthy businessman Phillip Colbert in the small southern town of Sparta, Mississippi. The victim, intending to build a factory that would provide jobs to the locals, becomes the focal point of the narrative. Tibbs, innocently waiting for a train after visiting his mother, becomes entangled in a situation that exposes a major flaw in the film's foundation.

Police Chief Bill Gillespie, played by Rod Steiger, embodies the pervasive racism of Sparta. Initially assuming Tibbs is guilty, Gillespie discovers Tibbs is a fellow police officer. The film stumbles in presenting a plausible rationale for Tibbs to stay in an environment hostile to a black detective. The lack of a convincing explanation from Tibbs's boss in Philadelphia raises questions about the authenticity of Tibbs's continued involvement. A more nuanced portrayal could have involved Tibbs's boss providing an on-screen rationale for his continued presence or a persuasive conversation between Gillespie and the boss.

Gillespie's decision to keep Tibbs on board, ostensibly for his expertise, is also problematic. In reality, such a decision would be viewed as currying favor with the black population, an idea abhorrent to the racist townsfolk, including Gillespie. The film falls short in exploring the psychological implications of Gillespie's acceptance, as his decision contradicts the expected racial dynamics of the time. Moreover, the film neglects to address the intricacies of Gillespie's internal struggle and pride.

Fortunately, the film's screenwriters eventually introduce a slightly more credible justification for Gillespie's decision to allow Tibbs to continue assisting in the investigation. The murdered businessman's widow emerges as a pivotal figure, intending to reject the notion of keeping the factory in town. This twist introduces the pressing concern of potential widespread job loss, adding an element of urgency to Gillespie's dilemma. Recognizing Tibbs's competence, Gillespie is forced to acknowledge that solving the murder, and thereby preserving the economic prospects of the town, hinges on Tibbs's investigative prowess.

Furthermore, the film struggles with verisimilitude, especially in its portrayal of Tibbs as an infallible super-sleuth, constantly outshining the clueless Gillespie. The lack of balance in their respective competencies undermines the film's attempt at authenticity. Tibbs' flawless deductions and Gillespie's ineptitude create a stark contrast that veers into caricature, diminishing the film's impact as a serious exploration of racial tensions.

Gillespie is portrayed as a stereotypical local figure who relies on flimsy circumstantial evidence for arrests. Tibbs emerges as the voice of reason, systematically dismantling the evidence against Gillespie's initial suspect, Oberst, who had stolen the victim's wallet after discovering him dead in the street. Even during that era, a sheriff would be expected to prioritize the credibility of evidence for a successful conviction.

Yet, Tibbs' lapse is perhaps the only instance in the entire film where the character is shown to have a flaw. This momentary lapse occurs when he mistakenly identifies the cotton magnate, Endicott, as the culprit, assuming him to be the murder victim's primary competitor. This misstep sets the stage for a gripping scene in which Tibbs, provoked by Endicott's slap, surprises the audience by retaliating with a powerful slap of his own. The return slap was a shocking moment for audiences of the time, with black viewers erupting in cheers and many white spectators sitting in stunned silence. Endicott's subsequent admission, "before I could have had you shot for that," adds a layer of tension, exposing the fragility of Tibbs' composed demeanor in the face of racial animosity and power dynamics.

The soft-pedaling of racism in the film further compounds the issue. Gillespie and his deputies are portrayed as harmless buffoons, projecting a liberal sensibility onto a character who, in reality, might have been complicit in more sinister acts. Hollywood's attempt to paint a rosy picture of small-town racism detracts from the harsh realities that existed during the Civil Rights era. The film shies away from depicting Gillespie as a potentially dangerous ally of the oppressive status quo, opting instead for a more palatable narrative.

The narrative unfolds as a standard police procedural, with the film introducing a red herring in the form of Gillespie's deputy, Wood.

The revelation of the real killer, Henshaw, a diner cook seeking an abortion for his teenage girlfriend, adds a layer of complexity to the plot. However, the film's attempt to tie up loose ends in a neat and convenient manner, including Tibbs' dramatic escape from a racist mob, feels contrived with once again Gillespie saving the day.

The film's resolution leans heavily on the idea of Tibbs delivering a comeuppance to the town's "white trash" population. While some may find satisfaction in this feel-good ending, others may argue that it's a little too pat, with Tibbs always seemingly knowing how to confidently extricate himself from seemingly impossible situations, which could be perceived as contrived or overly calculated.

Rod Steiger's portrayal of Gillespie also raises eyebrows, with his constant gum-chewing and clichéd performance contributing to a watered-down, clownish representation of racism. The film's attempt to showcase racial reconciliation through the unlikely warming of the racist white sheriff to his black counterpart feels forced and idealized, particularly given the historical context of its release.

