catmommie

Spoiler alert!!



Lil Andrews (Jean Harlow) is a working class gal with the ambition of Napoleon and the body of...well...Jean Harlow. Lil wants to climb the ladder of success, and the first wrong on that ladder is mine-owner Bill Legendre (Chester Morris). Bill isn't much of a catch--he thinks with the little head and is prone to wallowing in not very deeply felt remorse--but he does have a couple of personality traits in his favor. He's very, very rich, and he's the local version of an aristocrat. Before you know it, Bill is divorced and Lil's wearing Adrian and scooting around town in a snappy roadster with matching dog.

Lil figures out pretty darned quickly that the old home town isn't big enough for her, so she hitches a ride on the nearest millionaire and hot-foots it to New York, a town that provides a little scope for her genius. Along the way she picks up a hunky French chauffeur (accessories are so important) and finally loses patience with her wimp of a husband. He returns to his sexless wife, who seems to have nothing better to do than take him back. (She couldn't have taken up quilting?) The unrepentant Lil moves on to bigger and better things. Crime may not pay...but sex does, and Lil is a gal who knows how to make a profit.

Red Headed Woman was Harlow's first foray into comedy, and she's a vulgar, brassy delight. The critics--previously unmoved by the Bombshell's charms--sat up and took notice. So did The People Who Want to Mind Your Business For You. This film, along with several other naughty pre-code offerings, sent them into tailspins of moral outrage.

What bit the Guardians of Public Morality in the butt (and bit hard) was not so much Lil's success as the spectacular failure, moral and personal, of her victims. They're a reprehensible bunch of wienies who richly deserve the treatment Lil gives them. You have to wonder how many of the Guardians saw themselves in Bill Legendre and were terribly afraid that others might make the same connection. It's OK to be a wienie as long as no one else notices you're clothing-free.

Harlow went on to make the pre-code classics Red Dust and Bombshell before the Moralistas finally managed to clip her bawdy wings. She made many films in her regrettably short career, but she's never better than she is in her pre-code days, and the pre-codes don't come any better than Red Headed Woman.

If you've never seen a Harlow film, you're in for a treat. If you think Hollywood didn't know about sex until the 70s, you're in for a surprise. Whether you're a Harlow neophyte or a veteran, Red Headed Woman is an amoral delight. See it.

What can I say about Golden Dawn? To describe it as jawdroppingly, breathtakingly, deliriously bad does not come close to doing it the justice it so richly deserves. Film aficionados describe it affectionately as The Second Worst Musical Ever Made (the first being the legendary Howdy Broadway), yet even that hallowed title cannot prepare you for the cheesy wonders in store. Racist, sexist...did I mention racist?...this is a film that must be seen to be believed, and even then you'll wonder if someone slipped you something. The film is based on the semi-hit stage musical of the same name and boasts musical numbers by Oscar Hammerstein, Jr., who really should have known better. From the moment Noah Beery steps on stage in embarrassing blackface to warble an ode to his whip, to the hallucinatory Hymn to Domestic Violence sung (badly) by Marion Byron, to the truly indescribable moment when Vivienne Segal belts out a showstopping "My Bwanna," the laughs just never stop. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll wonder who in the hell thought that making a pseudo-Viennese operetta about colonial Africa was a good idea, you'll...but you catch my drift. This movie is available on the Dawn of Sound laserdisc set, but I have decided to hold out for the Collectors Edition Director's Cut DVD with several language tracks, a Making of Golden Dawn documentary, and a whole lot of film-school twaddle on the commentary track. My advice to you is if you insist upon seeing this film-and I cannot recommend it to the faint of heart-do not do so alone! Make sure you are surrounded by friends, and are in a calm, familiar environment. Have oxygen ready and make sure your First Aid kit is fully stocked. It might be best to notify the authorities in advance. I ignored this sage advice for my first viewing and almost swallowed my own tongue. And do not even THINK about popcorn. Golden Dawn is a full-on three martini film. Better yet, just chug the gin from the bottle.

Hoping to capitalize on the limited success of their 1924 release, Peter Pan, Famous Players-Lasky reteamed director Herbert Brenon and actress Betty Bronson to film another J. M. Barrie play, A Kiss for Cinderella. Bronson plays Jane, a poor London domestic who cares for four tiny orphans during the dark days of WWI. The economic squalor and emotional deprivation of her existence is alleviated only by the richness of her imagination. Jane lives in her own fantasy world. She is really Cinderella, and she knows that someday her invitation to the Prince's ball will come.

Director Brenon chose to dispense with cinematic technique in Peter Pan in favor of filming a faithful adaptation of the popular play. Certainly by the early 20s filmmakers well understood the profound differences between theater and film, and Brenon's decision makes for an oddly static film. Peter Pan is carried by the performances of its stars, luminous Esther Ralston, sweet Mary Brian, a deliciously hammy Ernest Torrance--and overwhelmingly, by the elfin charm of Betty Bronson, whose gift for balletic pantomime made her an overnight sensation. Peter Pan is one of the best-loved films from the silent era and the packed houses for its recent rerelease attest to its considerable power to charm.

