SCREENING LOG - 5/27--6/02, 2002

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I watched TOUCH OF EVIL, THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, CLOSELY WATCHED TRAINS and ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS. All of them impressed me for the most part; though I had reservations or quandaries here and there, they all got under my skin in such a way that I would question the criteria I was using to evaluate the film (I seem to be having this issue of late; call it the BRANDED TO KILL complex). All of them are recommended viewing; in no particular order:

Touch of Evil (1958, Orson Welles)

I watched both the original studio release and the recent re-release that was edited according to a 58-page memo Orson Welles issued when the original version was taken out of his hands. I must say that the ÒmemoÓ version is better than the studio version if only because it is truer to the essential spirit of the film: cinematic effect over narrative logic. At least one scene explaining the action has been excised; the immortal title sequence is removed of the burdensome titles and Mancini score, allowing the ambient sounds to work their magic; and the sequences showing Vargas and his wife in their individual intrigues are kept separated instead of interwoven, allowing the viewer to better take in the predicament of each. However, all of this still doesnÕt overcome some of the reservations I have with this motley masterpiece of baroque stylization and sweaty effect; while the layered soundtrack and countless succession of vivid scenarios exemplify the filmÕs style at its excessive best, the proto-Norman Bates character and scenes of ÒnearÓ-rape (yeah,right) and murder exemplify the style at its excessive worst. Both sides come together in the dazzling finale; while dark-faced Charlton Heston carrying an ungainly radio receiver seems utterly preposterous as a police strategy, the dramatic effect is irresistible. As IÕm sure some of us would agree, it was some kind of a movieÉ what does it matter what you say about it? I wonderÉ

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946, William Wyler)

While I do have some reservations with this uneven but moving masterpiece about soldiers returning home from World War II, it was and remains a landmark of Hollywood social realism, exhibiting the best and worst traits of that style. WhatÕs best are its tender performances and certain moments (rare for any Hollywood movie) where people are simply and quietly allowed to occupy their physical and spiritual spaces, an achievement that at times approaches the mastery of Ozu. WhatÕs worst is when the film gives in to sentimentality (the simplistic resolution of real-life vet and amputee Harold RussellÕs inferiority complex), and certain characters feel like Kurosawa chess-pieces strategically placed to represent their respective social group (the indifferent, materialistic floozy, the greedy bank president). Nonetheless, overall the film delivers a sprawling examination of a society in transition whose power and scope of insight canÕt be denied.

As an aside, IÕd like to focus on the controversial scene involving the communist agitator that was discussed as ÒpropagandaÓ sometime ago. Frankly I donÕt see why one would isolate this scene in particular when there are elements throughout the story (Harold RussellÕs too-good-to-be-true girlfriend; Dana Andrews dishing the dirt on overpriced cosmetics; Frederic MarchÕs righteous dinner speech) that could be perceived to be equally propagandistic. At least the film has the rare talent of investing genuine human emotion into all of these moments, so that somehow they rarely ring false. This is especially the case with the scene in question: the communist comes off as a well-educated but blunt individual who is simply misunderstood by the others; one could even say it subtly criticizes Americans for consuming all the jingoism without questioning them. Of course, this remarkable element of subterfuge can be perceived with the benefit of a post-Vietnam perspective; lord knows how many people in 1946 read it instead as a rallying cry to beat up anyone who showed disrespect for veterans or promoted Communist ideology. Thank God we are now privileged to live in the more tolerant and less jingoistic world of the Bush administration. [wink]

Closely Watched Trains (1966, Jiri Menzel)

In WWII a hapless young train station worker tolerates his sexual frustrations while his co-workers tolerate the Nazi occupation through a series of whimsically irreverent episodes, including creative sexual uses for rubber stamps. The film has numerous moments of laugh-out loud humor, though the shocking conclusion makes one realize the political frustration from which much of it stemmed. As it were, I found it hard to resolve the film after one sitting, finding myself associating its spirit and content with certain American indie films (the aimless sense of place of MYSTERY TRAIN, the sad-sack familiarity between characters in CLERKS, the martyrdom of DONNIE DARKO [shocked]), none of which really help me to figure out where this film is coming from on its own terms. The film itself doesnÕt seem to aspire to a grand sense of importance, but, like its hero, that is part of its deceptive charm.

All that Heaven Allows (1954, Douglas Sirk)

Jane Wyman gives a terrific performance as an affluent widow whose friends and family threaten to castigate her when she and her young, independent-minded gardener (Rock Hudson) fall passionately in love. I suppose I had the easiest time of all with this film; as I seem to have an intuitive link to what Sirk is up to with his affected performances and densely arranged mise-en-scene, where you really have to ÒreadÓ the images to interpret their meaning. However, the utter artifice of some scenes (most notably one involving Hudson and a deer) throw me for a loop while remaining utterly fascinating; is Sirk calling to attention the artifice of the nature boy ideology as well as the high society ideology he has elsewhere thoroughly dissected? The entire film, both in its interiors and ravishing winter exteriors, looks too good to be true, which IÕm sure has something to do with the sociological criticisms being explored by Sirk, a master if there ever was of delivering and undermining the pretty surfaces with which Hollywood depicts the American Way.

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