"In the Heat of the Night" offers passable entertainment, but its attempt to create a positive role model for black people and plea for racial reconciliation falls short of authenticity. The film's revisionist approach to historical racism and the projection of an overly optimistic view of racial dynamics in the South undermine its credibility. Ultimately, the film's well-intentioned goals are hindered by its failure to present a nuanced and genuine exploration of the racial tensions prevalent during its time.

A Man for All Seasons (1966)

A Successful Exposé of Royal Tyranny While The Hero's Shaded Legacy is Ignored

[6/10 · 3 February 2024]

A Man for All Seasons, despite its historical subject matter, falls prey to the duplicitous directorial choices of Fred Zinnemann. The film shamelessly places Sir Thomas More on a moral pedestal, conveniently ignoring the unsavory aspects of his tenure as Chancellor of England and his ruthless persecution of "heretics."

While the narrative lauds More's defiance of King Henry VIII's dictates on grounds of conscience, it conveniently sidesteps More's own zealous pursuit of those who disagreed with the Roman Catholic Church during his time in power. Unsubstantiated allegations of torture notwithstanding, More's approval of proponents of the Protestant Reformation being burned at the stake adds a sinister layer to his character, historically. This aspect of More's actions, conveniently omitted or downplayed in the film, makes the attempt to paint him as an unblemished hero laughable at best.

More's hypocritical stance, refusing to swear allegiance to the King while blindly pledging loyalty to the Pope, is a glaring inconsistency that the film conveniently glosses over. The selfish implications of More's choices, causing turmoil for his own family, are also downplayed in this skewed narrative.

Paul Schofield's portrayal of More is commendable, capturing the downfall of a man who loses both influence and his life due to his unyielding convictions. What the film does get right is how the forces of tyranny break down a man in spite of its selective storytelling.

Robert Shaw steals the spotlight as Henry VIII, portrayed as an excessively petty ruler, particularly when faced with More's unwavering allegiance despite their disagreements. More's legal arguments are compelling, and the film adroitly delves into the dubious legal interpretations and Machiavellian tactics employed by Cromwell, the king's chief minister, culminating in More's trial.

Cromwell's underhanded maneuvering is exemplified in his corrupt practices, such as bribing Richard Rich, More's former acquaintance, with the promise of high government positions. This inducement leads Rich to commit perjury during More's trial by falsely claiming that More had denounced the oath to the king.

The film does succeed in highlighting how societal pressures can lead supposedly decent individuals to partake in unjust actions. The scenes depicting More's ostracization by boatmen showcase the complicity of society in the face of tyranny.

A Man for All Seasons provides a glimpse into More's personality through his relationships with his wife, Alice, and daughter, Margaret. While Alice initially struggles to accept More's obstinacy, she ultimately comes to terms with his decision during a poignant parting after a visit to him in the Tower of London.

Despite the commendable acting and brief appearances by Orson Welles, the film's portrayal of 16th-century England lacks a lived-in feel. More's obstinacy, while comparable to Henry VIII's tyranny, does not absolve him of wrongdoing, and the film's attempt to paint him as an undeserving victim falls flat.

Despite its shortcomings, the film manages to skillfully depict the oppressive and petty nature of King Henry VIII and his minions. The well-executed portrayal of tyranny on the part of the monarch and his followers adds a compelling layer to the historical narrative. While A Man for All Seasons falters in providing a comprehensive view of Sir Thomas More's character, it succeeds in shedding light on the broader political landscape and the impact of tyranny on individuals. Though hindered by selective storytelling, the film remains a noteworthy exploration of the intricate dynamics surrounding More's principled stand against a tyrannical regime.

Grand Hotel (I) (1932)

Time-Worn Tales: The Fading Grandeur of Grand Hotel

[3/10 · 1 February 2024]

Welcome to the Grand Hotel, where the only thing grander than the name is the audacity to win an Academy Award with just a single nomination. Talk about striking gold in a cinematic lottery - must be the luck of the Weimar Republic, the historical setting of this film. Now, before you pack your bags for a suspenseful murder mystery, be warned: this hotel is more like a vacation spot for the ennui-stricken.

Enter Otternschlag (Lewis Stone), who has a minimal role as the doctor with a deformed "two face" courtesy of a World War I injury. He graces us with the profound wisdom that encapsulates the entire narrative: "People come. People go. Nothing ever happens." If only he had warned us about the impending boredom.

In this ensemble extravaganza, Irving Thalberg took a gamble, introducing an ensemble cast that almost boasts more characters than a Tolstoy novel - but, alas, with less substance. Before we get to the murder, we're forced to acquaint ourselves with a parade of forgettable faces, making it a challenge to muster up any cares.

The star thief of the show is Felix von Gaigern, played by John Barrymore, who attempts to steal both hearts and jewelry. However, our lovable baron is as convincing a criminal as a cat in a tutu. He flirts, confesses, steals, and confesses again, yet manages to snag the affections of the ditsy Grusinskaya (played by a histrionic Greta Garbo), a Russian ballerina with the emotional depth of a puddle.