At first Brenon seems to have made the same choice for A Kiss for Cinderella. The first half of the film bears much resemblance to a stage play, although in this film, Bronson gets little help from her supporting cast. She carries the film on her petite, talented shoulders. Then Brenon leaves the stage to display all the cinematic tricks at his command, breathing sudden magic into one of the most demented, Monty Pythonesque ballroom scenes in filmic history.

A Kiss for Cinderella is not a happy film despite its whimsy, and its ending is ambiguous and possibly tragic. Silent audiences (who were far more sophisticated than we moderns like to believe) stayed away from Cinderella in droves, and the film was a financial and critical disappointment. But it is a textured, layered film; its whimsy sometimes teeters on the edge of being maudlin, but never goes over the line. Barrie understood the real importance of fantasy as well as he understood the innate selfishness of little boys who refuse to grow up.

Unfortunately, the film itself is in wretched shape and needs much restoration work. I doubt that Paramount considers such an effort worth the investment--and that's a damned shame. A Kiss for Cinderella is an odd, wonderful, remarkable little film which richly deserves to be given another chance.

At the tragic final act of La Boheme, love-smitten tenor Rodolfo sings "Your tiny hand is frozen" to starving-but-still-singing-loudly soprano Mimi. When the role of Mimi is assayed by a svelte-free diva such as Montserrat Caballe, this scene bids fair to being opera's most falling-down funny moment, but in fact, it works. It works because a) Caballe can hit the notes, and b) it's opera, dammit. It's supposed to be over-the-top. X-Men: the Movie is based on X-Men the Marvel comic book, and happily for us, comic books are also expected to be over-the-top. The only thing we need be concerned about is whether X-Men: the Movie hits the notes. And does it? You betcha.

X-Men is precisely what we've come to expect from a summer movie. It's straightforward and not particularly nuanced, but who needs nuance when you can have big, fat explosions and really good looking people in leather? The movie's design is outstanding; dark and foreboding, it harks back to the Frank Miller's Batman and the granddaddy of dystopia films, Metropolis. And of course, the movie has fabulous special effects and great fight scenes.

To be perfectly honest, knowing that the story takes place in a comic-book universe didn't stop me from asking the tough questions. Did Charles Xavier get the proper building permits for the better parts of the School for Gifted Students? Who built the X-jet, Boeing or Lockheed, and is the neighborhood zoned for stealth? Is there a sweatshop somewhere that does nothing but turn out superhero uniforms? And most importantly, are those suits dry clean or fine washable?

Based on the world's most popular comic book, X-Men: the Movie has a built-in audience of people who have faithfully followed the x-adventures for over 30 years and who are not going to tolerate much deviation from the canon. I try to avoid those people. I went to see the film because I really wanted to hear mature hunk Patrick Stewart say "ee-ville." This does not mean I didn't know the movie would succeed or fail based on the performance of the unknown playing Wolverine. The X-Men may be a team, but let's face it--the rest of the bunch are Wolfie's backup singers. It's no accident that X-Men the Movie and the latest Harry Potter book are selling like proverbial hotcakes--both are stories about outsiders, with the mutants edging out the wizards in the spiffy threads department. Wolverine is Harry Potter's evil twin. In short, he is the comic book character I would least like to have at my dinner party but most like to boink. So let's get down to brass tacks. Does newcomer Hugh Jackman hit the notes?

WOOF!

And now, I'd like to digress for a moment to rhapsodize about 2000 being the Year of the Antipodean Guy. From Jackman to Crowe to the rapidly wrinkling Gibson, they're all over the place, reeking of testosterone and raising the drool bar to Olympian heights. And contrary to the stereotype, they appear to be perfectly capable of handling verbs! I tell you, it's an exciting time for the intelligent movie-going female!

The rest of the cast is perfectly on pitch, too. Who cannot enjoy plummy-voiced Master Thespians Stewart and McKellan duking it out for the best-pronounced vowel award? I suspect that the males in the audience will appreciate the talents of Berry, Janssen, and the very blue Romijn-Stamos almost as much as I appreciated Jackman's. The villains are appropriately villainous, with Ray Park (who is carving out a career for himself as the most unrecognizable actor to kick serious cinematic butt) winning my personal bad-guy laurels as the Toad.

So drop that Henry James novel and rush right off to see X-Men the Movie. I suggest copious amounts of butter for your popcorn, and perhaps an entire box of Milk Duds. If you're male, you're going to be hearing some mighty pathetic whimpering coming from your date, starting the moment Jackman hits the screen. Just ignore it.

Gladiator, being a Ridley Scott film, has a wafer-thin story tarted up with a lot of arty photography and editing, and a barrelful of nifty special effects. (If Rome didn't look this way, it should have.) Again, because it is a Ridley Scott film, the wafer-thin story is a ripping yarn which trots along at a spanking pace. The movie's value as an historical document is probably dubious. Undoubtedly I will soon be backed into a corner by one of those twits who needs to inform me, in stentorian tones lest anyone in the county should miss one second of his tiresome display of erudition, just how inaccurate the film is. Historically inaccurate it may well be. It also lacks a decent cookie recipe. Since it isn't a documentary or a cookbook, neither of those two flaws is pertinent to its value as entertainment. Gladiator is a wildly entertaining two and a half hours of moviemaking, and I enjoyed I tremendously.