Desperate for a plot twist, the baron considers robbing a retiree with a penchant for overacting, Otto Kringelein, portrayed by a hammy Lionel Barrymore. The retired bookkeeper thinks he's on death's doorstep and decides to spice up his remaining days with some high-stakes gambling at the baron's behest. Spoiler alert: he wins. But, in a surprising turn of events, the baron's heart of gold forces him to give back the ill-gotten gains, claiming he found Kringelein's missing pocketbook.

Wallace Beery makes his entrance as General Director Preysing, a rich businessman, showcasing a surprisingly commendable German accent that stands in stark contrast to his character's utterly reprehensible morals.

Preysing, in a disturbing sequence, attempts a most distasteful quid pro quo with Flaemmchen, offering her a job in exchange for sexual favors. Kringelein finds himself at loggerheads with Preysing, fueled not only by the mistreatment he endured during his prior employment but also by Preysing's exploitation of workers. Preysing's attempts at harassment reaches its apotheosis when he ends up bludgeoning the baron after finding him burglarizing his hotel room- and that's the end of our crime caper.

As the hotel staff plays a not-so-hilarious game of hide-the-corpse from the in-the-dark ballerina, the film attempts poignancy. Meanwhile, Joan Crawford's Flaemmchen forms an unlikely bond with Kringelein, vowing to find him a doctor. Crawford is the lone beacon of naturalism in a sea of overacting that makes melodrama seem subtle.

John Barrymore's sympathetic script shackle turns him into a criminal teddy bear, while Greta Garbo and Lionel Barrymore channel the hammy theatrics of a bygone era.

Grand Hotel, with its lack of suspense and overdose of overacting, is more outdated than a rotary phone. If you find yourself in possession of the DVD, the most gripping part is likely the opening night at the Chinese Grauman Theater in Los Angeles - the true spectacle in this forgotten fiasco.

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003)

Technically Brilliant But Characters Become Tiresome in their Unwavering Virtue

[5/10 · 30 January 2024]

As an outsider to The Church of J. R. R. Tolkien, I must confess that Peter Jackson's final installment in his much lauded trilogy offers little beyond the oft-cited critique of "style over substance." Despite its dazzling special effects and impressive production design, the characters feel like mere cardboard cutouts, lacking the depth of real emotions and genuine idiosyncrasies.

Jackson, while undoubtedly a brilliant technician, approaches storytelling with an adolescent sensibility. The "good guys" are noble and self-sacrificing, devoid of genuine humor. Critics who found fault with the film primarily lamented its excessive seriousness.

The fellowship, reminiscent of a "United Nations" of characters seen in other series like Star Wars and Star Trek, caters to various tastes. From nerdy intellectuals represented by the Hobbits to macho warriors and spiritually inclined immortal elves, the ensemble covers a broad spectrum. Gandalf, an all-knowing wizard, competes with mentor figures like Obi-Wan Kenobi and Dumbledore from Star Wars and Harry Potter respectively.

The film unfolds in two distinct struggles against antagonists. Frodo, the Hobbit entrusted with destroying the powerful ring, contends with the dark Lord Sauron, now a giant flaming eye. Meanwhile, warriors from Gondor and Rohan battle Sauron's legions of mutant Orcs.

As Frodo and his devoted companion Samwise embark on their perilous journey to Mount Doom, they cross paths with the tormented and demented Gollum, once named Sméagol, fixated on regaining possession of the ring. The formidable ring intermittently transforms Frodo into an unlikable character, emphasizing the limited influence of free will in this fantastical realm. Both Hobbits, while noble, become decidedly wearisome in their unwavering virtue. Amidst the challenges, including a conventional encounter with a giant spider, it is Gollum who captivates with his intricately woven backstory and a surfeit of beguiling malevolence.

The simplistic portrayals of characters extend to the other inhabitants of Middle Earth. Aragorn, portrayed as a reluctant king right from the start, eventually becomes an integral part of the fervent and gory defense, primarily centered around the capital city of Minas Tirith-a marvel of Peter Jackson's brilliant set design.

Only Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, injects a touch of ambiguity with his desperate decisions. Denethor's despair and desperation lead him to make questionable decisions, such as sending his surviving son Faramir on a seemingly hopeless mission and attempting to burn himself and Faramir alive.

With Sauron's human face absent, Jackson compensates by diversifying his mutant Orcs, creating a relentless series of battle sequences that still amounts to overkill. Female characters receive minimal screen time compared to their male counterparts.

The ensemble cast, featuring Elijah Wood as Frodo, Sean Astin as Sam, Ian McKellen as Gandalf, and Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn, delivers solemn performances that are constrained by the one-dimensional script.

In essence, "The Return of the King" stands as a cinematic odyssey that, depending on one's perspective, is either a triumph of technical brilliance and visual spectacle or an overindulgent journey lacking emotional depth. The film's grandeur, meticulous detail, and clear moral divisions generate both awe and skepticism, fueling ongoing debates in the realm of epic filmmaking.