Make no mistake--the testosterone level in this film is very high. It is a manly film, with manly swords, manly male bonding, manly armor that puts Francis X. Bushman's millinery in the 1926 Ben Hur to shame, and a whole lot of manly men doing stuff that manly men just gotta do. At times it looks like "WWF Goes to Rome." Normally this kind of thing is a howling bore, but Gladiator's hormones never reach the point where they choke off the higher cerebral functions. It's all I ask for in a summer movie.

I have some quibbles. As a fan of the C.B. DeMille Sword & Sandal School of Epic-Making, I keenly felt the lack of the portentous beginning narration and the mid-film orgy, complete with dancing girls in peach chiffon and much wanton consumption of grapes. I was mollified by the film's conceit that the Romans spoke with a teddibly, teddibly British accent. Even Joaquin Phoenix gives it a good shot. The stalwart hero (Antipodean though he is) speaks in a decent, upstanding American accent. This is as it should be, and I applaud the decision to follow a time-honored tradition in epic filmmaking. Some things are just sacred, dammit.

Connie Nielson, who plays Lucilla, has nothing much to do except stay out of the way; she is beautiful in an unmemorable sort of way and is completely charisma-free. I'm sure she will have a busy and lucrative career working in the action genre, where she will be cast repeatedly in the secondary role of "Accessory," usually a wife who supports the hero through thick and thin despite his manifest lack of worth. No aging action star need ever be concerned about Miss Nielson upstaging him, as he would with an actress of more screen presence. Joaquin Phoenix gives a wonderful, slimy performance as the full-tilt batty Commodus, and the Merry Band of Gladiators perform their limited roles adeptly and with much attractive sweat. Djimon Hounsou does yeoman service in the important Woody Strode role. Oliver Reed gives the first--and last--understated performance of his career, and Richard Harris is. . .well. . .he's there. I'm happy to see Derek Jacobi in the cast (or indeed in any cast); no film about imperial Rome would be complete without Claudius.

Should you have somehow missed the significance of the film's advertising--and what rock have you been hiding under if you have--this film is Russell Crowe's show all the way, and what a show it is! Crowe has a physical presence that is reminiscent of Brando. He's displayed his technical chops in previous films; in Gladiator he proves that he is a STAR. (The fact that he looks darned good in a cocktail-length sheath is neither here nor there. Really.) To borrow from Elinor Glyn, Russell Crowe has "It" and I think this film will easily place him in the paid gadzillions, courted-by-politicians, tabloids-in-your-face category.

One caveat. Parents of young children, this film is called "Gladiator." It is not called "Fluffy Bunnies of Rome" or "Teletubbies of Antiquity." It has exactly what you would expect from a film called Gladiator: spouting blood, bouncing limbs, stabbings, impalings, beheadings, fire, war, pestilence, questionable fashion choices, and violent death both human and animal. Please, leave the kiddies at home.

Obviously, Gladiator is not going to be everyone's cup of tea. If it is, don't wait to see it on the small screen; it's a wide screen experience. The effects will be chopped up and cheesy-looking on television, and this will force you to pay close attention to the story. You'll want to avoid that. Rush right down to your local theater, and catch this puppy on the big screen. It's a "with butter" kind of film.

Citizen Kane it ain't, but if you're looking for good, silly, H. Rider Haggardesque fun, this is the film for you. While it hasn't replaced the Universal classic in my affections, let's face it, the venerable original creaks a little. I mean, Karloff's Imhotep only moves two feet per hour -- geez, how will I ever escape him? Arnold Vosloo's Mummy is considerably more fleet, and frankly (from the dirty old lady's perspective) is pretty darned buff for a dead guy. A modern affectation, sure, but I like the idea of a mummy with a great butt.

Brendan Fraser looks good, has a fabulous voice, and a whole boatload of goofy charm. Hey! Call me shallow, but that's pretty much all I'm looking for in a screen idol. John Hannah was acceptable, if not inspired, as the wastrel brother. Rachel Weisz is gorgeous, and acquits herself well in the role of "Heroine in an Adventure Film;" i.e., she screams and gets rescued a lot.

OK, I lie. The modern "Heroine in an Adventure Film" is SPUNKY, screams, and gets rescued a lot.

And as to Oded Fehr, who plays the mysterious desert guardian of the mummy's tomb (a role traditionally assayed by Welsh character actors) -- I and the rest of the ladies in my party indicated, through a series of incoherent grunts and some unattractive drooling, a strong desire to see much, much more of him. And we mean that both literally and figuratively. Powers that be, please take note.

A couple of small caveats: the bug quotient in this film is much higher than I usually tolerate. It puts you right off your Milk Duds. And where in the hell did those camels come from?

So if you're in a mood for brainless entertainment, I recommend that you set your intellect on stun, rush to the nearest cineplex, buy the large popcorn (WITH butter), and settle in for a couple of hours of colorful, loud, over-the-top fun.

Catmommie